Apotheosis

By Ronald Charles Davis

What is it like to live much of your own life in the full shadow of the world's greatest ever athlete; a behemoth of such nature and kind that he totally dominates the worlds of basketball, football, and boxing simultaneously? And accordingly, in this shadow, become extremely rich and extremely powerful; powerful beyond all manner or belief. To ride the tail of the dragon and, yet, still not be your own man? Ask Benjamin Gold. He knows the answer to this question.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: May 31, 2016
• ISBN: 9781483570303

Book preview

[?!?]…there…were…the…trade-offs!

**********

***BEGINNINGS***

As destiny, happenstance, or God would have had it (your particular cosmological call…this time), I first encounter Mr. Erick White some years ago in Portland, Oregon when we are both entering freshman at Abraham Lincoln High School. Perhaps confront is the more desirable, if not entirely accurate, word. Of course, the absolute absurdity of having a confrontation in the first place made all the more evident by the singular fact that he is, at the tender age of fourteen, already six foot two inches tall and weighs in excess of two hundred and fifty-five pounds while I, I am at the time but five foot three and weigh in the not very impressive neighborhood (slum) of one hundred and seventeen pounds, if that. And this, if that, with all of my street clothes on…and a hefty book bag thrown across my rather narrow, not particularly strong, back for extra measure.

It is or should be apparent that we are not herein talking street smarts, nor the two basic, everyday methods of survival, fight or flight - or variations thereof - that every (male) kid in these fifty usually united states learns day one, sans mother, in the long, all too painful rite or wrong of becoming a real Man, a.k.a. Boobus Americanus, wherein it is necessarily brought to his attention, often quite rudely at that, that there are other kids out there (not necessarily male) who are both bigger and/or tougher than he is, and worse, who are quite willing to use either or both to get whatever advantage(s), long term or short, that they damn-well-see-fit-to-get during the seemingly eternal dialogue of hierarchy and territoriality that all species, our own included, seemingly engages in so diligently and so mercilessly, regardless of age, sex, race, or national origin.

Can you say DNA.?

To be more specific, the two of us confront each other at the very first hour of the very first day of the very first semester of the very first year of our high school careers at a point approximately one hundred and fifty feet from our new school among a collection of bicycle racks. For, you see, Lincoln High School, a.k.a. ‘Stinkin Lincoln’, despite its oft pronounced and decidedly deserved eputation for being a rich kid’s school, actually has some of its student body finding its way to this seminal establishment, and on a fairly regular basis at that, in other than Ferraris (three), Porsches (six), Range Rovers (twelve), Corvettes (seven), Cobra replicas (three), and, if absolutely essential that you need go into battle or to the top of a rather tall mountain, Hummers (two).

And so, as the aforementioned fate (my call, this time) would choose to have it this first morning - a morning, by the way, unlike most of its compatriots in Portland in that the sun, the glorious sun, is actually out, truly out and about, unimpeded by the normal bank of slate colored clouds that usually define Portland’s sky for so much of the year; its intense visage shining so low and so brightly across the plane of my ever watchful, ever sardonic – not yet sarcastic - eyes, when suddenly it becomes obvious to me that this other (big) person (very big person) and I are heading for the very same spot at the very same time in order to park our respective bikes, when I, very cleverly anticipating the inevitable impasse and the inescapable conclusion of said impasse: Total humiliation - if not significant pain - foolishly shout out, "Hold it right there, Mister. That’s my spot!" at this colossus who literally and, within seconds, literally towers – One World Trade Center towers - over me.

Really? What makes you think so? says this clearly benignant and oh-so-amused voice floating down towards me from somewhere up high in the ozone; his huge, muscular shadow already casting a sobering line across both my thought and my vision. Not to mention my convictions.

But there is, as far as I can see (no irony there), no exit at this point. Therefore, without giving heed or proper deference to some small measure of common sense, I recklessly, almost drunkenly, cross it, i.e., the above referenced line, forcefully announcing, "Because I saw it first, that’s why!"

Please realize that I am now employing one of my most threatening (bantamweight/fully clothed) voices, all the while trying ever-so-desperately to control the onset of a major trembling fit; this while simultaneously striving ever so strenuously not to run away, or, worse, to precipitate an evacuation of a far more serious and certainly more odoriferous consequence. An interesting, if not impossible, balancing act, these four. Trust me.

"I don’t think we should decide the outcome of this little…situation by who saw it first," he reasons all too well.

For some peculiar reason I am more impressed by his immediate sense of self, of stillness and certainty at the very center of his being, so very un-adolescent in character, than I am by his enormous chest, enormous arms, and enormous shoulders, the outlines of which are all becoming distinctly, significantly, visible beneath and despite the bulky blue dungaree shirt he is wearing. Not incidentally, I have time to note, why I know/know not, that he is wearing a pair of - much tighter fitting – blue jeans; this, combined with his blue eyes and the earlier mentioned blue shirt, makes a uniform of impressive and uniform dimensions in my mind’s peculiar eye even as it, my mind, already at the end of its tottered tether, mind you, slowly slips off and away to a land where it mistakenly believes it will be relatively safe from the forthcoming and not inconsiderable carnage/damage.

"Well, I first also got here, too!" I respond inanely, my completely coming syntax apart. Good grief! I must sound like a schlemiel or a schlimazel to him. Worse! A shmuck!

I am, as you can readily recognize by the preceding, already well into losing it. Big time.

To make matters worse, my prior inanity, I first also got here, too, isn’t entirely true, either. Actually, if the truth be known, it isn’t true at all. At best, it’s a tie, for both of us have arrived at the coveted spot, en masse, concurrently, all together, now. And no matter how badly I desire to level the playing field, it is quite clear to me that I can’t even lay claim to any moral high ground here. In point of fact, this whole problem, which is rapidly threatening to spiral out of control, my control, at least, has clearly and unfortunately been set into motion by a singular and notable fact of adolescence: Sheer and total indolence. After all, the next available bicycle slot is, by my calculation, only some forty eight feet away.

