A romance with an older woman was not out of the question. I panted over a much more mature woman and even started to save up for an engagement ring.
But that romance was doomed.
Before Carnegie Library built its rear parking lot, everybody entered from the front. I kept checking out the same book because only one person, the librarian I dreamed about, was authorized to approve re-checkings. I should point out that I was 10 at the time, and the librarian was quite old, possibly 21.
The first time I saw her– name was Ruth—she stroked the wave on my homemade haircut. I liked that. I went back for more strokes, at least once a week. The fourth time I went to re-check the book, she placed her hand on my head, brought the wave down to my forehead and said, “You know, with bangs, you look like a pretty attractive girl.”
That did it! No more plans of a honeymoon at Niagara Falls, no engagement ring, which I’d plan to buy her when I reached marrying age. My philosophy then was that it’s better to be angry than hurt. I was going to show her.
I returned the book for the last time, looked her in the eye, then walked out, triggering remorse, guilt and abandonment on her part.
In the late forties, the trees at Carnegie were smaller; there were fewer cars, and increased visibility. I’d kill time at the park, across the street from Immaculate Conception School. I’d learned the unwritten policy: anyone hanging around the playground after school gets called back and made to pound erasers.
The park across the street was a sanctuary, and I felt defiance running and jumping, with the knowledge that I was safe from eraser duty.
And stung by the Ruth-imposed put-down, I decided to give up trying to be a lover and take up modified violence instead.
Conveniently, there was a kid in my class who never appeared to have any friends. Victor hung out at the library park, never talking to anyone, just looking around. The one time I tried to befriend him, he looked right through me. So I decided to make him pay.
My friend Chris and I had watched a couple of high school football games and were intrigued at the way bodies slammed into one another at full speed. We wondered, “What’s the harm in trying it out on Victor?” The next day we made plans to slam into Victor just to see what would happen. Chris was not to participate, only observe and later regale me with tales of my bravado.
The next afternoon, we noticed Victor in his usual stance. Sans helmet or pads, I backed up about 50 steps and ran at him at full speed. Somehow I’d heard that if one closes his eyes, he won’t feel a thing. So I did that as my body hurled into his.
It was quite an impact: Victor landed over there and I landed way over there. I don’t know whether he was even aware that a runaway switch engine had plowed into him. What bugged me even more was his lack of concern. It was as if a fly had landed on him.
So Chris and I decided to show him. We wrestled him down and grabbed the back of his shirt and pulled it over his eyes. We left him there.
That night I imagined Victor in the hospital and the family going hungry due to hefty doctor bills. Perhaps at that moment his mother was slicing the remaining pinto bean into 12 portions.
But the next day, instead of being on crutches, He was in the same place, looking around. This time he even seemed to position himself in a spot that would make it easier for me to attack. I did. Same impact, same results, different day.
The next day he was looking for me. In a tone that implied we’d known each other for years, he invited Chris and me to make the contact sport reciprocal. I agreed with some reluctance, reasoning I’d rather hit than be hit. But it wasn’t that bad.
Soon we drew a crowd of others wanting to play the new game, which we called “Bash-all.” And we learned that if we closed our eyes before getting clobbered, it didn’t hurt so much.
Victor didn’t return after fourth grade. I came across him at an I.C. reunion in 1983. He looked great and exuded confidence. Though few of his former classmates remembered him, that didn’t stop him from becoming (re)acquainted with them.
I didn’t recognize him either, until he got into his “Bash-all” pose and made like he was coming after me. He would be the “Bash-er,” I the “Bash-ee.” I closed my eyes, but mercifully, there was no violent contact, only a handshake and a bear hug.
He made by day, insisting that the attention Chris and I paid him 34 years earlier gave him confidence. I wish we could take the credit. More likely, our impromptu attack on Victor was a need for Chris and me to feel important, to imagine we were really part of the crowd. Whatever the original intent, we’re pleased with the results. And the experience helped me get over that cradle-robbing librarian, whose name I’ve already forgotten.