Learning

It was a snow day. My mother had picked up my grandmother and brought her to our house to watch us for the day. I had gone out with one of the neighborhood kids – Jimmy A. – to play in the snow. We were about 12 at the time. Jimmy was one of those kids from the neighborhood that you played with when you didn’t have anyone else to play with. And he felt the same about me. He had other friends – friends that spent time in the principal’s office and the “resource room” where they got extra attention and got to go on special outings. He’d have probably been on Ritalin if he were in school today.

I don’t remember what lead up to what happened exactly – I think we tried to bumper ski a few times – you know, wait for a car to drive by, then grab a hold of the fender and slide on the slush in your sneakers. I was fast enough, but wasn’t really brave enough for that. Jimmy was stupid enough to try, but not fast enough. So I think that’s when we decided what would be fun next would be to throw snowballs at cars. We were on the corner of Tolman street and I can’t remember the other, but it was on my paper route. This was on the Waltham/Newton line – an old suburb with lots of Italians and Jews that had made it out of the city. Not wealthy, not poor. Lower middle class. Lots of duplexes and quads. If you lived in our neighborhood, you had a good blue collar job, or you were a poor white collar worker. Or you lived there because your parents lived around the corner.

We made snowballs and waited. A car drove by, we threw. We missed. I always missed. I never played baseball as a kid – I can barely throw a ball even now. My wife laughs at me when I try. Another car came – we threw, we missed. And then there was one of those big 70’s boats – an Impala or something – it was tan. We threw – I missed. Jimmy’s snowball smacked into the side of the car. There was a moment’s hesitation, then the car slammed on its breaks and squealed into reverse. We turned and ran. God knows where Jimmy went, but he was gone. Like I said, I was fast, but I couldn’t think where to go, where to hide. I ran down the middle of the street as I heard the car shift back into drive, and the wheels squeal and run through the slush. I finally cut into someone’s yard, but there was a fence around the back yard. I didn’t know what to do. I look back and think, I just should have jumped the fence, but running into a stranger’s backyard seemed unthinkable for some reason at that moment. Then it occurred to me – my snowball didn’t hit the car. I wouldn’t get in trouble. I walked casually back out to the street. The car slammed on its breaks and the driver door flew open.

The man who emerged was a tall – probably over 6 feet. I was maybe 5’3” at the time, 110 pounds or so. He had grey hair, so I suppose he was in his late forties or early fifties. He had on a red and black hunting jacket – it looked like a dark table cloth – and construction boots. I remember the boots well.

I don’t remember if he said anything before he began to beat me. I think he may have just grabbed my jacket and started pummeling me with his other fist. He hit me in the head and face many times. My arms too, of course, because I was trying to shield my face.

“I didn’t hit your car” I kept trying to say between blows.

Finally he knocked me to the ground. He seemed satisfied and was starting to walk away. I was on all fours in the slush on the street, spit and blood draining from my mouth. As I started to stagger to my feet in a rage I shouted, “You fucking bastard!”

He turned and flew back at me, and punched me again, sending me back to the ground. “You’re a little bastard, you are!” he bellowed. I remember that as if it were yesterday.

Then he kicked me in the ribs with his boots, two or three times, till I fell over in the snow.

Then he walked back to his car and drove away.

Some other kid had been watching – some kid I didn’t know. He came over and helped me. I remember him saying, “Holy shit” or something like that.
I stumbled home. The kid walked with me. It was only a few blocks. Before I went in, I wiped the blood from my lips. Amazingly I didn’t have any facial bruising – so I guess he must have mostly hit the sides and back of my head.
I tried to conceal what had happened as best I could, but I collapsed on the couch in our den. My grandmother said, “Are you OK?” I somehow brushed her off. I never told my parents what had happened. I just remember lying on the couch and hurting all over.

I never threw snowballs at cars again.