Mount Everest
He never should’ve hit Matthew.
The slander, the swearing, the backstabbing - whatever. But physical harm? Robbie crossed the line, and awoke my wrath. I don’t fight, never have, and until recently, vowed that I never will. But after hearing of Matthew’s injuries, a volcanic fire began to stir in my stomach. I was ready to punch, swing, grab, twist, scratch, poke, whatever it took. I was ready to bully a bully.
My decision to tell everyone of my plans was fairness incarnate, for the last thing I wanted was that son of a bitch to claim I sucker punched him, or crept up on him unawares. I wanted everyone to know, and to spread the word, near and far; once he got wind of it, he’d be ready. And the fight would be as honest as can be.
My words, when I was convinced of their eventual outcome, were spoken, not screamed, and delivered with the tempo of a swiss clock.
“I’m gonna kill him.”
Footsteps ceased, heads turned, and eyes were narrowed in my direction. Some of them rolled, accompanied by chuckles their authors poorly tried to conceal. Truth be told, I couldn’t give a rat’s behind.
Robbie had kicked his share of ass, and had more than a few pounds on me. Not many gave me a chance. I overheard Jasper Crawler, during lunch, say to Wally Rhyne, That dude’s out of his mind. Robbie will knock him into next week! Few students were on my side, and even fewer of the faculty. Last Wednesday, Mr. Beaumont asked me to stay after English class. I was worried my assignments were slacking, but was relieved to hear the real reason.
“Son, I’ve heard the rumors. I don’t advocate violence,” he said. “If I were you, I’d give up any retaliatory ideas. An expulsion will hardly look good on your college application.”
He had a point. They all did. I was nothing, a nobody, and hardly a favorite in any altercation. It was courage alone that dictated my actions; brain and logic I’ve long since suppressed, like an ugly shirt shoved deep into a closet crevice.
Happy to report they’ve hardly been missed.
As the big day neared, and I pondered the wheres, whens and hows, Everett Macintosh appeared behind me in the restroom, like an apparition voyeur. His reflection in the cracked mirror was fierce and ghastly, nearly resembling that of the undead.
“They’re premiering a new game at the Arcade,” he said. “Everyone’s gonna be there. Including Robbie.”
“Tonight?” I asked.
He nodded. “You’re gonna do it, aren’t you? It’d be like climbing the highest mountain. An elusive peak high above the clouds. I don’t think anyone’s ever done it.”
“Of course I will. Why wouldn’t I?”
“Because you could end up like Matthew.”
Friday evening saw Jake & Dave’s Arcade filled to capacity. Teenagers tall and short, thin and long, filled the game room and the pinball area, like a European rave. Pierced nostrils accompanied lips of same ornaments, and establishment bashing black shirts was the overwhelming theme among those present. Sweat was abundant, and exposed flesh glistened under the dim lights. Music blasted past the deafening stage, and weed invaded the lungs before the nose picked up its aroma. I meandered inside, incidentally bumping and rubbing against the thick crowd, trying to avoid their limbs, yet unsuccessfully.
Robbie stood towering over the new video game monitor, his shoulders wider and further from the ground than the boys who circled him. Truck tattoos glowered on his left arm, his t-shirt’s sleeves rolled upwards to reveal his large biceps. At the sight of me, those circling him gasped, collectively pointed, and retreated into the background, like frightened sheep. Robbie stood aloof, indifferent, unyielding. He didn’t turn when he saw me from the corner of his eye, standing next to him. I was thankful he couldn’t sense my heart rate, which beat faster than a hummingbird’s wings.
“Who the fuck are you?” he said. His eyes never left the screen, his hands jiggling and his fingers pressing. Occasionally he took a drag from a cigarette in the adjacent ashtray.
“Retribution,” I said. I stared relentlessly, with clenched fists and flared nostrils, hoping it’d frighten him. I can only assume he sensed my ferocity, and that’s why he turned, with a bewildering smile that conveyed admiration. He glanced at his friends, and pointed at me in jest, as if to ridicule me.
His initial swing was uncoordinated, and surprisingly lethargic (he stank of booze worse than a gasoline canister). I avoided it with little difficulty. Robbie may have moved at slightly-higher-than-average speed, but to me his flailing limbs appeared as in slow motion. They were the swivels and wobbles of an oppressor recently scolded -however little - by father time. Before he recovered, my fist crashed against his cheek with the unabashed force of a bulldozer.
I felt one of my fingers break like a twig. Robbie wobbled and staggered, then fell on one knee. With strenuous effort, he rose again. But before he could gather himself, I struck his other cheek with my left hand. My fist crushed under his iron jaw, and the initial wince I emitted soon turned into a cry of pain. It resonated around the facility like a valley echo, and soon drew additional patrons to our tussle. More eyeballs were pointed towards my current pain than had ever gazed at me during my prime.
Robbie’s blood mixed with mine over my raw knuckles. He fell like a swaying tree, and once his face was on the ground, I kicked him several times. Barely conscious, he grabbed my leg, hugging onto it like a long lost kin. Once I brought my left foot down onto his head with full force, he let go. Simultaneously, his teeth went flying across the floor, like rectangular pieces of gum sprinkled with red. He whimpered extensively while I stood over him, wearing his blood as proudly as a championship belt.
When he ceased making noise, I walked away. Everyone held their breath as I passed, their eyes tracking me, like a sniper’s dot. Murmurs followed me outside in a manner of transparent spirits, and the fresh air injected me with a dreamlike sensation. I crossed the street, and found myself under the tall lamps, their shadows stretching far across the pavement.
Yet the only shadow missing was my own, its absence as peculiar as the starless sky above.
Barlow Crassmont has lived in USA, Eastern Europe, Middle East and China. When not teaching or writing, he dabbles in juggling, solving the Rubik’s Cube, and learning other languages. He has been published by British Science Fiction Association, The Chamber Magazine, and Wilderness House Literary Review.