I. Craig Williams vs. The World
I enjoyed 5th grade much more than I had ever enjoyed school before. I had a circle of friends who hung out with me and I was still able to keep my grades up with so much ease it bored me. I’d usually have my homework finished before school was even over, and would spend my vast free time either cashing in the computer lab privileges I had earned, playing classics such as Oregon Trail or Word/Number Chomper, or I’d stay at my desk, sketching comic book characters, level designs for my own Super Mario game, or funny comics starring people in school I still hated.
The word quickly spread about my confrontation with Jeffrey in the hallway. Whereas I used to be mostly ignored, or picked on, now I was getting attention and, more importantly, respect. My new philosophy was simple: hurt them, before they hurt me. I had gotten detention for what I did to Jeffrey, but detention turned out to be sitting in the library reading a book, which suited me just fine.
Even my style of clothing changed, going from wearing mostly hoodies, or whatever hand-me-downs I got from my family, to wearing denim, and almost nothing but denim. I noticed that, besides leather, wearing denim was commonly associated with badasses (do remember that this is the 90s I’m talking about). If I could have worn denim t-shirts, socks, underwear, and shoes, I would have. I considered adding a bandana to my look, but I was never much of a hat person. Plus, I didn’t know for the life of me how to tie a bandanna.
The only problem was that I was an awful fighter. Most of the serious fights I got in, I would usually lose horribly. One summer day in particular, I finally stood up to the neighborhood bullies that had harassed me at the public pool, bringing my buddy Aaron as back up. They were all at some kid’s house named David, who was an annoying shithead everyone put up with if only because he had a huge trampoline. We both walked in the backyard, where the bullies, only two of them, were busy jumping on the trampoline while ignoring David. When the leader, some kid named Joe, saw me, he went, “Hey, look who it is: Caspar the Friendly Ghost.”
I took off my blue jean jacket, which was known all over school that Craig… meant… business! Joe looked incredulous. “You want to fight me?”
To this, I answered by pulling off my shirt. All the kids gasped in unison, and Joe seemed wild eyed with fear, if only for a second. Pulling off my shirt was unprecedented – I was more than serious, I was deadly serious. Even Aaron seemed taken aback by my brazen audacity. I whispered to Aaron: “Take the crony – I’m going after Joe.” Like that, we were off, fighting like Batman and Robin:
Yep, it was just like Batman and Robin, but with the crucial difference that they get the crap beaten out of them. Aaron was quite possibly a worse fighter than I, and ended up taking a face plant into a nearby shallow creek. Meanwhile, Joe and I battled atop the trampoline, both of us bouncing uncontrollably the entire time like Gummi Bears.
The site of us, awkwardly tilting at each other in mid-air, wildly swinging our fists, but usually hitting nothing but air, was probably a comical sight, until one of Joe’s punches finally landed, knocking me head-over-heels off the trampoline, and onto the not-so-bouncy Earth. I lay in a daze, my nose bleeding, when at that moment, David’s mother came out of the back door, screaming at Joe to get off her property immediately. Joe ran for it, as did his crony, and David’s mother nursed my nose, while hosing the mud off Aaron. Even though we lost disgracefully that day, I’ll be damned if the next time we saw Joe, he treated us both with much more respect, and we actually started to hang out on a semi-regular basis.
