Synaptic

Writing Objective: Write an essay in the tradition of Montaigne, Orwell, and Dilliard

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I wanted to hit him, but I’m a pacifist. I think. Still, I wanted to walk up with clenched fists, and hit him with all that I had. I wanted it to feel good and clean and full of pain. I think that I wouldn’t have liked to stop soon. I think that it would feel good to have him fall after I hit him squarely the first time, and continue to beat him. I imagine how good it would feel to be over him and pull tufts of his hair and be so angry that I hit his head on the pavement. It would make a hollow dull sound all the way through. His eyes would roll back in his head.

I know when you hit a man in the head that you have to hit with everything, and with control or else your hand will hurt more than his face. And when you hit his head on the ground it sounds hollow and empty and it makes you suddenly feel hollow and empty. That’s when you stop: when you feel hollow and empty and pathetic and stupid. And you feel sorry, or you decide that it isn’t worth it. Of course, I don’t truly know. I’ve never been in a fight that was violent and uncontrolled and had punches thrown. I sometimes wonder what causes some people to fight for everything, and others to never have to raise a hand in anger. I wonder which is better.

Although I’ve never been in a fight it doesn’t mean that I’ve never faced a fight. Fletcher Ford wanted to fight me in eighth grade. I remember his dirty red hair parted down the middle, and his red flannel shirt. I remember his black pants and black Nike high tops I remember how he was in a gang, and dial’s why he had a red flannel on, but he couldn’t wear his hat backwards in the school gym. I had on a red and black flannel shirt as well, and I guess that was why.

I don’t know if he had bad breath, or if his teeth were crooked, and it seems impossible to explain his face. I know that he grabbed my collar and asked if I wanted to fight him. I know that I cracked up inside. I told him that I didn’t. I stuttered and was scared of him, and I know he saw my fear. I felt shame after that. Mike saw on my face that I didn’t know what to do. He saw the tears, but didn’t say anything about it.

He told me that it didn’t matter. He said the kid was worthless, and he was, but he still haunts me. Mike said that his friends didn’t like him and I knew that he didn’t have any friends and that he lived in the red house across from Hy-Vee with his dad, and it was torn down to put up a Burger King last year. I was glad about the Burger King because it meant that I didn’t know where Fletcher lived anymore.

Everyday for the rest of the year, I felt his gaze on me. Every time it seemed like I was on the outside, and without friends, and felt that I wasn’t important. I felt his eyes and his hatred. I never knew why I felt that, and I don’t know why Fletcher wanted to fight me, and I’m glad that I didn’t fight. I think so at least. I wonder what would have happened to me.

Fletcher still makes me feel weak, and I resent it, although it isn’t important. But just when you drink that it’s gone, it wltispe.rs in your head and you feel bad again. A little bit less every time, and eventually it goes. It’s good to think drat you have something to run away from.

I was there when Bill beat Tom. It was over a girl, and Bill liked Tom, but he had to because he was our hero. It was late at night at a party. Everyone had drunk enough and was thinking about going home. We were piling ourselves into my car. I wasn’t driving because I thought that I had too much to drink. There were eight of us in the car. Bill drove because even though he drank more than me he was a hero and would get us home. Tom came as Bill pulled the door closed. He punched him through die closing door. Bill climbed out, and we all piled out and stood watching. I felt my stomach turn into knots, and my palms were sweating.

Bill said something about it not being important, and asked if Tom was ready. Then they fought. It was quick and beautiful and precise. Bill knew how to fight. It wasn’t pathetic with blind fists and rage, but with athletic punches and kicks. Bill let Tom swing first. Tom missed because he wasn’t as good as Bill. I knew Bill would win beautifully. He kicked him in the stomach with his long legs, and came back with a right hook. He landed a straight left squarely in his face, and I could see Tom’s eye swell.

Tom knew that he couldn’t get in close enough with fists, so he rushed into him. But Bill was tall, and he forced Tom to the side. It was quick, but I saw Tom’s head hit my rear-view mirror, and he broke the mirror. Tom was out of position and too far forward. Bill slipped in a full nelson and started to swing him between my car and the van parked next to it.

I stood and said nothing. Everyone was silent and watching except Mike. Mike loved Bill, and wanted him to hear his shouts. He was screaming and telling him where to punch.

Bill had Tom beaten by then. He was too powerful and big and quick.

It ended when Bill forced Tom to the ground. He grabbed him by the back of the neck and put his face on die pavement. He rolled his head from side to side, and he put his face in a puddle, but he knew he won and was in control so he didn’t bang his head hut for a few taps. Bill asked if Tom had enough and Tom said he had and Bill let him go.

They stood up and eyed each other and breathed heavy. Tom’s face was wet and bloody and swollen. By then we were all shouting and looking at one another and throwing fake punches. Mike ran up to Bill and told him how wonderfully he had beaten Tom. lie said that he had beaten the shit out of him, and he called Tom a lousy motherfucker. Mike kept punching his open fists and walking in circles and pointing at Tom us he told Bill how well he had done. Tom had to take the insults. Mike wanted to have his own fight so he kept talking and yelling louder, and it made Tom’s friends angry. I wasn’t talking as loud as Mike even though I loved Bill and wanted to tell him how great he had done, but I couldn’t make myself. Mike said enough for everyone. He made everyone a little sore.

Bill said he was sorry about the dents that he put in the side of my car with Tom’s head, but I told him that it wasn’t anything. They weren’t very big, and I knew my dad wouldn’t notice them. I was proud of the dents because I knew that I would never put any dents on anything.

I’m not a hero I guess. That’s why I won’t run up and punch this guv and hit his head on the ground. I wouldn’t be a hero if I did it that way. With him not looking. Even though the guy deserves it, and I want to hit him so badly every time I see him.