2007/06/30 22:26
Six
There have been a lot of bullies in my life, but none was more enduring or significant than Eric.
I've previously detailed his use of toys and other material goods to maintain friendships. But his megalomania (at least as regarding my life) started in first grade. Eric sat next to me, and on my other side was Geoff. Both wanted to be my best friend, but Geoff had the advantages of understanding my idiosyncracies, willingness to exercise his imagination, and not threatening to beat me up.
That didn't deter Eric. I would arrive in class every day to find a new slip of paper on my desk, bearing his phone number written in a new color (being a child of privilege, of course he had the 64-color Crayola box). To this day I can recite it, though it's unlikely he lives there anymore and I wouldn't plan on calling him anyway.
Staving off Eric, finally, was an exercise in putting my foot down. He was bigger than me, but I'd been beaten up by bigger kids than him at day care already, so that didn't scare me. I let him know in no uncertain terms that Geoff was my best friend and though I was still willing to play with Eric, he had to recognize that.
That day after recess, I opened my desk to find every slip of paper he'd passed me over the year ripped to confetti.
Eric did not hesitate to make my life a living hell for the next six to seven years. He mocked me at school, he prank-called my house constantly, he befriended larger and more violent sociopaths and convinced them to torment me. During fourth grade, when Geoff and I were no longer in the same class, Eric even managed to turn him against me.
I imagine at some point he actually even forgot why I was his constant target, but it did not let up until high school, where I somehow managed to start with a socially clean slate. Maybe because it turned out doing well in school actually mattered now. Maybe because I was suddenly bigger than most of my oppressors. Maybe because I finally had a handful of loyal friends who, as far as the bullies were concerned, just might not be above carrying a weapon. But I flourished, while Eric fell off the radar.
The last time I saw him, we were in college. I was six credits shy of graduating, he'd just started classes. I was involved and well-loved, he was new and alone. Yet he still tried to impress me, to prove how superior in every way he was to me. I couldn't help but laugh -- despite everything, after fifteen years and all the growing up that should have happened in between, he was still the same guy, trying to make me what he wanted me to be. But that's probably what bothered Eric about me: through it all, I was more of who he wanted to be than he was.
Either that or he was gay for me. I'll probably never know.
I've previously detailed his use of toys and other material goods to maintain friendships. But his megalomania (at least as regarding my life) started in first grade. Eric sat next to me, and on my other side was Geoff. Both wanted to be my best friend, but Geoff had the advantages of understanding my idiosyncracies, willingness to exercise his imagination, and not threatening to beat me up.
That didn't deter Eric. I would arrive in class every day to find a new slip of paper on my desk, bearing his phone number written in a new color (being a child of privilege, of course he had the 64-color Crayola box). To this day I can recite it, though it's unlikely he lives there anymore and I wouldn't plan on calling him anyway.
Staving off Eric, finally, was an exercise in putting my foot down. He was bigger than me, but I'd been beaten up by bigger kids than him at day care already, so that didn't scare me. I let him know in no uncertain terms that Geoff was my best friend and though I was still willing to play with Eric, he had to recognize that.
That day after recess, I opened my desk to find every slip of paper he'd passed me over the year ripped to confetti.
Eric did not hesitate to make my life a living hell for the next six to seven years. He mocked me at school, he prank-called my house constantly, he befriended larger and more violent sociopaths and convinced them to torment me. During fourth grade, when Geoff and I were no longer in the same class, Eric even managed to turn him against me.
I imagine at some point he actually even forgot why I was his constant target, but it did not let up until high school, where I somehow managed to start with a socially clean slate. Maybe because it turned out doing well in school actually mattered now. Maybe because I was suddenly bigger than most of my oppressors. Maybe because I finally had a handful of loyal friends who, as far as the bullies were concerned, just might not be above carrying a weapon. But I flourished, while Eric fell off the radar.
The last time I saw him, we were in college. I was six credits shy of graduating, he'd just started classes. I was involved and well-loved, he was new and alone. Yet he still tried to impress me, to prove how superior in every way he was to me. I couldn't help but laugh -- despite everything, after fifteen years and all the growing up that should have happened in between, he was still the same guy, trying to make me what he wanted me to be. But that's probably what bothered Eric about me: through it all, I was more of who he wanted to be than he was.
Either that or he was gay for me. I'll probably never know.
