MEET YOU AT THE FLAGPOLE (aka STICKS AND STONES AND AN AK-47)
“I'll meet you after work by the flagpole.” Suddenly my spine turned to jelly and I had to grab the handrail on the escalator to keep myself from collapsing, all the while fighting off the rush of nausea that over-came me. But why? Because my co-worker simply mentioned the words “after work by the flagpole” when picking an unmistakeable location outside our office building for us to meet later? And the answer was “Absolutely yes!” The spoken sentence was too close to the phrase that would strike fear into me or anyone else at my middle school (at that time called Junior High School) in the 70's. Only one word had to be replaced – “I'll meet you after SCHOOL at the flagpole!” – The words that meant certain death unless you were a 13 year old navy seal or at least a black-belt in one of the martial arts.
When that threat was said, it meant you and the neanderthal child who mumbled it were going to have a fight at that spot at that time. The cretin who threw down the gauntlet by saying these words was always confident of his victory for a number of reasons: either because he had been in hundreds of physical altercations before and had been victorious, or he was a foot taller and a good 50 lbs heavier than his opponent, or perhaps he received daily beatings by his older brother or sister so he had become immune to pain. For whatever reason, he was confident of the outcome.
However, there were the few rare times that a soft-spoken, timid boy would challenge a much bigger foe; the words spoken in a rush of anger, obviously not after a period of serious contemplation. Perhaps the little twerp just fell on his head in gym class due to an intentional foul by the hulking philistine, and the challenge was muttered by the pint-size kid while the first stages of a concussion set in. If the small kid's brain waves did unscramble themselves, it was always a site to see his cherubic red face flushed with rage, suddenly drain to a deathly white paler once he realized he had just signed his own death warrant.
These physical confrontations between humans have been happening since the species first appeared on earth. In fact, it's the only species (as children or adults) that will fight over words spoken, a dirty look, or the last vacant seat on a bus or train. The reason why is still a mystery and most people have concluded that we humans are violent by nature. But can't we fight (oops), I meant alter that instinct? We are instructed as children by our parents, teachers, or other adults that “violence solves nothing,” yet we often experience that “to the victor go the spoils.” This contradiction is not helped by the inane nursery rhymes we are taught. “Sticks and stones may break our bones, but words can never harm us.” All it really informs us is that the combatant that arrives with a stick or a stone is going to win that argument. Even the “Good Book” tells us how David wouldn't have walked away whistling a happy tune if he hadn't brought that slingshot along. Will “might” always be victorious over “right” or even “wrong?” One can't help but ponder the answer to that question when an adolescent future cage fighter is raining down hay-makers on your face causing it to resemble a Picasso abstract painting.
However, it's good 'ole Mother Nature that steps in to lend a helping hand to the pipsqueaks of the world, by giving them different traits that help balance out the apparent deficiencies from not having an ogre for a father and a pit-bull for a mother. The majority of the time, the smaller children are fleet of foot, meaning they can run like hell away from the brutish bullies chasing them. And almost 100% of the time, the weaker kids are smarter than the mean kids. This superior intellect is the reason why these after school barbaric beat-downs were held at the flagpole in the first place.
The name of the original nerd who, back when the school first opened, convinced his troglodyte tormentor to meet at the flagpole remains unknown. However, it is due solely to his mental prowess that generations of weaker kids survived these death matches and were seen limping to class the next school day. The reason being, the flagpole was located on the lawn right in front of the principal's (your “pal” not your “ple”) office. This assured the weak kid will only be beat-up for the amount of time it took the principal to wolf down his three o'clock junk-food snack. Re-enacting that first conversation between a bully and his intended prey, I imagine it probably went something like this:
Bully: “I'll meet you after school at the, uh,...”
Nerd: “Police station?”
Bully: “No.”
Nerd: “Art Museum?”
Bully: “Huh? Don't know what that is.”
Nerd: “School library?”
Bully: “Don't know where that is.”
Nerd: “How about the flagpole in front of the prin (coughs), school?”
Bully: “Yeah, the flagpole. I know where that is.”
Thus allowing the principal to eat two donuts while watching the beginning of the fight, and then casually walking outside to break-up the fight and save the nerd while he still had vital signs. (the student, not the principal since the principal had been a virtual zombie since his earlier years as a classroom teacher.)
I can still remember the first time I was informed by one of the school ruffians that he would meet me at the flagpole after school. Leaving my locker at the end of that day, I walked in some kind of somnambulistic trance towards the doors. My total experience in fighting mano a mano up until then was playing with my Rockem Sockem Robots toy I had received as a birthday present. As I used the last of my strength to open the doors to the outside world, I could have sworn I heard a voice say, “Dead student walking.”
The brilliantly sunny rays were in direct contrast to the dark Ed Munch colors of “The Scream” that I perceived the front lawn of the school to look like. The ghoulish peanut gallery of students had already assembled around the flagpole. Word of a blood-bath always spread quickly through a New Jersey middle school. These rubber-necked students would grow up to be the same blood thirsty adults that would cause traffic jams by slowing their automobiles to gleefully look at the gory human remains of a 10 car pile-up. I was keeping a stiff upper lip as I approached the flagpole, but my lower lip was doing a Rumba. That was when I first caught sight of my executioner; his lips not moving at all, but his mouth was foaming like a rabid dog that needed to be put down. Of course, his puny little sidekick lackey with the pinata like face (type of face everyone just wanted to smash) was at his side. Suddenly memories of a Sumo Wrestling Championship I had watched on television flooded my brain. Perhaps I could use one of their fighting techniques in my quest to survive. However, I quickly realized the only way I would resemble a Sumo Wrestler was if my opponent pulled down my pants and finished me off with an excruciating wedgie in front of the crowd. That was when I saw the school bus.
I jumped off memory lane and back into present time just as the city bus passed my co-worker waiting for me at the flagpole in front of the office building. The bus continued up-town towards my humble $2,500 a month studio hovel where the 4 locks, 2 deadbolts, and Louisville slugger hidden in my kitchen closet would give me the false impression I was safe for the night. My smile of satisfaction was returned to me by a fellow work-a-day passenger about my age across the aisle. That was, until we both spied the vacant seat in the back of the bus.
