BRATTLEBORO — As my pupils dilate, I can actually feel the black expanding while my blue iris contracts. Blood leaves my extremities and thunders toward my heart.
My peripheral vision gets blurry, and directly in front of me is the only thing I see: his nose, which looks like it's made out of flesh-colored Play-Doh.
I say, “Now you're in my personal space.”
He backs up, rolls some deodorant to his underarms, and calls me another name. I forget now which one.
I say, “That's number seven.”
It's been a long time since I was in junior high school. Yet there I was, being bullied in a locker room. I hear the valves of my heart open, then close again, automatically like the gate of a tollbooth.
Have you ever time-traveled? Been 12 and 55 in the same instant? I have. I did. This was just a few months back, or maybe it was 40 years ago - who can be sure? Time can be a smoky bitch.
So let's return to something more corporeal. My throat got dry, and words escaped like convicts tumbling over a fence, one after another but with an erratic rhythm.
Who knows what the other guy - this bully - was feeling? He's about 20 years younger than me, and he's five, maybe six, inches taller. I'm sipping air through a straw and standing on ice that cracks, but not directly under me, as far away as a train whistle.
The bully calls me another name. I say, “That's the eighth name you've called me.”
He's poking, prodding, looking for the right combination of words and actions that'll make me go ballistic. I don't know what else to do, except witness and then broadcast it.
Sometime after my encounter in the locker room took place, my wife told me her theory: that my bully was looking to connect, to wash away the humiliation he received at someone else's hands.
At the time, it all seemed so surreal that when I thought about it that I speculated that drugs - or the lack of them - might have been involved. Like maybe he'd gone off whatever meds made him palatable to the world, or he was coming down from a coke binge, or maybe this was 'roid rage.
Whatever the cause, I felt like I was in junior high. But if this was really me at 13, I would've talked myself out of this mess or pretended I didn't hear well. I certainly wouldn't have confronted him or pushed back in any way.
* * *
If this were a movie, like The Karate Kid, this bully would kick my ass. Then I would find my Mr. Miyagi. He'd be stern, but his glint of kindness would reel me in.
Miyagi would begin to teach me in some mysterious defense method. I'd learn to be not so mouthy, maybe; eventually, even a little humble.
After a frustrating beginning I'd finally start to do as Miyagi told me and stop questioning. I'd learn the secrets of the peaceful warrior, trust his old ways.
Then, after my transformation, sometime in the third act: the Big Test. I would return to the scene of the crime - the junior-high locker room - to encounter the bully. I'd show a little fear mixed with some false respect when he and his two friends corner me.
Bullies enjoy the anticipation of violence - just ask Quentin Tarantino. I'd call for non-violence, then calmly observe his torrent of abuse and intimidation. One of his buddies would nod his bobble head.
After I'd try to pass them peacefully, the bully would sucker punch me. So I'd fight back. He'd be surprised, maybe even a little impressed, but because I'd posed no real threat, he would enjoy beating me to a pulp.
He'd sense my newfound power and begin to suspect his possible miscalculation, but alas - too late. He'd fully committed, and our clash would spill out into the quad where the entire junior high would be drawn to the windows of their classrooms.
The stakes raised, one of his pals would try to trip me up. It would almost work, but I'd be too aware, too fast. He'd tell them to stay out of it - fair fight.
That curly red-haired girl, the one I'd been trying to get to see me, would notice our conflict and, though she hates violence, she'd instantly recognize it as a fight for justice.
Her concern and care would be exposed. She'd want me to be safe, but also want to punish the bully so that others won't have to suffer. Though injured, I'd remain steadfast and heroically vanquish him.
The bully would be carried off the field by his buddies, but not before giving me a head nod of respect.
Later that day, if this were a movie, I would walk the curly red-haired girl to the steps of the dance studio where she takes classes. She'd get some ice and put it on the bump on my forehead.
* * *
This, however, was not a movie. If I were on top of my junior-high game, I might've tried to make the bully laugh. If that didn't work, I'd do my Road Runner imitation, maybe (just to get a thrill) calling him a name from a safe distance.
But because I'm a 55-year-old man (most of the time), one who might have one last fist fight left in him, I stood my ground, and I told this guy, since he asked, exactly, what my effing problem is.
“My name is not 'Buddy', or 'Dude', or 'Clown Boy.' It's Kevin, and if you want to talk to me, that's the way you address me.”
I saw his wheels spin when I said that, and I hoped he was one of those bullies that blows away when confronted with a pinprick of clarity.
He found another name to call me - one that was not very creative, and he was quite the potty mouth.
So I responded.
“That's number nine.”