II. To Protect and Destroy
I didn’t just openly fight back against people who messed with me, but with people who messed with my friend and family. One time I was in my house, playing Megaman 3, my favorite game at the time, when my little brother ran in, with tears in his eyes. He explained in between sobs how some kid was riding by on his bike, making fun of him, and even tried to run him over. I calmly paused the game, threw on my jacket, and walked outside. I picked up my trusty flagpole, the very same one I used to whack Greg in the face, and, as this kid made another pass on his bike, now hurling taunts and insults at me, I jammed the pole into the spokes of his bike, making him do a front flip over the handlebars, landing on his back in the street. I had done this in full view of several neighborhood kids, who looked at each other in awe at my technique. Truth be told, I learned that trick by obsessively watching Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade:
It was around this point, I should mention, that Indiana Jones had become my absolute hero. I wanted to be like the man in every possible way when I grew up. I even wanted to be an archeologist, and began paying fervent attention to my history classes, hoping to someday use my history knowledge to discover lost treasure. I even found myself walking to the rhythm of the iconic Indiana Jones theme at times, especially when I was feeling tough… then, naturally, I’d end up tripping over something. What I loved about Indy was that he was fearless, and like me, not particularly great at fighting, but he would use his wits to win, even if that meant cheating like hell. My fighting style is best summed up by the scene in Raiders of the Lost Ark, when an exhausted Indy is confronted by a swordsman, and opts to just shoot him rather than engage in a lengthy fight. I’m not saying I would have shot someone back in the day, nowhere near it, but I’m not above giving someone a swift kick in the nuts.
The little kid’s big brother wanted vengeance after what I had done to his sibling’s bike. He began patrolling the streets on his own bicycle, with his buddies, looking for me. He knew better than to ride near me though, so he’d keep his distance, inviting me to come out and face him without a weapon. I would refuse and go back inside. It would be stupid to confront three kids on their bikes alone, and I knew it. What he didn’t know, though, was that I had a plan. Our house was next to some apartment buildings, and in the alleyway between buildings, I had buried several shards of glass, with the jagged ends sticking out of the ground. On a day that I knew he was out looking for me again, I discreetly hid my own bike in some bushes at the apartments. When the bigger brother saw me come back, he began his goading, and I began throwing small rocks at him. This pissed him off to the point that he and his friend gave full chase to me. I ran for the alleyway, and upon entering the alley, jumped on some air condition units to avoid stepping on the mine field of glass, and waited at the other end of the alley. The bigger kids followed me into the alley just liked I wanted, and they ignorantly rode right into the glass minefield, completely slashing their tires. I flipped them off triumphantly, took my own bike out of the bushes, and rode away, as they feebly tried running after me, cursing the entire time. I rode away, wind in my hair, a smug smile plastered on my face, and the Indiana Jones theme buzzing through my head.
It wasn’t over though. One chilly day, I was walking down the street, heading home, when the older brother, and two of his friends, surrounded me. They began goading me, asking for me to just try punching one of them, but I wasn’t stupid – I wasn’t about to initiate a fight with three guys that were bigger than me. The big brother leaned down, pointing at the braces on his teeth, and told me to give it my best shot. His objective, I suppose, was to get me to cut my fists on his braces, although it seemed like a fairly crappy plan. Little did I know that one of his buddies was hunched on all fours behind me legs, until it was too late, and Big Brother pushed me over. I lay on my back as they laughed and walked away. I stood up, shaking with rage. I glimpsed something red drip onto the sidewalk, and realized that, because of the cold weather, my nose had begun bleeding. I was initially upset, until the gears in the vindictive portion of my brain rumbled to life, a plan formulating, until a chime rang in my mind, and the machinery of vengeance delivered an Ever Lasting Gobstopper of a plan. I smeared the blood all over my face and clothes, ripped a tear in my shirt, and proceeded to fake stumble into the front door of my house.
My aunt Cindy, whom my family lived with for two months, was over visiting. Upon the site of me, everyone stood up in shock. My dad was so concerned, he actually muted the television. I put on a melodramatic performance that would make William Shatner cringe: “Three boys… end of the street… *sob*… nothing I could do! Nothing… I… could…. Ugh!” and I fell to my knees. My mom helped me up and immediately found a rag to wash me up with; my dad grimaced thoughtfully, and unmuted the TV when he was sure my mom was handling the situation; my aunt, however, asked me where the kids lived, and stomped with fury out of the house. Moments later, she returned, with the Big Brother, and his father, in front of her, both of them wearing a wild eyed expression, as if my aunt had a shotgun cocked and ready to rip behind them. The Big Brother was arguing with this father: “I didn’t touch him! I swear!”