But it is, or has rapidly become, the principle of the thing (another notable fact of adolescence: Inappropriate principles…or is it inappropriate principals?) that, suddenly and without any discernable cause or logical basis, seems to matter to me more than anything else Although, to be somewhat honest, I’m not entirely sure I understand what that, the word principle, really means beyond the dictionary sense of the word, nor why I particularly believe that I believe that it, the word principle, is suddenly a good enough reason to die for, having specifically campaigned (figuratively speaking, of course) my entire life up to that moment in time against just such a damn principle (i.e., having principles sufficient to die for).

Nevertheless, I say to myself, and rather foolishly at that: Just because one of his legs is larger than my entire torso doesn’t necessarily mean that I should back down. (Of course, I am still of sufficient clarity of mind, indigo tower or not, to recognize that it would certainly be the more prudent and practical path to follow.)

Consequently, much to my growing sense of disbelief and distress, I am somehow beginning to build up a rather serious head of steam, powered by yet another one of the more deadly of teenage sins: Righteous indignation (not, of course, to be herein confused with the concept of principle, as some people would have you, would want you to believe). In point of fact, such are the depths of my present pique that I can actually feel my face turning to a deep shade of scarlet (truly the mind doth runneth amuck in such a panic as this). So too my bloody, but not so sanguine, ears. Meanwhile, my short hairs (those on the back of my neck, at least) are quickly beginning to stand at attention and to tingle, for I am, I realize, in a grand and not-so-glorious epiphany, about to die! In a parking lot for bicycles. On the very first day of school. Prematurely. And in living color, yet. Red, White (as I would soon learn) and blue. But at least with my principles, undefined and undeveloped as they may be/are, intact.

Interesting, says the denim hulk in a rather detached, almost scientific manner. You’re quite serious about all of this, aren’t you? He is studying me much as you would a small bug that has been brought to your attention, quite amazed that it has a life of its own that includes purpose (to get away from you), goals (likewise), and maybe, just maybe, intelligence, however limited (see above, under purpose and/or principles, but certainly not under smarts, street or otherwise).

Meanwhile, I can feel his piercing blue eyes scanning my very brain waves, reading my every thought, inconsequential and insignificant as they may be, my every fear, such as they most certainly are; it is all that I can do to meet them with my own. But I am determined now to go down (there being, I know in the marrow of my marrow, no other alternative), if not swinging - for I am truly paralyzed from the neck down - sticking to my…position (clearly, I have no guns) rather than to yield said position, however pathetic it may look to him, to the outside world, to, yes, me!

You'd better believe it! I shout, an octave higher than is my norm.

Well, what do you suggest we do about this little…predicament we presently find ourselves in? he asks gently. Come to blows? Flip a coin? You tell me. I’m all red ears.

"Excuse me?" I respond, deftly. Arrrggh! That’s what I actually say, "Excuse me?" What a complete and total doofus I’m turning out to be, am. No! Make that, a complete and total shmuck. I had heard exactly what he had said, including his remark referencing my red ears and the little…predicament we, me, are/am facing. Actually, his sole predicament, as far as I can determine, is whether to kill me with his left pinkie or his right.

You know what? he asks himself aloud, deliberately or otherwise, mistaking my inane question and my sudden silence for determination. I think that on some strange level I’m being outgunned here.

Listen, I begin to proclaim most reverently, I don’t want to discuss this anymore, when suddenly my voice cracks on the word discuss which, when all is said and done, is a rather appropriate place for it to crack, for that is exactly how I feel about myself at this moment. "It’s my spot. Period! Go get your ownnnn…" (Again, damnit!) Or, or, I won’t be held responsible for my actions.

"Well, heaven forbid! I certainly don’t want to be held responsible for your actions." There is no sarcasm discernable in his voice.

Riiight.

A heavy duty grin now breaks forth across his face. After all… He looks down at my body, "I can see that you’re not a man to be taken…lightly…

(Damn, he’s good!)

"…so, you know what? I’m going to move my bike." And just like that, he pivots his handle bars sharply and moves off and away towards the already referenced next available spot.

My absolutely brilliant rejoinder to this unexpected turn of events is a singular and decided, Hmm?! (Question mark first.)

And so, totally confused and now suddenly alone, I stand there, once again blinded by the sun’s rays, shading my eyes with my right hand while balancing my bike upright with my rather numbed, remaining member. For some inexplicable reason I reason there are reasons why he has just been so reasonable and has, as far as I can see, admittedly not too far at this moment, backed down, and why I have, therefore, just won this little (I can do it, too) confrontation, uhhh, situation. But what is wrong with this kind of still life avec vegetables and drooping, dead deer on table top? For I have never won anything before, much less alone a situation, little or not, in my entire, necessarily diminutive, necessarily short, life.

Why only last year, while still in the eighth grade, I had had a fight (actually it was more like a pushing match) with a girl! (yet), who, even though she was smaller than me, succeeded, somehow, in actually knocking me to the floor. Although, to this day, in my own mind at least, I still manage to maintain the conceit that I was tripped by one of her friends. Luckily for the girl, a couple of teachers had been passing by when all of this was happening and they quickly broke up our little tete-a-tete before I was able to regain my proper footing and deal her a rather decided and particularly forceful blow or two around the area of her decidedly snotty little nose. No American tragedy there.

And yet here in broad daylight, on this the first day of school, on this the most barren and bleak of grounds - a large, ugly patch of black tar and white paint - this, this huge cerulean hulk is at this very moment walking away from me, walking away from our…little confrontation, allowing me to take his spot, a spot which is clearly his by right of both might and size. Either.

Go figure.

Anyway, after we have locked our respective bikes to our respective stands, I wait for him to catch up with me. After all, I don’t want him to think that I’m still mad at him, or that I carry a grudge, like, I understand, he really cares. So when he approaches me anew I ask him most cautiously where he had gone to middle school.

