"Bad Butterflies" - Submission #36

For the sake of context, I suggest you go back and read “So I started a Gang” Submission #20. I quote from that entry here:

“A few days later, Brian “Huffy” Huffstutler got wind of the newly formed gang and was dying to be a part of it. We were at school, on a break after lunch. We stood in front of the three-story school building, near the street.

“What do I have to do, Muns?” Huffy pleaded, “Name it!”

Thinking back to the “jump-in” initiation from the book, I modified the protocol as I told him to turn his head away from me and turn back when I told him to a few seconds later. Huffy obediently turned his head as I slipped my heavy chain bracelet over the knuckles on my right hand.

“Ok Huff, turn around.” I said

He turned his head and before he could focus his eyes, I slugged him on his left cheek as the chain dug into my knuckles, taking the skin with them.

Huffy fell against the tree and slithered down in a squatting position with his face in his hands. He stayed that way for quite some time as a small crowd gathered. Eventually he got up and smiled. A welt in the shape of the chain links protruded from his cheek.”

I think it was the spring of 1974… April or May. The weather was starting to warm up and the final semester of my freshman year of high school was winding down. It had been a horrible year for me and I could not wait for the school year to end.

I had become so insecure that I didn’t even want to be seen in public for fear that I’d be whispered about and pointed at. I felt like a leper that was to be avoided at all costs. Even the guys that, at one time, were my very best friends… Marc Carlson (Carlo), Mark Gibbons (Sparky) and Greg Drake… seemed cold and distant. They quit calling me. Quit coming over to the house. Quit including me in their plans.

It was painful… emotionally… even physically.

At the end of each school day, my routine was the same… rush to my locker, throw my books on the top shelf, scurry out the south door and walk home. My route was always the same… south on the sidewalk that ran parallel to Highway 17… past Dunns Sure Save grocery store, past the bowling alley and down to 2^nd Street where I crossed the highway and finished my trek a block west on 2^nd.

One day as school ended, I started my departure routine. I arrived at my locker and before I could spin the lock combination, I glanced to my right and noticed a small group of guys standing with Brian Huffstutler (Huffy) near his locker. They were all staring at me. Odd.

I opened my locker, tossed my books on the shelf and then slowly looked around the locker door… they were still there. They were still staring. Huffy was smiling… sort of an evil grin.

Something was up.

I felt a sliver of dread run through my body as my chest tightened and my mouth grew dry. I had butterflies in my stomach. They weren’t good butterflies… like when you were excited about something… they were bad butterflies that came with the feeling of impending doom.

As the hallway began to empty out, I stood at my locker and started pulling out my books… one at a time. I would slowly leaf through them, my brow furrowed… intently searching for… nothing. I was killing time.

Occasionally, I would cast a stealth glance to my right, past my locker door. Huffy and his posse were still there… talking, laughing… shooting looks in my direction.

My stalling tactics lasted a good 20 minutes. I ran out of books and papers to peruse. I couldn’t stand at my locker all night. Whatever was going to happen… was going to happen.

The hallway was now quiet as most of the students had vacated the building and headed home. I slowly closed my locker and headed toward the door.

I remember being greeted by a bright sun, blue skies and warm temperatures. The coat that I had worn that morning was now tied around my waist. I headed down the diagonal sidewalk, still on school property. I was walking at a brisk pace. I didn’t look back.

The school property ended where the diagonal sidewalk intersected with the sidewalk that ran north and south… parallel with the highway. On the other side of the highway, a truck of stoners… Huffy’s friends, had parked on the shoulder of the road. They were waiting for a show.

At about that moment, I heard Huffy’s voice… “Hey Munson.”

I turned around and the first thing I saw was the glimmer of the bright sun reflecting off a silver chain that was wrapped around Huffy’s clenched, right fist. The blow hit me on my right jaw.

Sweet revenge, huh? Good memory, Huffy. Payback time I guess.