My aunt put her fists to her hips. “Are you kidding? Look at him! How dare you pick on a boy half your age?” She directed her outrage at the father. “And what kind of father are you to raise a son that does something like this…” indicating the state of me with a wave of her hand. “…to someone?”
The father apologized profusely, and elbowed his son to do the same. Big Brother looked at me with venomous hate and muttered, “…sorry…”
“What?” I said weakly. “I can’t hear so well out of this ear, after you ground it into the sidewalk.”
“I didn’t!” He began to object, but realizing the futility of it, cut himself off. He spoke up. “I’m sorry!”
“On your knees,” I wanted to reply, but instead, I said, with the most enlightened voice I could muster: “It’s okay… I forgive you.” The father seemed utterly relieved that this wasn’t going to be a lawsuit, and dragged his son out by the scruff of his neck. I took a bath, and slept with a shit-eating grin on my face. I never had to deal with Big Brother again.
III. Tricia and the News
The school I went to had morning announcements on the television every day in the format of a morning news program. This was the first time I had ever seen a self-produced TV program in school, and it really impressed me. The studio was adjoined to the library, and some days I’d just watch in awe as the announcements were filmed, live, for the entire school. By this point, I already had a nearly ravenous interest in television and film production, but no equipment, or knowledge for that matter, to fully explore this curiosity. This was as close to being involved with the inner workings of television as I had ever gotten and I wanted to be a part of it – badly.
I got my wish later that year. The way it worked was that every homeroom got the opportunity to produce the announcements. It was on a strictly voluntary basis, so when the time came for my homeroom to take over, my name was the first one signed up. I was intimidated by the idea of actually running any of the equipment, even though I was considered the handiest in my family when it came to figuring out electronics. Whenever a Nintendo refused to work, it was me that was called down to fix it, and after much blowing, rubbing alcohol applications and a few muttered incantations, somehow I’d get it to work, to the jubilation of all. I was also the guy my family referred to when it came to installing a VCR, a cable box, or speaker system to a TV. However, I had never touched a camera, and did not want to be the guy who singlehandedly brought down the school’s news program because I carelessly pushed the very obvious, red “Self-Destruct” button on the camera. So I signed on to be the weatherman. It seemed like a… low pressure… job.
Once again, though, my motivation for joining the news crew wasn’t entirely out of academic interest. I had a new crush on a girl named Tricia. After everything that went down with the Boy Scouts, I avoided Samantha like the plague, as she only served as a living reminder of my disgrace. This behavior pattern, unfortunately, would grow to become a habit well into my adult life. Nevertheless, I also avoided her because I found that I liked Tricia much more than I ever liked Samantha. Tricia was not in my homeroom in 4th Grade, but we were in class together in 5th Grade. She had very dark skin, which suggested perhaps some Native American heritage (although, for some reason, I assumed that with everybody with remotely dark skin back then – except black people, of course); she also had chestnut brown eyes, a cute button nose, and curly, black hair that reminded me of my first girlfriend, Dina. Tricia was like Samantha, in that she was kind of a tomboy, although not as a sporty, which was an improvement to me. She was more of a country girl, who grew up in the big city. She was very down-to-Earth, sweet, and had a great sense of humor, coupled with a cheerful smile that went along with it.
I was scared to death to talk to her.
It was more than likely just a case of my usual nerves, brought about by difficulty relating to girls. Whatever the deal was, Tricia and I never spoke much, which I was hoping to change by working with her on the school news. Before our week to take over, we trained by watching the previous class broadcast the news. Everything seemed easy enough, and I began to look forward to our tenure with almost obsessive intensity. Finally, our week arrived, and we gathered in the library before school started to prepare. The teacher handed out the scripts, as if it were a play, with our particular lines highlighted. I was to simply read the forecast and throw it back to the anchor, who happened to be none other than Tricia.
