Junior high is tough, tougher if you fall into the 57th percentile (or lower) in growth development.
Junior high is that time when bullies establish themselves and, worse, refine their techniques. The shove in the hallway is no longer enough, not when you’re in seventh and eighth grades (bullies occupying them simultaneously, taking eighth grade classes while trolling the seventh grade for fresh victims).
In junior high, bullies begin to network, passing along valuable tips (“The boys bathroom outside the media room is the best for swirlies – water level is an inch or two higher and flush goes on for several more seconds, resulting in a great dunking every time”). They open themselves up to methods that were impossible to perfect in elementary school for two reasons: first, kids stay in the same room all day, eliminating those four minutes between classes (bullies call that “primetime”) and secondly, elementary school teachers often develop an affection for smaller kids (“prey”) and thus watch out for them.
I became an unqualified expert in bullying in junior high. As a popular victim, I was able to see and experience what each bully in school had to offer. On my first day in seventh grade, for example, I apparently stepped on the Eighth Grade Lawn, a small patch of turf just outside the A wing (though I would discover later that the Eighth Grade Lawn was any bit of grass trod upon, or coming as close as a foot or less, by any smallish seventh grader).
It was then I met Robbie, who a year later would rely on my ability to lower my shoulder and write my answers in large easy-to-spot-from-space lettering to finally pass eighth grade. (We never became friends, but my assistance was frequently rewarded with less-severe noogies and titty-twisters).
“Hey, you,” Robbie said before the bell for first period rang. “Stop right there.”
I was 4-10 and 82 pounds, and thus very aware of my stature as victim. I immediately stopped even though there were probably 17 kids within 10 feet of me. I turned and saw a blond-headed kid about the size of a dumptruck with a face to match.
“Do you know where you are?” he asked.
At this point, I would love to remember me saying, “Well, based on your size I’d say college, but based on your intellect I’d say first grade” and then assuming a king-fu stance. But I really don’t remember saying anything. Having your fate sealed does that to a guy.
“You’re on the Eighth Grade Lawn, and I know you’re not in eighth grade,” he said. “Come here.”
You know how in the movies that time can freeze for all but one person, and that person starts walking around with this dazed look in his face because, though he has no idea what’s going on, it can’t be good.
I moved toward him, the world around me frozen. One step. Another. Soon I was within a few feet on him. The world unfroze and there was a small crowd around us. Just at bullies can sense victims (seriously, it is like sharks smelling blood from miles away; bullies pick up the scent of fear anywhere on a playground), bystanders can sense a confrontation worth watching. Suddenly they find themselves in a semicircle, their hive consciousness telling them something bad and really cool is about to unfurl.
“Since this is the first day of school,” Robbie said, “I’ll give you a break. Normally I would have to pound you, smack (the derogatory term of the day, don’t ask me why). But this time I’m just going to trash you.”
Suddenly I am free, soaring above the crowd, a miracle of flight. Until I realize I’m not flapping since my arms are pinned to my side, and supporting my horizontal nature is Robbie’s shoulder. And just as I realize what is happening, I fall back to earth. No, not fall. Thrust. And not just to earth. Into a trashcan. I can tell because it is very dark and even smellier. And yes, I am upside down. Definitely upside down.
I would later learn just how wondrous Robbie’s trashing technique was. First, he knew the perfect trash barrel, one filled about a quarter-full of leavings, preferably foodstuffs which offered a bad smell as well as a nice cushion. If the can were too full, it would topple shortly after landing, depriving the crowd of the anticipated spectacle of the kid scissoring his legs and screaming as he attempted to escape his predicament. If the can wasn’t full enough, the hollow thud of skull on metal often doubled or tripled the odds of someone in the crowd finding his/her conscious and telling a teacher. Robbie also had perfected the trajectory, his victim sailing into the precise center of the can with plenty of clearance on all sides.
It truly was a thing of beauty.
Other bullies would make rookie mistakes, not so surprising since this was junior high, kind of the spring training for social predators. They would pick the wrong trashcans or toss their victim awkwardly, lucky to hit a 65 or higher on the humiliation scale (Robbie often topped out in the 90s, greatly increasing his chances of scarring his victims for life).
Some even committed the greatest sin in all of bullydom – their victims would escape before their humiliation was complete. This was unforgivable. If it happened too many times (and one was too many), the bully lost all his status. He would no longer be able to sense fear and, far worse, instill it. Soon he would find himself in a semicircle with bystanders, a fate that could eventually turn him into a B student and, finally, a productive member of society.
And it would happen. Taylor (never sure if that was his first or last name) once lost his grip on a seventh grader as he was taking him to the ground for a pink belly. Taylor had failed to properly pin his prey’s arms, allowing the kid to wriggle out of his shirt to freedom. Not a week later, in the midst of pantsing one of the fattest kids in school (biting off way more than he could chew), Taylor had neglected to keep an eye out. His deed was witnessed by a teacher (the only time I knew this to happen before or after at good old Pine Hollow), and thus was force to take the March of “I Can’t Believe I Was Caught, Don’t Look at Me” to the principal’s office. Last time I saw, Taylor was pointing threateningly at sixth graders visiting to see what their new school would look like.
