There is no reason, as far as I can tell at this middle stage of life, to almost anything that truly happens to you. But there is rhythm. A beautiful, poetic, melody sweeping through your life that, at very clear moments, hits high notes you never forget. The incident this particular story is about is a high C.
It began on a morning not unlike any other on the inside. There was an incident during early prayers involving Herbert Stein. Poor Herb was a lanky, unshaven, Jew-Fro-Sporting, glasses-brandishing, pale, pimply-faced, goofball with more hair sticking out of his nose and ears than a Frank Miller character. These traits ensured him endless torture.
It started off with a contest. “Who could touch the bathroom ceiling with the palms of his hands.” Of course the real game was who could smack Herb’s bare stomach the hardest as he exposed it palming the bathroom ceiling. Now I don’t believe in astrology, or astronomy, for that matter, but the stars were aligned oddly that day because I just had enough. Something in me stirred as poor Herb lifted his shirt to show me Boaz Poshtaki’s monkey-like handprint still blazingly red on his stomach.
I could sit idly by no more. Something must be done, I decided.
I left class early for lunch. As all the kids started pouring into the lunchroom there I was. Me, a nothing peasant, sitting at the Mob Bosses’ table. It wasn’t a special table. It reeked as the rest did, and tilted just slightly as people sat up from it, same as all the others. But it was the Mob Boss Table.
You see the cafeteria, as in most schools, was obviously where the hierarchy would be most noticed. I argue it is where it’s actually conceived. The table you sit at assigned you your position and, of course, there was one table assigned to the Bosses. To the Bosses alone.
My plan was simple. One lunch. One public spectacle that would somehow show the rest of the school that we were all equal. In my mind the next day that table would be filled with soldiers and bosses and peasants alike.
As the prettiest girls in eighth grade came in, they saw me sitting there, at Ari Mendelson’s throne. Ari Mendelson, the Tony Soprano of the SSSQ. The Pretty-Boy Mob Boss. All the girls swooned over him. For years college guys across the Northeast had to listen to their freshmen girlfriends talk for hours about their first kiss, Ari Mendelson. The mob bosses ran the school, and Ari Mendelson ran the Mob Bosses. He sat smack in the middle of the Mob Boss Table.
I fumbled for a second to “make room” for the girls rushing in, but they sat as far away from me as possible. Slowly the Bosses came in. Before I could move my apple, chocolate milk, and cheese sandwich (it was dairy day by the way) I was surrounded. In front of me, Boaz and Omer with their identical hairy little black eyes fixed on me. On one side a sweaty Jonathan Hirsh, having come from some sort of gaming event. Then Joshua Mendelson, Pretty Boy Mob Boss number two. Next to them Ursa Starlie, also surprisingly sweaty. There was a showdown a-brewin’ and everyone stood in silence, not daring to take a seat until the dust settled. I think I saw one lady grab her kid and pull him into a saloon as tumbleweed tumbled by. Then, Ari Mendelson, the Godfather himself.
He didn’t look at me. He never even glanced over. He sat down next to me, opened his neat and unwrinkled paper bagged lunch, and just started eating. This signaled the entire room to sit and eat. No one was eating faster than I was. I figured, point well made. I’ll eat fast, sneak off when I’m done, and this would have been a good, good day. However, wouldn’t you know it? I started making small talk. Fucking chitchat. We were laughing, and smiling, and eating cheese. Me, the Mob Bosses, the prettiest girls in eighth grade. Everyone but Ari Mendelson. He just sat there eating silently, biding his time.
It wasn’t until it was loud enough in the room that he finally turned to me and whispered, calmly, “What the fuck are you doing?”
And then it hit me. He wasn’t ignoring me he was out maneuvering me. Instead of making a huge scene, as I had hoped he would, he was going to quietly and, oh god, ever so effectively deal with me “later.” I was a dead man. A dead man that would go unnoticed. Dead without meaning. The worst kind of dead there could be.
“I’m just eating here, man.” I mustered up.
“I want you to get up and throw your lunch out,” he said, “and then leave the room and don’t come back.”
…Here’s what I wanted to say:
You’re reign is over, pretty boy. The days of unequivocal powers have come crashing over your privileged little head. Your worst nightmare has come to fruition. An awakening. A universal understanding amongst the masses that the true power lays in their numbers, not in your diminishing traditions. Your strength, your position, is given to you by them. By us! And we can just as easily take them away. A revolution, boss, is what we have here. Your time has ended. And your end begins today, with this sandwich.
And then I would take a big bite out of the sandwich. And I would do it right in his face. And the crowd would cheer. And perhaps Herbert Stein would lunge over the table and pounce on Boaz. All would rejoice! Ewoks at the end of Return of the Jedi, sort of rejoicing.
…But I didn’t say that. What I did do was force a disgusting piece of cheese sandwich into my mouth and mumble out a broken and defiant, “Fuck you.”