Actually, it is the only thing I can think of to say at this moment. Actually, I, a decidedly simple soul - and there is little or no hubris in saying so - am so impressed by his ability to walk away from a, uhh, fight that I want more than anything to become his friend, or failing that, at least his acquaintance; for even then, at such an innocent and tender age, raw angst and multiple anxieties flaming forth full blown from my every pore, neuroses encircling my head not unlike a flock of hungry buzzards readying for a great feast, and panic but a button of my own devising always within arms length, I am still able to recognize him to be a star of the first order and magnitude, and I, selfishly or pathetically, want desperately to be seen in his company when first he becomes visible to the other kids across the vast panorama of the firmament herein known as Abraham Lincoln High School; our Bleak House, of sorts, for the next seven hundred and twenty school days, give or take a few.

Parenthetically, it will be the last time that I ever see him back down from a fight, even when the odds prove to be slightly more formidable than those that I have just presented him with. In point of fact, even though we are not yet aware of it, just such a scenario is actually but a few minutes and only a few scant feet away from us.

**********

And so, as we approach our soon to be beloved academy of significant learning - no irony meant or implied there - that first morning, picture me if you will, desperately, oh-so-desperately, trying to create some small talk so that he, Erick White, will allow me to stay in his presence but for a moment longer. And another. And…

My little ploy - asking a whole barrage of questions, questions that actually crossed the line into the inane - actually works, this despite what I would shortly learn was Erick’s pronounced disinclination for small talk.

Guardedly at first, he begins to speak to me about how he and his younger sister, (Good grief! He and his sister? There’s a female version of him out there somewhere!) had lived and attended school in Japan for the last eight years (seven years of school in her case), returning to America only this week in time to start the new school year, and how he and his sister had been forced to learn the Japanese language at break neck speed in order to survive, and how the kids over there had made fun of the two of them because they were gaijins, or foreigners, and physically much larger than they, the Japanese kids, were.

And so it is that we advance upon our salad days and our classmates to be; the population density and decibel level of the compacted student body increasing markedly in direct proportion to our proximity to Mr. Lincoln’s ugly edifice of education. However, no dummy I, I begin to take immediate note of the response his presence is having upon a significant portion of the female population, several of whom have actually stopped talking or texting in mid-sentence, the better to gawk and goggle, even Google, as we advance upon them. By my count, seven different girls, in sequence, practice their sing-song, high-pitched, "hiii" s at us - at him! - as we make our way among, between, around, and past them.

Somehow, word of Erick’s impending approach has been, in some mysterious manner known only to the female of the species, instantly communicated up ahead to every single member of the club, all of whom, in their turn, now turn eagerly to await our/his arrival; gapping greedily at the passing of the great-looking new guy with all of the sharp-edged hunger and unbridled lust that (only) a teenage girl in full hormonal flux can seemingly muster on the moment.

To my amazement a large portion of them have actually suspended – if only momentarily - the use of their smart phones, although a few are aggressively taking photos of Erick as he passes by using same, perchance using their aggregating dopamine to add some unnecessary light to their photos. Alas, oxytocin; alas, hypothalamus[es]; alas, limbic systems - release the PEA, Mr. Gridley, and, and, oh yes, fire up any remaining love juices while you are at it!

Almost to a female these girls are found in tightly concatenated groupings, heads no longer bent in conspiratorial fashion toward each other or into their cell phones, but forward, eagerly forward, an equivalent categorical proposition, toward the on-coming denim express; expressions deeply riveted and fixed; their darkly tanned summer bodies always hungry from continual dieting and constant vomiting writ large as the new school year approached; their long-agonized over and tightly fitted clothes glued to their ever-expanding and ever-demanding curves; their bounteous blown hair atop their heads placed strand by strand so as to fall haphazardly, just so; their attitudes and algorithms adjusted and finely tuned to the socially corrected wind currents of the moment, or the next, all; all of them are seen by yours truly as readied for immediate launch upon my good buddy from the Far East, my newly acquired marching companion.

And then - simultaneous with our travels among, between, around, and past them - as Erick, unaware, or at least totally unconcerned, continues with his story about Japan (in school he and his sister were taught, but apparently failed to learn, that children and even adults were happiest and most productive when and if they were allowed to work in groups or hans, as they are called, and where they, the students in a particular han, were also taught, as an outgrowth of this concept, to produce consensus answers whenever a question or problem was posed to them by the teacher, rather than finding one on their own; a particular and peculiar practice which Erick had vehemently opposed, even as a young boy, and because of said opposition had had, as a consequence, some serious consequences to deal with) I become suddenly conscious of a great buzzing sound (the hive having, evidently, been greatly disturbed had now, evidently, approached critical mass) made manifest on all sides of me; its permutations, varied and plentiful; it’s intensity, ever, ever rising. And above it all, two: The singular word fine and/or its sub-category, "he’s so fine," and the all-encompassing, all-conclusive thought ending expression: "Ohh-myyy-GODDD!"

Each feminine utterance, regardless of its pitch, its pattern of beats, its intensity, or exact duration is followed by a protracted period of profound silence - a true false-positive feminine caesura - as girls of all races, all religions, probably all creeds, agreed to agree that such heartfelt utterances were, in and of themselves, truly deep and truly meaningful; a religious expression from the inner most regions of their most deceptive little souls.

It is both amusing and, to be quite frank, a bit disquieting to watch the acute effect that he is having upon so many of them. In high school parlance (Like, yo, dude!) it’s as if some heavy-metal rock star had suddenly and miraculously materialized in their presence in order to tease and to tantalize them, cauterizing, if for only a moment, maybe two, a significant portion of the outer layer of their cerebrums, i.e., their cerebral cortexes, thereby letting loose on the world the amygdalas, the nucleus accumbens, and the adjacent ventral tegmented areas of their brains.

Amazing, this well-spring of adolescent lust that lies within.

