From a stake driven into the center of the front yard, a rusty chain snaked its way between tall weeds to find its final destination: a dark hole under the sagging front porch.
Guttural growls emanating from that hole warned passerby’s to stay clear of the first house on the right. A warning really wasn’t necessary. Anyone familiar with the occupant of the last bedroom at the end of the hallway would surely already give the house a wide berth.
Unfortunately, being the new kid in the neighborhood, I wasn’t familiar with the house, nor its infamous occupant.
The dog belonged to the family residing in the dilapidated white clapboard home. Black shutters hung precariously on either side of cloudy windows threatening at any moment to release their grasp on the house and fall to the dirt below, perhaps bringing the entire structure along with them.
A rusted wrought iron fence encircled the backyard and several “Trespassers Will be Eaten” signs would have easily been read from the street had it not been for numerous bullet holes caused by late night marauders. Knee-high weeds were the only island of greenery in an otherwise desert of brown dirt, which only added to the foreboding image of the home.
Most any kid with any sense would have stayed away from that house. Then again, being 6 years old, I wasn’t known for having an abundance of sense. That’s how I found myself in the predicament of being the bottom of a bully sandwich.
Sitting on top of me was by far the meanest kid who ever lived on Flamingo or any other street. He cut worms in half just to see if they would indeed grow back and make two. He fried an entire colony of red ants with a magnifying glass laughing, “Now they’re all black!” I watched in horror as he tore legs off of grasshoppers and flicked their bodies in my face. And that was just in the first day of us meeting.
Dad had built our home at 110 Flamingo Street with his own two hands. If I’d known such a kid lived in our neighborhood, I would’ve begged Dad to please move somewhere else. But he would not have listened anyway. Who listens to a 6-year-old? Bradley McAllister didn’t listen either. Knocking me off my bike and into the culvert, he growled, “Welcome to the neighborhood, New Kid.”
With sandy brown hair, a body the size of a bear, and thick hands added to that husky voice, Bradley would soon wear his infamous nickname with pride – Down the Street Bully Brad. I say “soon” because it was a few days after that encounter that I heard his nickname for the very first time. But it wasn’t me who bestowed it upon him. It was another famous resident of Flamingo Street.
The first Saturday morning we spent in our new home, I found myself venturing a little too close to that white house on the right. Suddenly knocked to the ground, I looked up just as a ton of bully descended and Bradley McAlister once again sat upon my chest. Hope for a rescue evaporated as the impact forced all the air from my lungs. It was impossible to breathe much less gasp any additional air to utter words of help. The weight was greater than when my three brothers had piled on top of me while I was stretched out for a nap on our couch. None of my brothers were anywhere in sight now. Pedaling their bikes faster than me, they had already crested the hill and were screaming down the back steep side of Flamingo. Except for the bully atop me, I was all alone.
Screaming for help no words came out my open mouth. All hope was lost as surroundings started to fade from sight. Then, suddenly, all the weight was lifted from my chest. Fresh air burned as it rushed back into my lungs. I wasn’t going to die after all! Bradley hadn’t changed his mind. No, something else, or I should say, someone else changed it for him. Enter Bubba Hanks: the largest kid who ever lived on Flamingo and soon to become my best friend.
Like huge wildebeests, the two rolled around in the dirt and were soon obscured by a brown dust cloud becoming mere shadows. Awakened by the epic skirmish, a massive dog emerged from the dark hole under the front porch of that white clapboard house. Straining at the chain around its thick neck, the dog barked and growled until foam dripped from its jowls.
Finally, one of the combatants struggled to his feet and then ran off. As I held my breath the lone figure remaining approached. As easy as I would pick up a leaf, huge arms bear hugged me to my feet. He said, “I’m Bubba. That was Brad — the bully who lives down the street. Need to stay away from his house.” Gathering my bike, Bubba helped me home and started a friendship that I still write about some five decades later.
Stumbling into the kitchen with a torn shirt and bloody nose caused Mom to immediately go into protective mode. She carefully inspected my wounds, then cleaned and bandaged them. The real comfort came when I was able to select my favorite sucker, cherry red, from the crystal jar she kept at the top of the pantry. All the while, Dad lectured me on the high cost of shirts and how it was about time I learned how to defend myself.
Although useful, knowing how to block and then throwing a good right cross wasn’t the most important lesson I learned that day. I learned that when you see someone who needs help, you jump in and help regardless of whether if it’s a complete stranger, or how big the problem — or bully — is. Still, just in case, if ever I visit the old neighborhood again I’ll give a wide berth to that dilapidated white clapboard house. The first house on the right as you turn down Flamingo Street.
[Rick Ryckeley has been writing stories since 2001. To read more of Rick’s stories, visit his blog: storiesbyrick.wordpress.com.]
