“Aw, they’re so lame. Nancy gave up after I just knocked her on the ground,” she said with a hand on her hip.
Lynn was easily the toughest girl in school. Vetal Elementary School straddled two distinct Detroit social networks. On the west side were tree-lined, middle-class neighborhoods with trim lawns and functioning street lights. On the east was a working-class, rough-and-tumble neighborhood, front yards as likely to be occupied by a car that needed to be fixed up as by a manicured lawn. Lynn and Gordon grew up east while I safely walked the streets west. Fighting Lynn was a no-win for me. If I was lucky enough to land the first punch and take her down, the guys would all joke that I just bested a girl. If she took me out, I would never live down losing to a girl.
“No, Lynn, I’m not going to fight you,” I mumbled, as I walked away down the hall.
A week passed; then one Monday morning Lynn turned partly sideways and whispered, “They’re after you, Jack.”
In profile, Lynn was attractive, with dark brown eyes, short but soft black hair, and a fine, straight, Italian nose. At ten, I could observe these features but feel no arousal.
“Who’s after me, Lynn?” I asked.
“Jimmy Hill and his gang,” she replied.
“Why on earth would Jimmy Hill care about me?” I asked. Jimmy Hill was the toughest fighter in Vetal. Having somehow failed third grade, Jimmy was a year older and a mile tougher than the rest of us. His gang consisted of his older brother, Vince, and his friend, Lou. Lou, like Lynn, was Italian and liked to think of himself as the second toughest guy in school.
“He heard about your one-punch takedown of Gordon last week,” she replied. “Some people are saying you’re the toughest guy in school. Jimmy Hill doesn’t like that idea. They’ll be waiting for you after school. And Lou will be there with his knife, just in case you get Jimmy first.”
“A knife!” I exclaimed. “Jimmy Hill and Lou with a knife. Oh my God!”
“Look for Terry in the circle when everyone knows there’s going to be a fight. This is big, Jack!” Lynn exclaimed.
Terry Ontario was my biking friend. Terry and I also collected metal toy soldiers and Tonka trucks. But Terry was an unlikely fight ally, being overweight, out of shape, garrulous, nonathletic, and confrontation adverse.
“How is Terry watching in the crowd going to help me?” I asked.
“He’ll step to the side and for a few seconds there will be an opening for a get away,” said Lynn.
“You mean, run?” I gasped.
“You bet!” Lynn replied.
Running was not a fight strategy my brothers taught, but on reflection seemed like a good idea.
Upon exiting the school at 4 p.m., Jimmy Hill was easy to spot. Although only a year older, Jimmy could have been a ninth grader, with muscular, nonboy-like arms under a tight, black t-shirt and a face dominated by a wide, unsmiling mouth and piercing dark eyes. Jimmy was flanked by his even larger brother, Vince, and Lou, the knife boy.
“Let’s go, Armpit,” said Jimmy, as he pushed me with his right hand against my chest.
“I don’t think so, Jimmy. Why don’t you just hit me and I’ll fall down and we’ll call you the winner,” I offered.
He pushed my chest again. “No, Jack, that’s no fight. We’ll do the real thing!” he retorted.
I looked to my right as I bounced back from Jimmy’s chest shove. There in the circle of onlookers was unobtrusive Terry. He took a step to the side, creating a small opening in the circle of onlookers. I bolted through the gap, sprinting the next three blocks. As I slowed, the idea dawned on me that now I might be perceived as a coward. Cowardice would not be well received at home. A block away I spotted Dwight walking slowly toward our homes four blocks ahead. Dwight was two years older, tall and broad and wearing the white cross belt of the safety patrol.
“Hey, Jack, what’s the hurry?” asked Dwight as I jogged up to him.
I explained to Dwight the circumstances of my rapid exit from the Jimmy Hill fight.
Dwight looked toward Vetal. “Look who’s coming down the road, Jack, it’s Lou,” Dwight observed. Lou dismounted from his bike. He was thin, wiry, with a mean, weasel-like face.
“You thought you’d run away, Armweak,” said Lou as he pulled his knife out and extended the thin steel blade.
“Whoa, this is between you two guys,” said Dwight as he stepped aside. Lou took a step forward, his arm extended underhanded, his eyes fixed on mine.
I stood still, quiet, watching. Dwight quickly slipped behind Lou, pinned his arms to his sides, and knocked the knife from his hand. Dwight kicked the knife to the grass at the edge of the sidewalk.
“All right then, now it’s just between the two of you. A fair fight,” Dwight said as he stepped off the sidewalk and planted his foot over the open knife.
I now met Lou’s gaze directly. He hadn’t assumed a fighting stance. His arms hung from his sides. I took a step toward Lou and raised my fists into the fighting position my brothers had taught me.
“Let’s go Lou,” I said.
Lou looked at his knife beneath Dwight’s foot, then at Dwight, and finally at me. “You think you’re so tough. Wait till tomorrow with Jimmy, tough guy,” Lou hissed.
Dwight reached down and handed me Lou’s knife. “You might need this tomorrow, Jack,” Dwight commented.
Lou backed up quickly, mounted his bike, and rode back toward Vetal.
Dwight and I walked slowly home, nothing left to say but “Thanks, man.”
I debated telling my parents and brothers what had happened, but still not sure if I was smart, lucky, or a coward, I remained silent and sleepless.
The next day as I closed the hall locker, Jimmy Hill approached, alone. He smiled slightly. I felt the knife in my pocket.
“Hey, Armstrong. I heard about Lou and you last night. He backed down, huh?” Jimmy lightly punched my shoulder.
“He didn’t want a fair fight, Jimmy,” I said. “You and I don’t have a problem, right? You’re the King.”
“Yeah, I’m the King. Don’t you forget about that, Armstrong! You’re OK!” Jimmy said, then turned and sauntered down the hall.
When I left Vetal to move to the countryside the next year, my classmates signed a note wishing me well. Lynn signed the note with a picture of a sharp pencil and a good luck wish. Lynn was my good luck.
I THOUGHT YOU WERE ALONE
A quiet, intense man, Dad sat in front of me at the breakfast table on assignment from my mother.
“So you want to be a doctor?” he started.
“I think I’ll enroll in pre-med in the fall,” I countered.
“We don’t have any doctors in the family, and you don’t know anything about doctoring or what a hospital is like.” A matter-of-fact engineer, Dad liked to start conversations with a statement of facts.
“I guess I’ll learn in time, Dad,” I replied.
“What kind of work are you doing this summer?” he asked emphatically. Dad held a dim view of summer vacations. As he worked hard, he figured his son should, too. Once I had suggested summer hockey camp and within one week I had a demanding job painting Pontiac Grand Ams on the night shift assembly line.
“Not sure yet, Dad.”