Our once leisurely stroll toward the entrance to the school now becomes a procession, or more accurately, a parade, as many of these same girls now eagerly fall into step behind us: A true cacophony of gasps, barely restrained giggles, husky grunts, and earthy groans, a momentary high-pitched squeal, then another, and another. Multiple and muffled explicatives ["Oh, shit! now seemingly pushing aside the earlier so fines and Oh-My-Gods!"], burblings and beseechments all, all to whom and to what end?

Duhh.

And Erick?

I believe, have to believe, that he is truly oblivious to the impact that his brief procession among them is having. Thus, the variegated enunciations of adoration that are coming forth from these clotted knots of palpitating females has no effect upon him whatsoever. None. He continues, instead, to speak to me, gesticulating with his hands on occasion to make a point, obviously enjoying some of the memories he is presently bringing to mind as he continues to recount growing up in a culture as distinct and as fascinating as Japan’s. "…my sister and I also had a problem with the Japanese concept of hansei, which can mean anything from ‘apology’ to ‘reflection’, especially when this apology or this contrition had to be made out loud and in public. The Japanese have this belief that only when you admit to the group as a whole that you are wrong, or that you have certain shortcomings, can you go about changing your attitude and then eventually your behavior."

And so, on we hundreds march.

When Erick and I and our newly acquired troop finally arrive at the steps to the front entrance of the building, we take our place in a river of student humanity (not necessarily an oxymoron) funneling together some five or six across. High atop the steps we both can’t help but notice that something odd is going on. For there above us, in the very center of the doorway to the school, stands a living, breathing beast, larger by far than even Erick. I am later to learn that this walking mass of muscles is named Scott Manley; junior, starting defensive tackle on the football team. He is all-state, all-bully, and, apparently, all-mean, with both the necessary beef and the necessary attitude to back up his other aforementioned failings.

And there he reigns, the left hand of darkness, with nary a teacher in sight, forcing students to walk in two distinct and quite docile files around his arrogantly placed body; he, hands on hips, elbows spread-eagled to ensure that the parting of the masses is even wider. He, no sparer of sex or age, stands dominant, in total control of the hushed rabble now eddying around and past him.

When finally we approach the landing directly in front of him, Erick stops and stares straight up at him. Mr. Manley, positioned on a higher step, stands at least eight inches taller than my newly found acquaintance.

Up close, this close, it is Manley’s thick, bald cranium, not his considerable height nor his more considerable mass, that I find so fascinating and so frightening, for it is a hard barrel of a thing, made of such thick bone, such muscle and vein, jutting as it does in almost every direction with such complete contempt, as to border on visual rape.

To complement the evil effect, his effect on me at least, his small, black eyes are radiating enough hatred to melt ice. And, as such, he stares down at us - the two stationary freshmen who are now positioned before him - with all of the pomposity of a pumped up/steroid mad, oversized Mussolini; our static positions already clogging the steady flow of traffic behind us.

"You gotta’ problem, scumbags?" he snarls while coming down particularly heavy on the collective and quite personal noun.

Erick responds by calmly saying, Yes, actually, we do.

"So what’s your problem, fuckhead?" A giant forefinger, somewhat the size of a salami, no bologna, is seen pointing directly at Erick’s chest.

"You’re standing in our way."

Oh-my-God! Did I hear him correctly? Erick has just said, "our way." What do you mean by our way, Lone Ranger? I, for one, see no problem or principle (there’s that damn word again!) lost in walking, even crawling, around this angry water buffalo. Hell, if he wants me to, I’ll walk, nay, skip around the entire perimeter of the Greater City of Portland. Backward. And he doesn’t even have to say please.

And, as is my wont and growing practice, I immediately take to trembling. You see, I recognize that I am going to die, yet again, this time right here, right now, on these steps, on the very first day of school. It is apparently fated (again: My call) that I do so. No sudden reversals of fortune this time. For surely, I’m about to be trapped between these two behemoths, the Handsome Hulk and the Evil Water Buffalo, and be crushed to death in the ensuing melee. Kismet is speaking. And Benjamin, he is listening.

A vision abruptly appears before me: "…Mom, I know you’re not going to believe me, but I was killed in school today…No, I’m not joking…. No, I swear to you, it wasn’t my fault."

It’s as real and as graphic a revelation as any I have had in my suddenly all-too-exciting life. And yet, this small problem aside, that is: To be killed or not to be killed - as if I am to be the final arbiter in the matter - I comprehend instantly that I cannot leave Erick’s side no matter how badly I want to/desire to, to flee to somewhere/anywhere; if need be, off, off to the farthest corners of the universe, no matter how badly reason, even need, dictates that I do so, and do so now!

But no matter what matters matters no more, only loyalty does. This, mind you, in spite of my better instincts (survival, for one) and needs (survival, for one), for if death is indeed to be my manifest destiny, then so be it. I am suddenly and quite quickly resigned to it.

However, in the final and only analysis that matters, it is most clear to me that I cannot, not in good faith, abandon my not very bright compatriot, Mr. Erick White, in this, his/my last moment of life. To do so would be to go against everything - perhaps the only thing - that I as a teenager believe to be sacred.

Another one of those damnable adolescent (principles) principle failings.

"Tough shit! growls Manley. Walk around me or I’ll kick your fuckin’ asses in."

I’ve got a better idea, Erick responds. And with that he ducks down under the water buffalo with a speed that I am barely able to comprehend, and, with an effort that seems like no effort at all, he lifts Manley high above his head and transports him – and his [what?] 275 pounds? - to the very edge of the stairs.

Manley barely has time to grunt and with his equilibrium and much of his pride now stolen from him, he waves his arms in a rather hapless, almost spastic fashion. Erick pauses for a brief moment and then - Sweet Jesus! - he flings the water buffalo down the long banister that parallels the upward (downward) ascent (descent) of the stairs while, right on cue, the once frozen masses below us rapidly move, en masse, to avoid the oncoming human projectile.

