My bully

I am reading an essay about Marion Prison, appropriately titled, "Marion Prison." It was written by Laurence Gonzales and published in 1989 in his book The Still Point." Marion Prison is located in Marion, IL, roughly 340 miles south of where I live. The prison was opened in 1963 to replace Alcatraz, which closed the same year, and was a "permanent lockdown" facility from 1983-2006. Permanent lockdown meant that the inmates were in their cells 23 hours a day with little or no human contact. At the time the essay was written, Marion was in the thick of things and Gonzales was trying to understand whether or not the conditions at the prison helped or hurt inmates and guards alike. I'm not through with the essay, so I am not sure what the conclusions are yet.


I know someone who was in prison. I guess I should say, I knew this person. He was my grammar school bully. We rode the same bus together every day, and for some reason, I became his target. I'm not sure if I was his only victim, but he certainly devoted a lot of time to the constant torture of me.


I actually wanted to be his friend. Really. It bothered me that he didn't like me. It bothered me that he felt like he needed to tease me, call me "Jew Boy," and knock my books down when I wasn't looking.


I was friends with his sister. She and I were in the same grade. They had an older brother who was in the same grade as my brother, Ira. Maybe my bully felt neglected. Maybe he felt like he was being left out of the mix, being that his brother and sister had equals.


I remember one time he spit on me. It was springtime and we were on the bus on our way to school. I tried to avoid sitting near him, my stop was three before his. But no one sat in the seat in front of me, so he took it, smirking at me as he sat down.


I thought I was safe when, for the next two stops, he ignored me. I tried looking out the window at the passing cars, thinking about where the people were going. If he moved his body in any way, I immediately looked down, certain that avoiding eye contact would keep him at bay. No such luck.

Having my head down, it seemed, gave him permission to commence torture. I knew I was in trouble as soon as I heard the sound. It's an unmistakable sound when you are being pursued by a bully, or have older brothers. The sound of a loogie, that slimy gob of spit and mucus, mixed into one juicy gob.


I heard it, and then I felt it. He hocked the loogie right on the top of my head. I wore my hair longer and thicker back then, so the penetration of the mixture immediately made a spot on my head indent. I wanted to ignore it, thinking it would all just go away. I felt the loogie start running down my head, so I had to do something. I used my right arm to wipe it off, and I heard my bully laugh as I watched him elbow his seat mate to brag about his victory.


The event ruined my day. I went home, told my dad about what happened, and he provided me with a solution.


"If he does something to you again," he said, "kick him in the balls."


I couldn't believe my father said that. His rule in the house was, as long as we didn't throw the first punch, we were okay. We were free to defend ourselves, but if we started a fight--for no good reason--we had him to deal with later.


I chose to ignore the "if he does something to you again" part. I was at the end of my sanity with this bully. I decided that the next day I would defend myself. I would kick him in the balls.


When I saw him get on the bus the next day, I got very nervous. So nervous that I was sure I was going to chicken out. Then he pushed me as he passed my seat, laughing as he walked to the back of the bus. I quickly remembered why I needed to do this.


When we got to school, I had my trumpet case with me. I didn't think through the logistics of things. How would I kick him in the balls and get away, fast? I didn't care. If I didn't do it then, I was never going to do it.


I called my bully over to me in front of the school. He willingly came over.


"What?" he barked at me.


"My dad said if you keep picking on me I should give you something," I said, barely able to get the full sentence out.


"What?" he asked again.


My heart was beating very fast. So fast that it almost hurt.


"This!" I shouted, and my right leg took over. I pulled it back and kicked him, right square in his balls.


He immediately doubled over, yelling in pain and shouting in anger at the same time.


"Ohhhh....I'm gonna kill you...Ohhhhh!"


I started to run, thinking he was going to come after me. It was a clumsy run, thanks to the fact that I had to play the trumpet. As I was running away, I had no idea if he was chasing me. But I saw our principle, Mr. Litchfield, and I thought for sure he'd find out what I did. I decided to just confess to make it all easier on myself.


I ran up to him, my bully no where in site and I told him what happened. He chose to ignore my confession. Maybe because he knew my bully was a bully. Maybe because he had a meeting to go to and didn't want to bother. Maybe because there were no witnesses and he was in a good mood.


"Go to class," he told me, looking around. "Go to class."


My bully never bothered me after that. Ever. I wouldn't say we became friends, but there were times when we spoke to each other.


Years later, when we were in high school, my bully got himself in trouble. At that point, he was into the thick of a delinquent lifestyle. He was destined for the path he was on. Trying to escape the law, he ran down and killed an officer on a major highway.


I never saw him again after that. I heard he went to prison. I don't think it was Marion, but it was a prison nonetheless.


I remained occasional friends with his sister. We hung out every now and again. As recently as 14 years ago, if that can be considered recent.


I've always wondered about my bully. I believe he's out of prison now. I'm sure, as an adult, he regrets what he did. He regrets the mistakes he made as a young teen.


I always worried that he was angry at me about my kick in the balls. I often fantasized that he was sitting in prison, waiting to get out to take his revenge. I doubt he ever gave me any thought while he was away.


I was always worried we had some unfinished business.