I immediately shoved another large bite of cheese sandwich into my mouth. Puffy-cheeked and frighteningly-obstinate, I stared off into the distance avoiding eye contact. But Ari, oh dear Ari, focused on my profile as if trying to use his Heat Vision to burn a hole through my impudent face.
“What. Did. You. Say?” He mouthed out each syllable.
I, left with no option of retreat, thought about it for a second then responded with a well-planned and rebellious retort;
“You heard me.”
Fighting back certain suffocation, I had to reach for the chocolate milk I so strategically chose as my beverage on this day of Renaissance. Here’s the thing about a chubby, pale, little Jewish kid sporting a Yamulka with a mouthful of cheese, guzzling down a chocolate milk; he doesn’t exactly embody terror.
Needless to say, Pretty Boy Mob Boss number one wasn’t intimidated.
“You. Me. Outside. After recess.” He actually spoke like that. An early Western dime novel villain sort of speech pattern reserved only for the truly frightening. You. Me. Outside. After Recess.
Of course, I panicked. This is where my quick wit would have proven a valuable ally.
Tell him, Guy, tell him! Tell him that as a conscientious objector you will not practice the crime of violence. Tell him that you forgot your oven on in some sort of 1952 apartment that still has ovens that can be forgotten on. Tell him that there’s a huge lizard attacking the grocery store across the street and as he turns, run! Tell him Guy, tell him whatever the fuck it takes to get your ass out of this predicament!
“I must warn you…”
Now, I swear to you, I smirked as I was saying this because I was convinced this couldn’t fail…
“I must warn you, I know karate.” Yes, I actually said that.
“Good,” he said, “So do I. This will be a fair fight.”
This is how it went down. Birkat Hamazon, the prayer said after meals, ended as it always did, with a mad dash towards the recess doors. I thought I could lose myself in the fervor, but once outside I realized the inevitability of the situation. It took a whole seven minutes for every living being under the age of 14 to know about the fight. It was to be the social event of the millennia and anyone who’s anyone simply had to be there. If there were odds being made I assure you it was only on how fast I would hit the floor.
I grabbed on to the skirt of the closest teacher. She, of course, wanted nothing to do with children. Why else would she be teaching at this school? She pushed me away and urged me to go play. Go play. Go play indeed.
On the far end of the yard Ari waited surrounded by his minions. Like a prizefighter, focused, a trained warrior. I, on the other hand, more closely resembled Scooby-Doo when the fake ghost tapped him on the back. The population of the yard gathered in a large circle forging a crude gladiator’s forum.
In the middle, Ari, waiting.
Two captains were upon me. Gently they nudged me towards the crowd and shuffled me into the center. Surrounded by a circle of chanting, blood thirsty, spectators I knew there was no getting out of this now…
By the way, if you’re wondering where the adults were and why they actually did not stop any of this– it’s because this school fucking sucked ass, that’s why. But I digress.
“…I won’t fight you,” I said, for some reason. Ari wittily responded with a fiery right jab towards my face.
To this day I don’t know how this happened but somewhere in the center of my being a tiny Japanese ninja must live because, I swear to you, I caught his hand an inch from my face. As if I did, in fact, know Karate. I assure you, I did not. My shock at this situation was reflected (1000 times over) in Ari’s face. Did he really have a fight on his hands here? A left hook followed. I blocked that one too. I swear, I swear, this is true. There I was holding both of Ari’s hands up to my face. I couldn’t believe it. I smiled a stupid, arrogant, smile until I realized; crap, he has knees. Two of them. And there they were, my balls, just a foot away from those knees. To my surprise he did not knee me in the groin as I imagined he would. Instead a head-butt to the forehead.
And it hurt. A lot. And I fell. A lot. And the fight, was finally over.
Teachers came. Shouts were heard. I was whisked away to the nurses’ station conveniently next door to the yard. They kept the door open so that I could see all the adulation Ari was receiving from my schoolmates. There was me getting in trouble for fighting in school. There was my brother coming to pick me up ‘cause I missed the bus. There were my parents yelling at me for hours because my head was really swollen. Most importantly there were countless giggles as girls I dreamed of impressing walked by and pointed at me. In the bad way.
But none of it mattered. It didn’t matter because before all that, before all everyone could talk about was me getting my ass kicked, right after the fight but right before they moved Ari out of the nurse’s room, there was a moment when he and I were alone.
“That was pretty good,” he said. He didn’t look at me but I knew he was talking to me ‘cause I was the only one there. “We don’t learn blocks like that for another three weeks. You’re pretty good.” He said.
To this day I’m sure he meant it. It was another month or so before a captain of his, or anyone in his family, harassed me again. It meant nothing in the long run. I doubt anyone but me at that school, on that yard, on that winter day possibly remembers the fight. But when I do remember it there’s a sweet high C that goes in its place, forever a part of the melody.
The rhythm.
(Click here for next story) - ”My Buddy, Sam”
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