Actually, in retrospect - distant retrospect, mind you - it is all quite comical, this not-so-benevolent house of mirth. But at the moment, this is not the case. Here now find this immense water buffalo, taken totally by surprise, rapidly sliding headfirst down a metal bannister, his arms and legs splayed simultaneously in every possible (impossible) angle; a loud, wounded roar emanating forth from his mouth (it sounds to my still sensitive young ears like, "Ohhhhh, Fuckkk!!!), just before Erick, his momentary labor now justly completed, guides me by my elbow through the suddenly vacant entranceway and into our new school.

Damn! I really didn’t want to miss witnessing Mr. Manley splatter - hard times - against the cement sidewalk below. Crime and punishment, together, encapsulated as one. How rare is that, is it not?

And, without skipping a beat, Erick turns to me and coolly remarks, Anyway, as I was saying, living in Japan was really a unique experience because…

And so it is that we two newly minted homies continue our rather leisurely stroll up and into the belly of the beast - a beast, admittedly, of a far different color and stripe than the one we have just encountered - our home sweet home away from home for the next four glorious years of the days of our lives.

And I, in this most glorious of moments, must dutifully recognize and diligently report that Superman - soon to be seen in local neighborhood theaters near you - has just landed and is walking about, in a manner of speaking, with the rest of the local citizenry, completely unfazed by all that has just preceded him.

**********

The two native sons now march boldly where many, many have gone before, crossing the stone threshold and proceeding into the very heart of darkness - not to mention the last vestiges of our age of innocence - veering sharply to the right, following the majority of students (at least this time) mounting an interior stairwell to the second floor. Nothing visible here but butts and legs ascending.

And I, for one, am still in such a mood of total disbelief as to border on stupefaction. Had what (just) happened, actually (just) happened? I don’t even know what to call it, this recent happening? This incident? Was it actually a fight? An altercation? A tussle? I mean, no punches were thrown. There was no pushing (mmmm), no tripping, just a brief flight on gossamer wings - No. Strike that! - on an iron railing, hurtling down and onto the hard, most unyielding, most concrete of sidewalks below.

The confrontation, the skirmish - whatever it really was - was, indeed, concrete, concrete and real; had actually happened so quickly, so effortlessly, that already distance (however short) and time (however brief) were beginning to work their magical ways on my always fertile, usually febrile, imagination. Call it sleep, call it a dream, call it whatever you wish; after all, things, events, reality, aren’t supposed to happen this easily in real life, didn’t happen this easily in real life, at least not on this little piece of realty I call my life.

And finally, there is, in my mind, at least, the issue of justice, fairness, and retribution, or the normal lack thereof: A truly burning, yet little understood issue in the life of almost every high school freshman in America. For you see, this time, in a dizzying sequence of cognitive dissonance, the good guy had clearly won out over the bad guy and it disturbs me dearly, this lack of harmony, this lack of symmetry in the world. After all, how often does this sort of event, a world truly turned upside-down, take place outside of the movies, a good comic book, or a poorly written history textbook? Therefore, it follows, it must follow, that something of unknown dimensions and possibilities is and has to be occurring (for the second time today) with this (still/moving) picture. Viewer and viewed effectively interrelated; the Doppler effect, then, actually in effect, then?

Naaah.

But then, even before I have time to further pursue this narrow line of reasoning, a Queen’s Gambit clearly declined, way off in the middle distance, somewhere, despite the staircase and the long corridor and the excited babble of a many thousand student body spilling (inevitably) toward their official classes, I can hear the distinct call of the wild, the very conspicuous roar and bellow, the grapes of wrath, of a truly angry, quite mad now, now recovered, water buffalo.

It had happened, hadn’t it?

I begin to smile sweetly not unlike, I imagine, Mr. Carroll’s rather sassy Cheshire cat on the limb of his tree observing the follies of the world below him. However, even that momentary pleasantry is brutally truncated when it suddenly dawns on me: Something wicked this way comes! And it is called The Future. For this little story is not over yet. No sir! The fat lady is no where ready to sing. Why, she hasn’t even mounted the stage.

In spite of the fact that I am too much of late in the sun, there is only cold comfort here, for I know as surely as I know my name that each water buffalo will have its day, and that Mr. Manley is more than likely, at this very second, on the warpath, hunting for my newfound friend with several (or many) of his old found friends: A new hydra-headed sea of troubles yet to be encountered, uhh, confronted.

And, once again, I am awash in fear.

However, when I glance up and at Erick, who surely understands the very same formulations and configurations I do, he appears about as concerned as a long retired British gentleman leisurely perusing the Sunday Times on a sunny Monday morning while taking a small spot of tea in his thoroughly enchanting, quite well-manicured, rose garden in the later days of a rather engaging and particularly mild Indian summer.

And it is while this confluence of specific thoughts and overtly stressed images are blooming everywhere in my thoroughly farblondjet head, that Erick and I both enter the same room, equally amused to see that we have both been programmed for the same official class (tell me there is no such thing as destiny?). We move to take our seats along the wall nearest the windows for all of the seats in the rear are already being occupied by others of our ilk - freshmen - who are easily adhering to yet another Cardinal Belief of Youth: He who manages to sit the farthest from the teacher is most likely to escape pedagogical humiliation.

Here again, I am forced to make note of the many overt, eager, longing glances (see above and below, under: Girl/woman) directed towards Erick from the female of the species, but this time there appears to be a far greater intensity or depth, if you will, to their accompanying and excited murmurings and mutterings, most likely revolving around the recent, uhhh, incident that has just transpired downstairs and outside in the full light of day. Obviously, many of the kids have just, much to their apparent delight and total satisfaction, been witness to the ignominious treatment of the giant water buffalo by my newly acquired acquaintance.

But once again, Erick is, to the best of my knowledge, totally and completely oblivious to this rapidly rising plethora of student adoration (coming from both sexes, now), having removed a novel (The Sun Also Rises) from his back pocket and commenced the reading of same.

Within minutes now enter our homeroom teacher, one Miss Edna Farber, a tall, obsessively thin woman with a closely cropped head of black hair and a particularly puckered face that easily resembles a dog’s anus. Between several hard stares and a decidedly clenched jaw, she finally succeeds in quieting us, the rabid rabble, down.