Robbie had them all beat. It was almost and honor to be bullied by the best. And I would like to think that one time in particular might still be remembered by those fortunate enough to witness it.
Pine Hollow was comprised of four wings, long halls lined with roughly 10 classrooms per side. The furthest distance between halls was no more than 200 feet, a distance that could be traversed on foot in no more than a few minutes. There were eight periods in the day, not including lunch. Time between periods was seven minutes (six minutes to the warning bell, another minute to start of class). Given that it took no more than three minutes to completely cross campus, that left four minutes for prime bully time. Four minutes is an eon to those who have perfected the random victimization of others.
And so it was on this day, roughly halfway through the year, enough time for Robbie to establish his position as Alpha Bully and for me to well known at Easy Pickings. And I had no idea I was about to walk into the perfect storm (as I pieced together later).
Robbie was leaving geometry in which he just received his latest test: a D, expected given his permanent spot in the gradebook’s subterranean layer. Apparently, however, Robbie was extremely upset since the smack he usually copied (a position I would one day hold) was either sick that day or had been moved to a desk out of Robbie’s view. I was never able to confirm, not that it mattered. Because Robbie was angry, and there was only one way to salve that particular wound.
Somebody had to feel worse than he did.
I was coming out of, well, I really don’t remember. Things don’t really kick in at this point. I was probably just looking forward to lunch like I usually did, where I could hang in the comfort of other smacks who felt absolutely no compunction to toss me in a trash can or give me an Indian burn. It was a pretty decent existence.
What I do remember is I was leaving the A wing and, from what I was to understand later, I stepped into Robbie’s peripheral vision.
“Hey, you,” he shouted. Remember that whole “world frozen, crowd gathers” thing? Yeah, exactly. Only now it was in the A Wing instead of one of the several Eighth Grade Lawns.
“You know what would look good?” he asked. “Because I have an idea. A really great idea.”
Oh, Jesus. It’s one thing to be summarily swept up and tossed in a trashcan. But when a bully engages in patter, that, people, is a bona fide “Oh shit” moment.
A simple trashcanning wasn’t going to do. This was going to be special.
Here’s another thing I would learn later – the trophy case in A Wing was normally locked. Not that it needed to since it was empty due to the fact Pine Hollow’s athletes did not excel like its bullies did. There wasn’t even a “Good sportsmanship” plaque, given to the league’s most inept teams as consolation. And thus all that gathered in this case notched into the wall was dust.
Today, the case was not locked. One of the A/V kids (read “victim,” occupying a level even below smack) was cleaning it and neglected to replace the lock that kept prevented its sliding doors from moving.
Robbie stepped over to the case and hurled one of the doors aside. The crowd actually parted before he made his move over to the case, so tuned into him they were starting to anticipate his moves.
“You need to be on display,” he said. “You deserve it.”
Robbie grabbed me in the usual fashion, in a bearhug, and lifted. The way between us and the display case remained clear of students.
I began to analyze the situation. The display case was roughly six feet wide, thus each sliding glass door was slightly more than three feet wide, allowing for overlap. Once scrunched, there would be plenty of clearance for my body.
The case looked to be about nine inches deep, a measure difficult to attain due to its mirrored back. Maybe six inches. This could be a problem. Though my frame could easily fit lengthwise, I’m not so sure that is depth would be adequate. Now if I were to shift so that my shoulders were –
Wow, I did fit. Robbie, not one for math, relied instead on mechanics and brute force, applying enough pressure and torque until I was within the display case. He slid the door shut. And left. It was like the baseball player who launched a ball into the stratosphere. Rather than standing at home plate and admiring the view, the true professional merely flicks his bat aside and begins to trot, his eyes never leaving the basepath.
That’s what Robbie’s exit was like. Perfect.
I wasn’t there for long, easily sliding the glass out of my way and flopping out. It was then I noticed the true artistry of Robbie’s performance. There, right across the hall, was the school office. There, not far from the front counter, were two secretaries who had either missed the whole thing or, more likely, chose not to get involved.
But that wasn’t the best part. The best part was that the vice principal’s office faced the front counter, and he had a direct line of sight to the display case. One of his jobs was to make sure no students were harmed at any point during their education, and yet there he sat, busy with paperwork. It was like stealing the patrol car after an officer pulled you over for a ticket. Audacious and brilliant.
Sure, I was stuffed into a display case. That didn’t stop me from appreciating the boldness of such a spontaneous and cruel move.
Well, it did back then. Of course. But I have since come to terms with the fact Robbie was a poor, pathetic boy who could relate to others only through aggression as a means of dealing with his extremely low self-esteem.
My hunch is that today Robbie is serving 10-to-15 for aggravated assault. Or he’s a CEO.
