But I was scared.
I wasn't scared of fistfighting with those boys. I'd been in plenty of fights. And I wasn't scared of losing fights with them, either. I'd lost most every fight I'd been in. I was afraid those monsters were going to kill me.
And I don't mean "kill" as in "metaphor." I mean "kill" as in "beat me to death."
So, weak and poor and scared, I let them call me names while I tried to figure out what to do. And it might have continued that way if Roger the Giant hadn't taken it too far.
It was lunchtime and I was standing outside by the weird sculpture that was supposed to be an Indian. I was studying the sky like I was an astronomer, except it was daytime and I didn't have a telescope, so I was just an idiot.
Roger the Giant and his gang of giants strutted over to me.
"Hey, Chief," Roger said.
It seemed like he was seven feet tall and three hundred pounds. He was a farm boy who
carried squealing pigs around like they were already thin slices of bacon.
I stared at Roger and tried to look tough. I read once that you can scare away a charging bear if you wave your arms and look big. But I figured I'd just look like a terrified idiot having an arm seizure.
"Hey, Chief," Roger said. "You want to hear a joke?"
"Sure," I said.
"Did you know that Indians are living proof that niggers fuck buffalo?"
I felt like Roger had kicked me in the face. That was the most racist thing I'd ever heard in my life.
Roger and his friends were laughing like crazy. I hated them. And I knew I had to do
something big. I couldn't let them get away with that shit. I wasn't just defending myself. I was defending Indians, black people, and buffalo.
So I punched Roger in the face.
He wasn't laughing when he landed on his ass. And he wasn't laughing when his nose
bled like red fireworks.
I struck some fake karate pose because I figured Roger's gang was going to attack me for bloodying their leader.
But they just stared at me.
They were shocked.
"You punched me," Roger said. His voice was thick with blood. "I can't believe you punched me."
He sounded insulted.
He sounded like his poor little feelings had been hurt.
I couldn't believe it.
He acted like he was the one who'd been wronged.
"You're an animal," he said.
I felt brave all of a sudden. Yeah, maybe it was just a stupid and immature school yard fight. Or maybe it was the most important moment of my life. Maybe I was telling the world that I was no longer a human target.
"You meet me after school right here," I said.
"Why?" he asked.
I couldn't believe he was so stupid.
"Because we're going to finish this fight."
"You're crazy," Roger said.
He got to his feet and walked away. His gang stared at me like I was a serial killer, and then they followed their leader.
I was absolutely confused.
I had followed the rules of fighting. I had behaved exactly the way I was supposed to
behave. But these white boys had ignored the rules. In fact, they followed a whole other set of mysterious rules where people apparently DID NOT GET INTO FISTFIGHTS.
"Wait," I called after Roger.
"What do you want?" Roger asked.
"What are the rules?"
"What rules?"
I didn't know what to say, so I just stood there red and mute like a stop sign. Roger and his friends disappeared.
I felt like somebody had shoved me into a rocket ship and blasted me to a new planet. I was a freaky alien and there was absolutely no way to get home.
Grandmother Gives Me Some Advice
I went home that night completely confused. And terrified.
If I'd punched an Indian in the face, then he would have spent days plotting his revenge.
And I imagined that white guys would also want revenge after getting punched in the ace. So I figured Roger was going to run me over with a farm tractor or combine or grain truck or runaway pig.
I wished Rowdy was still my friend. I could have sent him after Roger. It would have
been like King Kong battling Godzilla.
I realized how much of my self-worth, my sense of safety, was based on Rowdy's fists.
But Rowdy hated me. And Roger hated me.
I was good at being hated by guys who could kick my ass. It's not a talent you really want to have.
My mother and father weren't home, so I turned to my grandmother for advice.
"Grandma," I said. "I punched this big guy in the face. And he just walked away. And now I'm afraid he's going to kill me."
"Why did you punch him?" she asked.
"He was bullying me."
"You should have just walked away."
"He called me 'chief.' And 'squaw boy.' "
"Then you should have kicked him in the balls."
She pretended to kick a big guy in the crotch and we both laughed.
"Did he hit you?" she asked.
"No, not at all," I said.
"Not even after you hit him?"
"Nope."
"And he's a big guy?"
"Gigantic. I bet he could take Rowdy down."
"Wow," she said.
"It's strange, isn't it?" I asked. "What does it mean?"
Grandma thought hard for a while.
"I think it means he respects you," she said.
"Respect? No way!"
"Yes way! You see, you men and boys are like packs of wild dogs. This giant boy is the alpha male of the school, and you're the new dog, so he pushed you around a bit to see how tough you are."
"But I'm not tough at all," I said.
"Yeah, but you punched the alpha dog in the face," she said. "They're going to respect you now."
"I love you, Grandma," I said. "But you're crazy."
I couldn't sleep that night because I kept thinking about my impending doom. I knew
Roger would be waiting for me in the morning at school. I knew he'd punch me in the head and shoulder area about two hundred times. I knew I'd soon be in a hospital drinking soup through a straw.
So, exhausted and terrified, I went to school.
My day began as it usually did. I got out of bed at dark-thirty, and rummaged around the kitchen for anything to eat. All I could find was a package of orange fruit drink mix, so I made a gallon of that, and drank it all down.
Then I went into the bedroom and asked Mom and Dad if they were driving me to school.
"Don't have enough gas," Dad said and went back to sleep.
Great, I'd have to walk.
So I put on my shoes and coat, and started down the highway. I got lucky because my
dad's best friend Eugene just happened to be heading to Spokane.
Eugene was a good guy, and like an uncle to me, but he was drunk all the time. Not
stinky drunk, just drunk enough to be drunk. He was a funny and kind drunk, always wanting to laugh and hug you and sing songs and dance.
Funny how the saddest guys can be happy drunks.
"Hey, Junior," he said. "Hop on my pony, man."
So I hopped onto the back of Eugene's bike, and off we went, barely in control. I just
closed my eyes and held on.
And pretty soon, Eugene got me to school.
We pulled up in front and a lot of my classmates just stared. I mean, Eugene had braids down to his butt, for one, and neither of us wore helmets, for the other.
I suppose we looked dangerous.
"Man," he said. "There's a lot of white people here.
"Yeah."
"You doing all right with them?"
"I don't know. I guess."
"It's pretty cool, you doing this," he said.
"You think?"
"Yeah, man, I could never do it. I'm a wuss."