But such is the undercurrent of excitement in the room, that her task is not, I might add, without some real degree of difficulty. Swiftly she proceeds to take the attendance and to give us our programs. And in a mannered and mercifully short speech she informs us, her best and her brightest, what a great and long standing tradition/pride/spirit Abraham Lincoln High School has had, has, and will continue to have (?), when, almost on hidden cue or direction - for whom the bell tolls, bisecting both our morning and our auditory apparatus with its nerve-jarring, long note - we are curtly dispatched off to our first class of our first day.

It is, as the ominous anonymous are quite often fond of saying, Show Time.

It is also at this juncture that Erick and I are first to be parted, he to math, I to social studies, not to be reunited again, say our respective programs, until the fifth period for lunch. My last words to him before we go our separate ways are, Be careful. That water buffalo probably has a lot of friends in this place.

Erick bursts out laughing at this, my comment, not my concern, for he turns to me and places one of his large hands on one of my small shoulders and gives it a friendly - if not totally reassuring - shake before he goes on his way, maddeningly unconcerned about what is in all likelihood in store for him.

And as he disappears down the churning, throbbing hallway of ructious (shall we control the language or shall…?) adolescents, I can see members of both sexes now pointing after him, whispering to each other in a bubbling hubbub of barely hushed joy,

There he goes!

That’s him!

Did you hear what the fuck he did? appearing to be the prevailing comments, more or less, of the moment.

I am now made the more disconsolate by his absence, the more so because I realize that I would be incapable of assisting him if the need or desire were, as I have predicted, to arise and be present.

And so my newly found friend strolls blithely off into the shadow of the valley by himself, alone, unprotected from either rank or flank by any erstwhile or present ally. However, even in this dizzying, drunken state of near hysteria I find myself in - worse, much worse than my absence, I realize, would be my presence, for I recognize that were I to be near him at the hour of such an encounter - which I now believe to be but a matter of hours away, and as inescapable and inevitable as the dreariness of so many teachers - I would be rendered incapable of assisting him in any such endeavor because of the very nature of my size, or the lack thereof, and my consequent, but not necessarily attendant and concomitant, physical failings. No little big man I.

And the knowledge of these - my well documented failings - and the essential worthlessness of myself made manifest by them, wounds me mightily. I am literally disgusted with and by myself. What kind of a friend can I possibly be or hope to become, I bitterly assert to the always deaf heavens above, if at the crucial moment of his need and necessity, my own flabbiness of body and weakness of spirit were to tip the scales, such as they are, against him?

And it is in just such a black tenor, a frustrating and torturous tone bordering on pure rage, that I finally move on, head bowed, chin to chest, my eyes burning, billowing with incipient moisture, to locate my own first period class.

No one, I am sure, sees me surreptitiously wiping away the solitary tear that now rises from the very center of my soul and teeters on the edge of my eyelid, and were they to have done so I would have immediately and quite vociferously denied its existence and all subsequent actions (blotting them for one) to those very same uncaring heavens.

************

Whatever transpires that first fateful morning I am barely able to recall, even with a fiercely concentrated effort on my part. All I can envision, time and again, is five or six of Scott Manley’s muscular buddies encircling Erick and hammering him with their ham-hock fists, staccato-like, into an unrecognizable and bloody pulp; his facial features no longer recognizable even to one such as his mother, his most handsome visage but a memory lost somewhere in the pages of time.

And so, for me at least, the first morning goes by in a long blur: Dull voices and duller teachers’ admonishments, the ritualistic distribution of textbooks, and the habitual assignments of homework deliberately piled high, I am sure, to demonstrate, each anew, to this motley crew of newly stricken freshmen that they, their teachers, really mean business, the serious business of education. A true oxymoron for our times.

And then, somehow, it finally arrives, ending one hundred years of solitude: The fifth period! The sun also rises. The blue of noon. A bend in the river. Lunch time!

After getting garbled directions of where and how from an older kid, I literally skitter down the descending stairwell to the cafeteria, nearly knocking down two students who, luckily for me, are actually smaller then I am. Hey watch yourself, asshole! they lovingly remonstrate in part or in whole, calling after my rapidly disappearing visage.

When finally I arrive at my appointed, much desired, destination, the breath from my lungs coming in short, disjointed, and oh-so-painful bursts, I quickly commence my search for Erick, half expecting - no joke - to find him being rushed toward an awaiting ambulance. But no, there he is, sitting comfortably at a long table with six rather pretty co-eds, apparently indifferent to the dangers that my feverish brain has so readily concocted for him.

Even from across this huge, most clamorous cafeteria filled completely to the brim with noisome and obnoxious adolescents let loose after four continuous periods in heavy, if not so symbolic, chains, I can see his blue eyes sparkling, his head forced back by his infectious laughter, and the females, half-shy, half-aggressive, as is their wont and practice when they are openly stalking the male of the species; each is, in her own turn, hanging onto each of his words as if each of his words, indeed, is imprinted with pure, unminted gold, the sum of which is surely greater, not surprisingly, than each totaled individually.

Therefore, it takes no quantum leap of faith, no level of intelligence greater than that of your average teacher, to realize that less is not always more in the often overheated dendrite/axon space/time continuum of teenage urgency and overheated, oft times, howling hormones.

And around this tiny band of newly met co-conspirators, less than ten feet away, are gathered an additional forty or more students of an indeterminate grade and age, all intently gawking at Erick – gulp - in simultaneous and mutual accord. However, in spite of his huge and newly acquired entourage, Erick sees me rushing swifter than an arrow from a Tartar’s bow into the capacious cavern of the cafeteria and immediately signals for me to come over to his table to join him.

So, what’s up, Bennie? How’d your classes go today?

"Classes? What do you mean, classes? I, on the far edge of hysteria, rebuke, as I peevishly make room for myself between two decidedly buxom co-eds, totally ignoring them and his other (udder?) camp followers, I’ve been worried sick about you all morning!"