The cameras began rolling, and we were on the air. Tricia read the morning announcements with confident grace, typical of her personality; the sports guy did his bit alright; then it was my turn. Throughout the broadcast, the stage lights they were using had begun irritating my eyes. I kept my head down most of the time to avoid looking at them, but we were instructed, when it was our turn, to look into the camera. Unfortunately, that also meant two things: 1.) I’d have to look at the lights, and 2.) I’d have to see myself on the monitor next to the camera, which really freaked me out for some reason. So, by the time the camera finally panned over to me, I was already quite a mess, with my eyes watering, and my nose running. I looked up at the camera with a pitiful, beseeching expression usually reserved for those hungry African kids in the old Sally Struthers charity commercials.
I began reading the weather, my voice choking due to dry mouth, and I’d frequently stop to clear my throat, and wipe my eyes, looking for all the world as if I were deeply and profoundly upset over the state of our weather. Every now and then, I’d catch a glimpse of myself on the monitor, and it’d make me fall apart even more! I looked like I was on the verge of a nervous breakdown, similar to Howard Beale in the movie Network:
“Tuesday… *sniff* …expect… light showers… *sobbing* …then Wednesday… oh god, the lights… sunny with light cloud coverage… excuse me…” and I’d furiously wipe the tears from my eyes with my sleeve. “I can’t… I can’t go on… back to you Tricia. *more sobbing*” The camera slowly panned back to Tricia, who was looking at me with utter bewilderment and concern for my well-being. She faced the camera, shuffling her papers, and mercifully signed off. It was decided, immediately, that I would just do camera work for the rest of the week.
After that disaster, I walked back into class to the hidden snickers of all of my classmates. I felt so humiliated. Later, as I stood at the lunch line, some kid behind me said, “So, Craig, does the weather usually get you that down?” Now, it should be noted, that today, I would laugh jovially at that, and if I had something equally witty to say, I’d say it. However, at that moment in time, my reply was to simply punch the kid in his fat stomach. As he doubled over, I looked at everyone in line, as if to say, “Anyone else got something to say? Anyone??” They got the message. A teacher witnessed what I had done and, much to my delight, I had to spend the rest of the day in detention.
IV. Super Soaker
My week doing the news brought me no closer to Tricia. I was just too damned scared to talk to her, especially after the saddest weather report ever delivered in broadcast history. It vexed me, though. Why couldn’t I talk to her? I never had a problem talking to girls before. Sure, I didn’t understand them, and maybe even resented them a little, but I still talked to them with ease. I never considered it at the time, but perhaps my experience with the Boy Scouts had greatly undermined my self confidence.
Nevertheless, this was something I intended to nip in the bud. I invited her to a birthday party at my house, and much to my surprise, she showed up with a friend that lived a block away from my house. She couldn’t have chosen a better party to show up at, as this one turned out to be a spectacular success – probably the best party I’ve ever thrown, which isn’t saying much since I haven’t thrown many before or since. I don’t know what got into my mom, but she threw out all the stops for this one. There was a large cake, of course, along with an assortment of cookies, brownies, and various other snacks. There was a Slip n’ Slide, which I still believe to be one of the most ill-conceived toys ever invented. “Hey kids, how about diving head first on a wet, plastic canvas, and bruising the crap out of your body with all of the rocks, sticks, and arrow that lie just beneath – it’s fun!” The worst thing about Slip n’ Slides is that, despite the inherent dangers, it was damned fun. We also had all sorts’ mini-games going on, including water balloon races, which naturally evolved into water balloon fights. There were all the usual games too, such as Pin-the-tail-on-the-donkey, and a Piñata.
The best thing was that so many people actually showed up! Now whether they came because they liked me, or were coerced by their parents, or they were simply afraid of my vengeance had they not shown up, I don’t know. Whatever the case may have been, everyone ended up having fun, and I ended up getting great gift, the best one being a Super Soaker.
