I've only gotten in a fist fight once in my life. It was in sixth grade with the main tough guy, Johnny Biggs. He lived in the poor part of town and was rumored to have an alcoholic dad that would get drunk and beat the shit out of Johnny and his older brother.
Johnny had curly brown, shoulder-length hair in the fall of 1974. He was skinny, but strong and wiry - like an over-cooked chicken wing. He was athletic and loud, and his voice had already changed. He got into fights a lot.
Conversely, I had blond, wish-it-was-shoulder-length hair and was not skinny - or athletic. My voice squeaked like Alvin the chipmunk, and I just wanted to sit around and draw pictures or write songs.
My dad never got drunk or beat me, and I had no idea how to fight.
One day Johnny saw me talking to his girlfriend. I'm sure I wasn't hitting on her - not because I didn't like her - but because I was too shy and self-conscious to talk to the popular, pretty girls. She probably just wanted to borrow a pencil or something.
That night, Johnny called my house. My dad answered the phone and handed it to me. It was a big, black rotary phone with a short, curly cord from the handset to the receiver. There were no private phone conversations in the 70's.
Standing in our kitchen/dining room with the Brady Bunch decor, I said, "Hello?"
Johnny got right to business, "If I see you talking to my girlfriend again, I'm gonna kick your ass."
Now, I don't know if it was because my dad was there, or what, but I said, "You probably would want to kiss my ass, you faggot!" and hung up the phone. My dad raised his eyebrows while thumbing through the mail and was probably thinking, "Wow, my son's a bad ass."
Unfortunately, I was not.
The next day at school, Johnny did the classic, After School Special, knock-the-books-out-of-my-hands-in-the-hallway move. All my notebooks full of chimeric drawings and poems went sprawling across the dusty floor, stopped only by the feet of the dingy, gray lockers. While I meekly picked stuff up, Johnny said between his teeth, "I'm gonna get you at the sock hop."
No, really. Those were his exact words - as if we were in an After School Special.
The sock hop! Holy crap!
The sock hop was the most anticipated thing to ever happen in my life at that point. There was going to be a real live rock band - with drums, and a singer ... with a microphone, and Marshall amps ... Gibson guitars! Man, I had been waiting my whole life for something like this!
And now here was this ugliness that caused a bad feeling in my stomach every time I thought about it.
So I avoided Johnny as best as I could until the big day, but there was never any question of whether I would go to the sock hop. Did I mention there was going to be a real live rock band?
The teen aged musicians could have been Led Zeppelin. I stood spellbound, baptised in the aural rapture of timeless radio hits like "Smoke on the Water", "Whole Lotta Love", and "You Really Got Me".
I studied the drummer's kit, his stick-twirling technique, and spotty facial stubble. I noted the homemade colored lights - made from Folger's coffee cans, the singer's twisted locks and embarrassingly tight pants.
I barely even noticed all the other kids hopping around like imbeciles in their white gym socks.
After the show, while still in my rock star reverie, I was walking down the sidewalk on my way to the cafeteria. There lay waiting syrupy drinks and starchy snacks - the only drugs I yet knew - to plenish my rock and roll gluttony. It was dark, except for the dim light sighing from the frosted, cafeteria windows with their chipped and peeling, cold, gray frames.
And there in the distance, walking slowly toward me - between me and the door to my refreshment - was Johnny Biggs (and his crony), his gaze fixed menacingly on me. I wasn't surprised. In fact, it seemed as though everything that was happening was predestined and I was just following a script.
We stopped within eminent striking distance, facing each other. I took my balled fists out from the pockets of my brown suede, faux-fur-lined jacket. None of the Dad Knows Best grown-ups with their Leave It To Beaver families seemed to notice the grave crisis that was unfolding around them.
Pragmatically , Johnny said, "Call me what you called me on the phone."
Just following the script, I said simply, "Faggot."
I knew from protocol that this meant Johnny would have to hit me on the jaw, so I waited for that before I commenced to windmill his ass. This is like dog-paddle for grade-school boys. If there has been no formal training in the art of self-defense, it is simply instinct to put your head down and start flailing your arms wildly. (See Ralphie in A Christmas Story)
Surprisingly, tough guys appear to have very little defense against the windmill. Johnny just bent over and covered his head. The blows didn't seem to be doing much damage though, because he said something during the barrage like, "What're you trying to do, scalp me?"
But I didn't care - maybe it was like a video game and I could accumulate points. I just kept up the assault until someone yell-whispered, "Here comes the principal!"
We scattered like oil from a drop of Dawn dishwashing liquid.
Not long after that, Johnny became friendly to me. The covenant had apparently been consummated. I had made it through some caveman ceremony and been accepted into the association of ruffian honor.
In hindsight, it's kind of embarrassing that one can gain entrance into their club through use of the windmill. They really should consider stricter requirements.
