The Duel
Being an orphan can be a lonely business. Especially when being orphaned is a new experience, and worse yet if your only seven-years-old. It was the fall of nineteen-sixty. We had just buried my father who died of Tuberculosis at the young age of forty-two. I had a mother somewhere, living a new life with a new family. She left us when I was only two- years-old. I had a brother and a sister living separate lives in different foster homes.
Seven years old and parentless labeled me an orphan by most anyone’s standards. Other children make you feel as though being orphaned is some type of punishment for past crimes. Their parents seem to believe being orphaned may be contagious or is a sure sign of being a convict, or axe murder later in life. Whatever their reasons may have been, didn’t make the loneliness of being shunned by most of the people in our town any easier.
Not that I might have had any artistic inclination, but I did seem to have an eye for beauty. After roller skating the long downhill stretch that ended at the city bridge spanning the Suwannee River, I was taking in the vista which looked far up and down the river that ran through White Springs. I loved to sit and stare at the mist rising from the water, listen to the sound of Beautiful Dreamer, Old Kentucky Home, and other Stephen Foster songs played daily on huge bells housed in a tower at the Stephen Foster Memorial on the banks of the river, and make my plans for escaping to a better life.
I was sitting there daydreaming late one autumn afternoon when Gerald came along to beat me up. Unfortunately being a seven-year-old with no parents, or anyone willing to stand up for you, on top of being small for your age, makes you fair game for every bully that crosses paths with you.
I had been beaten up four or five times in the past by Gerald for the crime of being an orphan. It didn’t matter that I lived with my Uncle Fred, I still qualified in most folks eyes as an orphan, especially Geralds’. On the first occasion he’d caught me alone on the riverbank and bruised my ribs. Since then he’d fallen into the habit of beating me up whenever our paths crossed. The second time, figuring he hated me for being an orphan, I tried to buy peace by telling him my Uncle Fred was going to adopt me, but that didn’t satisfy him. He seemed to feel it his duty to bully me whenever we accidentally met. The result was that I hated Gerald and had begun to hate most everyone else in White Springs, though I made an exception for Uncle Fred and my Aunt Bert.
The strange thing about Gerald was that he was an absolute loner. Usually you didn’t have to worry about being beaten up unless you ran afoul of a whole group of orphan haters. These groups seemed to lust for battle on school grounds during recess, or after school. But a boy you didn’t know, hardly ever gave you trouble if he was traveling alone. Gerald was an exception to this rule. Gerald always traveled alone. He hadn’t a friend in the world so far as I could make out. I never saw him playing with a crowd on an empty lot or heading off to fish on the river with a pal. He was short, red-haired, freckled -faced, and not much taller than me, but solid as a rock. He prowled the streets alone, looking for blood. Now, finding me sitting on the bridge admiring the river, he said, “Get up and fight.”
It was no use trying to jolly Gerald out of it. I’d tried that, too, but genial talk didn’t interest him. He didn’t seem to have any talk in him, just grunts and a few basic lines he’d picked up from movies about tough guys. Still, I didn’t get up off the ground. It was considered dishonorable to hit a man while he was sitting on the ground.
I tried psychology. “Why do ya always want to fight for?” “I don’t like your looks, “ he said. This was a line I recognized from many tough-guy movies. “I got skates on,” I said. “I can’t fight with skates on.” Gerald bent over, grabbed me by the shirt, pulled me upright, and punched me in the stomach, and I went down again. Since he had knocked me down from the standing position he was entitled to fall on me and pummel away, he did, but only around my ribs and stomach. Gerald had never punched me in the jaw, nose, or face, which was another strange thing about him.
Most bullies I had encountered wanted to blacken your eye, fatten your lip, or bloody your nose. Inflict some visible damage that could be pointed out at a later date to an audience that may not have been at the beating. Not Gerald. He preferred punishing the torso. I concentrated on trying to push him off me, but he was solid as a rock. Suddenly I felt his weight being lifted away.
Looking up, I saw my best friend Mickey, and his girlfriend Julie. Julie was a lean chestnut-haired beauty, and smart to boot. This beautiful, brilliant creature was now watching me take a beating. Taking Gerald in hand, Mickey demanded “What’s the idea hitting a man with skates on? You ought to have your teeth knocked out for that kind of fighting.” He could have done it, too, even to Gerald. Or so I thought, for I envied his rippling muscularity. Even though he was two years older, Mickey had befriended me at school, and placed me under his protection in the schoolyard. Because of him being the hero type and my status, I guess as an orphan. Whatever the reason, a shoulder of compassion to lean against now and then was welcome.