Huffy wasn’t an imposing figure and despite the fact that his punch was aided by a chain, it didn’t knock me down. Heck, it didn’t even wobble me.

One of the guys in the truck hollered, “He ain’t down yet, Huffy!”

I looked at Huffy… waiting the second punch but it never came. If it did, I would have defended myself. We would have had a full on scrap. But as it turned out… we didn’t.

Why didn’t I swing back? Why did I let him hit me without a physical response? Did I feel overmatched? No. Not in the slightest. Then why?

I thought about this often, sometimes obsessively… over the next days, weeks, months… even years.

In my mind… this fight wasn’t between Brian Huffstutler and Bart Munson. It was the guys in the truck against me. It was Kevin Gibbons against me. It was Carlo, Sparky and Greg against me. It was all of my former friends against me. It was my family against me. It was Madrid, Iowa against me.

I could fight back against one guy but I was overwhelmed with the size and scope of my enemy. At least… my perceived enemy. And we all know the saying, “Perception is reality.”

I stood there. Hands at my sides.

Huffy sneered at me. Told me what he thought of me. Advised me to watch my back. Then he jogged across the highway and hopped into the bed of the pick-up truck as it headed toward town.

My route home changed that day and for the remaining time that I lived in Madrid. No longer did I walk along Highway 17 to 2^nd Street. That whole way was high traffic. The most traveled roads in Madrid.

Instead, I crossed the highway almost immediately and would jog behind the Dairy Sweet and would walk through backyards. Every time I came to a road, I would stay hidden by a house, or shrubs until I could see that no cars were coming from either direction. Once the coast was clear, I’d sprint across the street and duck in between houses again. I would follow this zig zag pattern until I reached the houses across from my own house on 2^nd Street. Because that was the busiest street in town… I’d sometimes wait minutes before the road was clear of cars in both directions and then I’d sprint to my house.

I did this every school day for more than a year. I learned what houses had dogs in their backyard and which houses didn’t. I learned who had sheds, canoes, vegetable gardens and who hung their clothes out to dry.

I didn't want to be seen. I didn't want to be a target. 

I hated life and I wanted out.

"Eroding Friendships" Submission #35

Continuing the theme of eroding friendships…

Although the neighborhood kids were the first friendships I had developed when I moved to Madrid during the summer of 1969, Kevin Gibbons was the first friend I made once school started. He was in my class and we quickly formed a bond. Being the “new kid” in town and at a new school, I was very thankful to have a buddy that could help ease my transitions.

Kevin came from a good, solid family. He was the younger of two boys born to “Pinky” and Ramona Gibbons. His dad was a real estate agent and had actually been the one who sold us our house on Union Street. He also had a distinctive hue of reddish hair and thus the nickname “Pinky,” … I think.

Kevin invited me for a sleepover one Friday night during the fall of our fifth grade year. I was super excited and I counted down the days as that Friday night approached.

I remember marveling at the structure of the Gibbons’ household… the cleanliness of their house, the strict order of planned events during my visit and the precise time of “lights out” when it was time for us to retire for the evening.

It was different… but I liked it. Actually… I loved it. I ached for a family life that resembled the Gibbons family. But that was nothing more than a pipe dream for me. It would never happen.

Kevin and I remained pretty good friends over the following years. Not “best friends” but good friends as our closeness ebbed and flowed through the seasons of our lives. He was a good athlete and we played on a number of teams together. We were the two pitchers on the Madrid Sox during our early teen years and we pushed each other, in a healthy way, to be better ball players.

Sometime early in our freshman year of high school, our relationship began to take a turn south. Heck… it wasn’t only Kevin… it was most everyone that had once been considered a friend. I seemed to be the common denominator in these deteriorating relationships and thus, most of the blame was likely attributable to me.

Living on 2^nd Street, I lived on what was considered the “main drag” of town. Every time someone “scooped the loop,” which most every driving teen did with regularity, they passed my house. Just a few blocks west was the downtown area. So we had frequent car, as well as foot traffic traveling by our humble abode.

