* Why Me?

I often ask myself, why me? Then I think about the first time I met Chuck, we were in the First Grade, in the Cleveland Public School system, I was six years old, and he sat behind me. He got sent out of the room on the first day after summer vacation.

Chuck always had some remark, some sound, and sometimes even some smell, but the smells, as bad as they were, never got him into trouble. The first two did all the time.

Follow up:

I watched as Chuck received detentions, notes to his parents, and as we got into Junior and Senior High, I watched him get his ass beat. Swats, from instruments of torture spanning from the over-sized ping-pong paddle on steroids, to the Wood-Shop-shaped one-by-fours with holes cut out down the length of the paddle to reduce air cushioning. Some of the real sicko teachers had baseball bat length paddles made with a two-handed grip, and they used a baseball style swing.

I watched as Chuck received welts, and walked funny on the way home. But at least he had stood up, and taken it. Today, all the young lawyers would be living off the legal settlement for the treatment we endured, but it was a choice. Instead of hours after school, we chose the easy way out. A few minutes of intense stinging, and a badge of honor for a week.

It was with a double-grip paddle, that was the only time I saw him buckle. Chuck was holding the desk with his butt out, and he had opted for two swats as punishment for talking in class. Mr. Rodstern was the Biology teacher, and he looked like Fred Flinstone. He wound up on the first swat, and Chuck didn't budge. On the second swat, he wound up way back, and pivoted into the swing forming a perfect arch with the paddle that went right through Chuck. He finished the swing with his freehand held up and out, looking like a matador after the pass of El Toro. When contact was made, Chuck's knees buckled, and only his arms and white-knuckled grip kept him upright. His eyes were watering when he turned back to us, but he looked more angry than hurt. Chuck was different after those two swats, he was pretty quiet and subdued for almost a whole week.

That's why me, because I was there, and I know stuff about Chuck, that he doesn't know about himself.

William S. James, First-person