Good grief! Did I actually say what I just said I said? Surely I must sound like his mother, say I, because I sure as hell sound a hell-of-a-lot like mine.

Why is that, Bennie? he inquires in all innocence.

W-why? I sta-stammer. Because of this morning! That’s why! Have you forgotten already?

Erick’s eyebrows bunch ever so little, and I can tell that he doesn’t take kindly to the tone in my voice anymore than the message delivered, so I quickly decide to modify the two much like you might modify a noun for greater or lesser effect, Listen: what would happen if ten of his friends jumped you at the same time?

I’d deal with it. So please, do us both a favor and relax. Okay? Another hand on my shoulder, another shake, his fatherly concern apparently equaling, if not surpassing, my own more matronly response.

And just that easily he excuses himself from his coterie of zaftig devotees and from myself, Listen, Bennie, I’ll be right back. Watch my books, okay? A question/declarative sentence all in one, not a number. And off he heads toward the bathroom while I am left to shake my head and look yet again to the distant heavens in disbelief and exasperation. Either/or.

How can he so easily dismiss my forbidding and clearly dark forebodings, my carefully nurtured and quickly harvested apprehensions and fears? Annoyed, to say the least, and at a total loss for words, I deliberately mimic his cautionary remark aloud, ‘Not to worry, Ben. I’d deal with it.’

This I announce to no one in particular, throwing my hands toward the skies in a rather exaggerated fashion of exasperation, only to look up, half surprised, to see that his newly enabled entourage is now staring intently, en masse, at me!

Later I will be informed by more than one such acquaintance thusly made, that my momentary mood of miff and mimicry had not hurt my image any in the eyes of Erick’s many new minions, wherein it was decided, unanimously, that I must have some set of balls (they believed) to openly chastise (they believed) their newest hero: A young man who just happened to outweigh me by the better side of a hundred, nay, one hundred and thirty pounds. But at this very moment their concerns, whatever they may be, are of no interest and certainly of no concern to me.

But then - BAM! - it hits me. How stupid can I be?

Answer: Lots.

I jump to my feet and immediately run after him, and as I charge through the bathroom door my worst fears are suddenly realized, for there is Erick up against the wall surrounded by five huge thugs, each, in his turn, as big or bigger than he is. And standing directly in front of him is one Mr. Derrick Masters, as I shall later be informed; a bigger, nastier version of the aforementioned Mr. Scott Manley. Masters takes one look at me as I burst through the door, instantly deciding that I am of no threat or importance to him and so, with a little sneer, he turns back to face Erick,

Now, listen up, shithead. I think you owe my good friend here an apology. He is pointing his sausage-sized forefinger right into Erick’s face and simultaneously jerking his head towards the aforementioned Scott Manley.

Really? Why’s that? Erick responds in a decidedly droll manner, a barely visible grin planted across his face. He turns and winks at me.

Because you kinda’ hurt his feelings this morning. That’s why.

Noooo. How’d I do that?

Well, you see, fuckface, he’s really a sensitive kinda’ guy. You wouldn’t know it to look at him, but he is. And throwin’ him down the stairs like you did, it just kinda’ upset him.

All of the other boys, including Scott Manley, roll their heads back and roar at this. You can tell they are already smelling blood. Erick’s blood. And lots of it.

Erick looks over toward Scott Manley and then back at Derrick and says, You might be right, kinda’. But I kinda’ guess the flight down the stairs kinda’ got his attention.

Again the other boys roar with laughter until Derrick silences them with a hard angry look. You don’t need no !@#$#%! Rand McNally road map to see who’s in charge here.

Hey! You makin’ fun of the way I talk?

Yeah, I guess I kinda’ am.

Your [as opposed to ‘you are’] really a fuckin’ wise guy, ain’t you?

So there it is! The clear clarion call of the male of the species busily working himself up into a large enough froth to justify - in his own mind at least - the forthcoming cornucopia of violence that shall be visited upon his opponent. Your (sic) a fuckin’ (sic) wise-guy, ain’t (sic) you?

All grammar and pronunciation aside – this is usually the direct precursor to a blow or host of blows and a long day’s journey into night that inevitably follows same. I had seen this particular little skit acted out at least a dozen times in my middle school, always with dire consequences to one or both of the players strutting their hour upon their now co-joined stage.

In fact, just as these eschatological thoughts go whooshing through my mind, one of the five thugs who is standing off to the side, one thickly built Ben Manion, throws a blind side punch at Erick’s head. Strangely enough, I am able to see it as clearly as if it is occurring in slow motion.

Erick! I yell out in warning, "Watch out!"

And, at the last second, just as this immense fist is about to crash into the side of his skull, Erick moves his head ever so slightly to the side. Manion’s fist barely misses its intended target, smashing instead against the wall behind Erick’s head. You can hear the distinct, hollow sound of cheap, but thick, bathroom tile being battered against cinder block, just before the cry of pain - nay, agony! - comes roaring forth from Manion’s mouth. His fist has to be shattered into significant fragments, and later it is found to be just that: Two knuckles splintered, ligaments torn asunder, even the wrist fractured.

And at just this most propitious of moments, Mr. Van Arsdale, vice-principal and dean of students, a leather necked, leather-souled, large ex-marine, strides forcefully into the bathroom. Any problems in here, gentlemen? trumpets the voice of authority, as Ben Manion actually freezes in mid-scream, honoring yet another Cardinal Belief of Youth: Omerta, the Code of Silence.

None whatsoever, Mr. Van Ardsdale, says Derrick Masters, quickly covering up the incident? the fight? Just some guys foolin’ around. In fact, we was just leavin’.

And in unison, as if on practiced but silent command, the five behemoths pivot and march past Mr. Van Arsdale and myself and towards the bathroom door. Ben Manion’s face is chalk white. Sweat is pouring down both sides of his wide forehead. He holds his broken hand down by his side so that Van Ardsdale will not see it as he leaves.

I am really impressed at his ability to momentarily suspend pain. Hobson’s Choice…clearly becoming Manion’s Choice.