Super Soakers were one of the most sought after gifts at the time. It was the mother of all water guns: it had a large jug for storing water, a shotgun-like pump, which built up so much air pressure, it squirted a laser beam of water at velocities that were considered illegal. My friends rushed home to get theirs', and pretty soon my birthday party became a Super Soaker party. I was so busy terrorizing my guests with the Super Soaker, that I barely noticed Tricia’s presence at the party or her subsequent departure. When I finally realized that she had left, I fell to my knees, screaming “No!” while shooting water into the heavens. I had blown another opportunity.
V. Bitter Epiphany
Through my network of friends, I had learned that Tricia was spending the night with her friend after my party. The house she was staying at was only a block away, next to some kid’s house named Bran, who was some twerp I hated for no particular reason than that he generally annoyed me. Just like David with his trampoline, I only went to Bran’s because he had a large collection of Nintendo games. The day after the party, I decided to hang out with Bran, with the vague plan of waiting for Tricia to emerge out of the house wherein I would feign surprise that she is there and invite her to hang out with me.
Now, it must be said, I didn’t realize what I was doing was the very definition of “stalking”. The way I saw it, I was simply utilizing information to place myself at the right place, at the right time. To this day, I still feel like the difference between doing that, and stalking, is when it becomes a habit. Fortunately, I’m much too lazy and unmotivated to stalk someone. Stalking involves the kind of persistent determination and initiative that I am lacking. There are days that I can’t even get up the motivation to empty my cat’s litter box.
I rode my bike to Bran’s, and we hung out on his porch. He seemed justifiably suspicious of my presence, and so I explained the true reason I was there, in a tactful way that didn’t make it too terribly obvious that hanging out with him was the least of my priorities. It was supremely stupid to take a kid like him into my confidence, but I was such a nervous wreck, it felt good to unburden some of the pressure by finally confessing to someone, anyone, about my crush on Tricia. Bran was the only one in the neighborhood who went to the same school as me. I never bothered talking to my other friends, since they had no clue who I was talking about. I spilled my guts to Bran, who seemed to sympathize, and agree that Tricia was, indeed, crush-worthy.
Suddenly, Tricia and her friend popped out of the front door of the next door house. Before my brain had time to even process this, Bran had sprung out of his seat, and ran off the porch in Tricia’s directions, screaming, “Craig has a crush on you! Craig has a crush on you!” as if he were Paul Revere warning the Minute Men that the Red Coats were coming. I stood up, stunned by this magnitude of this betrayal. My stomach clenched with raw panic, which rapidly combusted into white hot rage, launching me off the porch in Bran’s direction like a cruise missile. When I caught up with him, I grabbed him from the back of his scrawny neck, ironically cutting him off in mid-sentence just as he was about to say the word “crush”, and, while screaming my battle cry of “SHUT UP!”, I threw him like a dart into the nearest tree.
Although that shut him up, I wasn’t finished. I marched over to where he still stirred, picked him by his collar, and threw him bodily into some bushes. I was preparing to follow that up with more, when I suddenly felt hands pulling on my jacket. Not thinking clearly, in my anger, I threw my elbow, knocking whoever had grabbed me to the ground. When I saw who it was, the world might as well have stopped turning, and ejected me into space.
It was Tricia.
She was okay, if not a little rattled, but her friend screamed at me like a harpy from Hell. She was screaming for me to “go home” and “leave us alone”. In a guilt stricken daze, I walked towards Tricia to help her back up, but as she sat up, she looked at my approach with fear verging on disgust, as one may look at Frankenstein’s monster, and yelled at me to “just go away!” I shrank back, as if she had thrown a brick at me, which she might as well have, and I ran back to my bike. I looked back to see Tricia and her friend nursing Bran, who seemed alright enough, and I had a sudden flashback to when Daryl the Albino had trampled me on the playground, and my girlfriend Dina came my aid. It brought a shock to my system to see how things had reversed. I rode my bike home, with tears in my eyes, and a heart as heavy as lead. I was stricken with a horrifying epiphany. Even though my new, aggressive attitude had, in many ways, improved my life, it had also turned me into what I most hated.
I had become a monster.
I had become a bully.
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