To break the boredom of perpetual lockdown, I walk around the neighborhood once daily, unless it snows. I’m not adventurous; it’s the same walk every time: six blocks north, one block west, six blocks south, one block east, and back to this recliner. And it didn’t snow overnight, so here we go.
At the first corner, there used to be two newsboxes, and I’d feed quarters
into a machine to buy a newspaper. The first newsbox was removed after the paper went bankrupt. The second newspaper still publishes on paper, but the newsbox is abandoned, always empty.
At the next corner there’s a tavern, and across the street is my second-favorite diner in town, but both have been padlocked for the winter because of the pandemic. “For the winter” might be overly optimistic. Is the world ever coming back?
Along Humphrey Street there’s a red, rickety, run-down house with four Trump signs still on the lawn, which gives me a schadenfreude smile. That orange imbecile is finally gone.
The Lutheran Church has a Little Free Pantry on its lawn, offering canned foods free for the taking. I take a chicken soup.
Two blocks further on my walk, there’s a scrawny boy waiting at the bus stop. He’s maybe 10, maybe 8, stick-thin and wearing glasses. I don’t give him much thought until two bigger, older boys come along. They’re saying something, and I’m not near enough to hear, but even from half a block away it’s easy to recognize what’s happening.
One of the big kids feigns a punch but doesn’t make contact, just for the joy of watching the little kid flinch. The other one slaps at the scrawny boy’s backpack. No damage has yet been done, except to the little guy’s morning and mood and self-esteem.
As I come closer, I can hear what the big kids are saying, and the language of cruelty hasn’t changed since I was bullied when I was a boy. “Dummy” and “Shit-head” and “Ya little asswipe” — all the classics.
One of the big kids shoves the little one, but he keeps his footing, so far.
And then I’m too close for them to continue. In a few years they won’t care about adults who aren’t cops, but for now, for today, my presence is an interruption and the bullying stops.
I think about it, but don’t smack either of them in the
head. I don’t feign a punch, just to watch them flinch. I don’t even yell at them. I’m the grown-up here, sadly, so I wordlessly stand and wait beside the little kid. He’s looking down the street as the bus — his escape — approaches from a few blocks away.
The big boys aren’t waiting for a bus. They probably don’t even have the fare. Their purpose is only to taunt or bruise the little kid, but seeing me standing and grumpy, and the bus coming, they understand that they’ll have no further opportunity to make the boy miserable, at least not at the moment. Instead they wander down the street to make someone else’s life a little worse.
The bus makes its hydraulic hissing sound as it pulls over. The door opens, and the little kid gets on, but I don’t. I’m walking here, that’s all. One more block east, and then back to my recliner.
1/8/2021
Republished 4/23/2024
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