And, as they exit in a single, swaggering file, I distinctly hear Derrick Masters’ half-whisper, half-snarl thisclosetomyear, Tell your friend, after school, in the park. And then they’re gone.

Van Arsdale turns to me with a hard look and a half and announces in what I would learn was his standard stentorian voice. If you don’t use it, son, you’re going to lose it.

Sorry, sir?

"Your dick, boy. Your dick.

I don’t follow…

What’d you come in here for?"

Oh, I get it. Thank you, sir. Thank you very much.

And while you’re at it, don’t take all bloody day, he adds most forcefully, his overt manliness spewing forth from every single pore of his body, his jawline set just so. And with that, he, too, wheels smartly about on his heels, and is gone; in his wake mighty dosages of androgen remain discernable in the air above my reeling head. Little did I know at the time, but his intricately crocheted, ever so imaginative doilies had garnered gold medals in three of the last four Oregon State Fairs. So too, his apple pies. Although I never had the opportunity to vouch for either, either.

Do we not, then, we witty, oft-beleaguered men, contain multitudes, too?

That aside, I look at Erick and exclaim all excitedly, Did you hear what the biggest guy just said to me?

Sure did.

And?

And, I guess I’ve got a date this afternoon. You want to join me, tough guy?

And without waiting for my answer, and eschewing even the smallest of sardonic grins, he ambles out the door and towards his still loyal and ever patient fans. And in the brief swinging of the door I am able to bear witness to the following: The large crowd of earnest and eager young admirers has more than doubled in number as word of the impending fight has in some mysteriously fashion already permeated the concatenated cacophony (try saying that fast, five times in a row) of this most capacious cafeteria.

Of necessity, I now lean with my hand against the nearest urine bespeckled wall and struggle to take stock of a rapidly deteriorating bull market, realizing that for the previous five minutes I have, more likely than not, failed to take in a single, solitary breath of air, as impossible as that may sound. Hoping to make up for lost time, I now swallow deeply from the surrounding ozone in some half-hearted belief that deliberate and rhythmic breathing will calm my much offended nerves.

"Aaaaaargh!" I quickly proclaim, expelling the foul, most acetous substance from my lungs. Said ozone openly reeks as only a high school bathroom at noontime can reek: This from thousands of anal openings momentarily unbolted and opened for business, and a like number of poorly aimed pizzles times ten randomly discharging their yellow, sulfurous contents from bloated bladders into the sewer system of this wondrous city.

Surely I cannot take much more of this, this stress, this distress. I really can’t. My heart, certainly not the strongest or most durable of muscles in my admittedly small arsenal of muscles, is now beating much the same way it would have been had I been insane enough to go all out in the hundred yard dash…or skitter down three flights of stairs desperately looking for one Erick White.

For the briefest of seconds, no laughing matter this, I believe that I am actually going to die from some massive cardiac event brought on by all of this senselessness, this time honored madness of masculinity, more often than I would like to believe, honored in the observance more than in the breach.

Ever since this morning when first I had, uhh, encountered Erick at the bicycle rack, I have found myself occupying a far different niche in life, living, if this be called living, in some sort of non-stop, emotional merry-go-round; a scabrous, obscene pitch and black patch of excitement. Did I forget to mention terror? - a terror that allows for no thought, no deliberation, only reaction and response. And barely at that.

Meanwhile, I am now led to believe that paradigm shifts of truly revolutionary proportions are apparently, and without my permission, underway: The rapid and conspicuous contraction of space; the visible slowing and curving of time; massive amounts of energy and force being converted back into mass, but, alas, with very little loss of light; the creation of an asymmetrical gauge symmetry; the uncharging of an electron: Physical parameters, anchors, dictums, standards, all, all gone, gone askew. Even awry. The very definition of screwed. And I, I recognize, sadly, I am at a loss to know how to deal with them. This.

And yes, there will be a quiz on the above referenced material on the morrow, but only if I can manage somehow to survive this particular day under the volcano, today. Clearly, at this rapid rate of degradation and deterioration, an unlikely occurrence, to be sure.

Once upon a more innocent time in my life (this but a few short hours ago), I had believed with all of my heart and with all of my soul, that the sole and solitary purpose of a high school - how charming this? - was to get an education; to better oneself, to prepare for a once and future career, however brilliant or not; said institution’s function and purpose clearly spelled out on the slates, and not, and I repeat myself here with purpose, not to be the inherent cause of my sudden demise herein of a seizure or loss of all significant brain function; a kinda’ stroke, as some might say, to be found dead – oh my! - on this fetid, most filthy of filthy floors.

A fine kettle of fish, indeed, for a Jew to be in; he who does not even believe in hell - outside of the one man has created for himself - now cast, irony this, headlong into the Inferno for all of eternity (the Ninth Circle yet, although, it is true that a fair case could be made for the Sixth, i.e., heretics of every cult, or even, after some small contemplation, the Seventh, i.e., blasphemers) along with all of the other sinners, non-believers, and assorted riffraff of humanity. So what the hell is wrong here? And what the hell is wrong with Mr. White? Does he not comprehend or is he not capable of comprehending (not necessarily the same thing) his (also) forthcoming (early) death in the afternoon?

And then, in another instance of dazzling truth and possible reckoning - a truly sad satori of sorts - it is suddenly made most manifest: My new found friend, the idiot, is blatantly and totally deranged. But deranged in some particularly weird, particularly bizarre, manner I have not yet been able to come to grips with: Either he is stark raving mad - perhaps he has just been released from some psychiatric ward on an outpatient basis, replete with a fully stocked larder of Seconal or Nembutal, and thus his subsequent need to create all of that bullshit about growing up in Japan - or, and this, this is every bit as tenable, he is filled with such infinite delusions of glory and grandeur that he would not recognize Reality if, fully exposed, dick in hand, He, Reality, (assuming, of course, that Reality, like God, uh, most Gods, uhh, most Western Gods, uhhh, most latter-day Western Gods, be a member of the male gender; much like