One brisk night in the fall of 1973, my freshman year, I heard some muffled voices emanating from outside of our front door. Dusk had long since passed and it was fairly dark outside. I walked into our den, which had windows overlooking our porch and front yard… just to see if I recognized the travelers passing by.

As it turned out, the “travelers” had stopped and they seemed to be eyeing my 10-speed bike that I had wedged between the handrail leading up to our front porch and some bushes. Not an unusual practice. I never felt there was much of a threat to have my junky bike stolen… so I rarely, if ever, felt the need to lock it up in my garage.

The bike was “junky” but it was my sole source of transportation to and from school and around town. Without it… my feet handled the assignment. I preferred my bike.

I strained to make out the shapes and faces of my visitors as my curiosity grew. There were three of them. They seemed to be about my age.

The streetlight over their left shoulders illuminated them just enough for me to notice that one of

them was wearing a jean jacket and I knew of only one guy that wore a jean jacket as his go-to fashion statement… and that was my old friend, Kevin Gibbons.

My suspicion was confirmed when I heard him laugh. It was Kevin. His laugh was as distinctive as his jacket. Who was he with and what were they doing?

Thinking that nothing nefarious was afoot, I started to turn and make my way out the front door to greet my buddy when the trio suddenly grew quiet and Kevin pulled something out of his pocket. I froze and squinted my eyes trying to identify the mystery object.

He raised the item, secure in his fist and thrust it downward onto the back tire of my bike. It was a small pocket knife.

His first attempt didn’t puncture the tire. He tried it two more times. No luck. The group chuckled. Finally, on the fourth try… POP! Success. Tire… dead.

Not content with just disabling the back tire, he went after the front tire. Learning from previous experience, Kevin punctured it on his first attempt, to the delight of his, still unidentified, cohorts. And with that… they vacated the premises in a dead sprint.

I stood there for what felt like about ten minutes. Motionless. Stunned. Angry. But more than anything… deeply hurt.

It really wasn’t about the bike so much. As I said… the bike was junk. This was about the death of a longtime friendship. This was an act that I would never have expected from Kevin Gibbons… Pinky and Ramona’s boy. The kid from that buttoned up family that had befriended me four years earlier when I was new to town.

I was the only one home. I wouldn’t have told anyone had they been home. This was yet another component, added to the private storm that swirled within me. I walked upstairs and went to bed.

I didn’t sleep much that night. My mind kept replaying what my eyes had witnessed… over and over again. The only deviation my mind allowed was when I pondered how I would approach Kevin when I saw him at school the next day. What would I say? What would I do? Would I say or do anything at all?

The next morning, I walked to school.

Second period, Art class. Our teacher was “Jake.” Yeah… that’s what Mr. Stoudt allowed us to call him. Jake… the cool, relevant, hip teacher. This was the first class of the day that Kevin and I shared. In fact, our assigned seats were right next to each other. We picked them that way… the first day of school… back when we were friends.

I reached my seat first, knowing that Kevin would arrive shortly. A few seconds later, I felt the back of his hand gently tap me on my right arm as he dropped his books on the shared table in front of us. “Hey.” He said… still standing… wearing his jean jacket.

It was a normal greeting. Just like every other day. Obviously… he didn’t know that I knew.

“You know what’s really fun, Kev?” I didn’t let him answer. “It’s really fun to pop the tires on your friend’s bike. That’s REALLY, REALLY fun! Don’t you think?”

I looked up at him… standing… staring straight ahead with an awkward and forced grin on his face. I think he struggled… initially… with how to respond to being unexpectedly confronted.

I wanted him to apologize. I wanted him to tell me that he didn’t know why he did it and that it was a dumb stunt. I wanted him to lie to me if he had to. I wanted him to still be my friend and I was more than willing to let bygones be bygones.

“Yep.” He finally offered, as he took his seat. “That really IS fun.”

I stared at him. He stared back, his smile was gone.

I didn’t know what to say, so I said nothing. Another friendship… over.