Just now, though, I had a serious problem. Although he had Gerald under restraint, there was no possibility he would do what I wished he’d do and beat him senselessly. This would violate the code of honor, just as Gerald had violated it by hitting me with my skates on. Mickey wasn’t there to avenge me by pounding Gerald black and blue, but to see that the rules of honor were observed. To make matters worse, there was a girl there to witness the slaughter as well.
“I’ll hold him while you get your skates off, then we’ll see if he can fight clean,” Mickey announced. This was grim news. I knew too well how effectively Gerald could fight, even fighting clean. I didn’t mind being beaten, I was used to that with Gerald and a half dozen other bullies at school, but I hated the idea of being humiliated in front of other people, especially a beauty queen like Julie. Still, Mickey’s decision seemed to be law. I didn’t dare let him or Julie see I was too scared to fight Gerald.
The truth was, I was always too scared to fight. I hated fighting and did it badly because I lacked the appetite for inflicting pain. I couldn’t bear to cause pain. This weakness went back to my earliest childhood in Jasper, Florida. While playing with a newborn chick brought inside on one rainy, cold night, the chick jumped from my hands and ran into the fireplace, and a blazing fire. I’d screamed at the horror of it and wept for an hour. In spite of my grandmother’s assurances that it was all right, I didn’t mean to do it, there were plenty of other new chicks, things like that happened all the time.
I’d developed a loathing for violence that made me an easy victim for the world’s Geralds. Now Mickey’s interference meant I would have to go at Gerald with the violence necessary to make it a good fight or be thought a sissy by my friend and the most popular girl in the fifth grade. Hating Gerald’s stupidity for getting me into this, I unstrapped my skates, got to my feet, and balled my hands into fists. “You ready now?” Mickey asked. “Yeah, let him loose.” I said. Mickey shoved Gerald at me and stepped back.
Freed, Gerald raised his fists and started to circle as we’d seen actors do in the movies about boxers. We circled each other listlessly, and Mickey yelled to me, “Hit him!” I lunged forward and swung as hard as I could at Gerald’s face. Quite by accident, my fist caught him across the mouth and nose. He cried out. There was blood on his mouth and chin. Gerald looked at me with an expression I’d never seen before when he was calmly beating me. Then, we had been punisher and victim locked silently in idiots’ solitude. Now with an audience, he was plainly as scared sick as I was.
“All right,” he shouted, “all right,” and dropped his fists in the recognized signal of surrender. Still, certain words had to be spoken. “You give up?” I asked. “Give up.” He said. The code also required certain civilities once the fight was over. “Somebody give him a handkerchief,” Mickey said. “His nose is bleeding.” Julie gave him hers. Gerald clamped it over his nose and walked off the field alone and silent. I didn’t tell Mickey, but as he patted me on the back and congratulated me, I felt terrible for breaking Gerald’s spirit. Although, after that fight, he never waylaid me again.
My confidence grew in leaps and bounds after the duel with Gerald. My situation in life, and the need for self preservation required me to overcome my dislike for violence. I soon learned that life was combat, and victory was not for the meek or timid. After a while I even developed a reputation for being something of a pugilist. Although I did receive many more thrashings by men stronger and faster than me over the years even into adulthood. From that duel on, I never hesitated when challenged.
My training as a U.S. Marine later in life made me feel even more invincible. At least for the first twenty or so whippings I received. Too many broken bones, and permanent scars have a way of humbling a man right back into pacifism.
I joined the reserves as a grown man... 28 years old and already enjoying a stable life and career. Wife Pam was in the middle of medical school and I was working as a production supervisor for a factory in South Carolina. I swore to Pam that I wouldn't let it change me and the promise was sincere. Fast forward to the third month of boot camp and I remember an officer giving us a motivational speech as we approached graduation, telling us we were like fighting gamecocks with a blood-lust ready to fight to our death. He then asked us win or lose, how many of us would want to fight Mike Tyson just for the challenge and I remember us all yelling we were ready, including me, and I ABSOLUTELY meant it... took me about 3 seconds after I yelled it to pause and remember my promise not to change. Knew that well-intended or not, I failed to keep my promise. 