Anti-bullying program success: beat up your bully, part II

Posted: February 22, 2015 in Bullies, Uncategorized
Tags: , , , , ,

united-colors-of-benettonWhen I finally left Powers Catholic High School, it was with a bang, not a whimper.

After brutally beating the Mouth of the South, rumor had it that many young men were going to take up for him and kick my ass. Everyone from Ug, the Caveman Baseball Player to Big B in the Place to Be were rumored to be caving my skull in at any moment. While neither of those two gentlemen stepped up to the proverbial plate to take a swing, I did managed to eke one last fight out of the Class of 1989: Jameson Wellington Rothschild III.

To be honest, I don’t know if young master Rothschild came from a wealthy family, as his name would imply. While there were many rich kids that attended that school, there were likely twice as many who came from middle-class families who took out a second mortgage in hopes that their children could get a good education. I suspect that was the case for Rothschild.

He and I had only one run in and it happened during my junior year. He started mouthing off to me in class, and he quite literally began giggling and squealing with girlish delight when his friend – a man named Jheri, last name, Curl – took up for him by trying to get loud on me. It would be a year later when the right proper Mr. Rothschild and I would meet again… and under very different circumstances.

I was walking to class with a friend and we were headed up the stairwell that parallels the school’s front doors. I looked up at the top to see ol’ J. Wellington heading down the stairs, coming straight for me. It was impossible to miss him since he easily stood about six feet, one inches tall, and he was wearing this long-sleeved shirt that featured wide stripes of red and green separated by thinner stripes of golden yellow.

I’m not going to lie to you, I had absolutely no intention of moving to let him pass by. Apparently, he felt the same regarding my safe passage and we both committed the unforgivable sin of bumping shoulders. Needless to say, the usually effeminate Jameson Wellington Rothschild III became incensed that I, lowly worm such that I was, would dare touch his immaculate shoulder. As expected, he began the usual shit-talking ritual so commonplace at Powers Catholic.

“Why don’t you do something about it, then?” I said.

“I will!” he replied, his steely-blue eyes blazing with rage.

“Fine!” I said. “Let’s go.”

Sensing it would be safe to turn my back on him, I handed my books to my friend and walked back down to the bottom of the stairs with Rothschild hot on my heels. As I stepped off the last step, I turned to face the enraged United Colors of Benetton model as he leaped from the second to the last step with a rather wild punch.

Like I did in my fight with the Mouth of the South, I went into a Jake LaMotta-like crouch. This caused Rothschild’s punch to glance off my back. He kept swinging with the wild, flailing punches so I simply buried my left shoulder into his sternum and sort of smashed him until his back hit the cinder block wall that formed the stairwell.

He was still screaming and flailing at this point so I knew I had to take the wind out of his sails. Smashing him into the wall with my shoulder again, I followed up with a quick right-handed uppercut and buried my fist into his bottom rib. The air seemed to whoosh out of his lungs in a near-death rattle and his whirlwind punches ceased. Now it was time to punish him, I thought.

I raised my left arm up until my forearm was across his chest and I used it to pin his back to the wall. Then, I unleashed with two or three more uppercuts with my right hand, only this time I aimed a little bit below the ribs. The punches to his groin caused Rothschild to emit a high-pitched squeal, only this time it lacked the maniacal glee he displayed when Jheri Curl had his back. Now, it sounded more like a cry for help.

Long story short, one of the male teachers burst through the door to pull me off of poor Mr. Rothschild. As he did, I somehow rubbed my face against the sleeve of that multi-colored shirt J. Wellington was wearing and the damn thing had the consistency of a fucking burlap sack. It gave me a carpet burn that was enough for a few people to suggest Rothschild got the best of me. Needless to say, these few naysayers quickly retracted their statements after threatening to do to them as I did to Rothschild.

J. Wellington never wanted to fight me again after that day. I know, because I later accosted him in the hallway and challenged him to another go around. “I’m done!” he said. “Just leave me alone.” Being so close to graduation, I decided to let it go at that. After my battle with Rothschild, the administration made it very clear to my parents that one more fight would get me kicked out for good. I decided the cap and gown was more important than whipping Rothschild again, no matter how much he deserved it.

About five years after graduating from Powers, I saw Jameson Wellington Rothschild III again. He was walking out of the bookstore at Central Michigan University, and the mere sight of him instantly brought back all the anger I had toward him in high school. I entered a trance-like state that caused me to turn and fall into step behind him. Sometime during the journey, I grabbed a very large chunk of asphalt from the street. I was determined to crack his fucking skull open like an egg.

Throughout my tailing of him, Rothschild seemed completely oblivious to how close to death or serious injury he was. The only thing that saved him was me spotting a Mt. Pleasant Police Department cruiser about three blocks up the street. Just the sight of that ol’ blue and white made me suddenly realize where I was and what I was about to do. Before the pigs knew what happened, I chucked the asphalt onto the grass of someone’s lawn and quickly cut up an alley that took me back to the student bookstore.

I guessed Rothschild and I both dodged a proverbial bullet that day.

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