I was ten-years old, and we were about to make a move from Arch Street in St. Paul, Minnesota, to Cayuga Street, and I was walking my neighborhood feeling pretty good about that, a ting scared of what it would be like, but nonetheless, an exciting time for me to live I thought; one of my friends from St. Louis School was moving also, and it was sad to say goodbye, and I felt he was so lucky, now I was part of this panorama (or so I felt). I passed the top of the hill, we lived down it: almost in the middle of the hill it seemed, and I saw nearby the monkey, the old man kept in his backyard, funny I thought, a monkey, I’ve seen it many times, but this day was different, in a month or so I’d be gone, perhaps this would be the last time I saw his monkey. I snuck a few times (in previous years) in his backyard to see that monkey; the old man chased me away whenever he caught staring at his monkey, a few feet from him (or her). And the grocery store, more on the ca ndy level for me, was about four blocks away, I was somewhere in-between, and crossing an empty lot.
It was my last year at St. Louis School, and I had just got my polio shot. As I was now going on 10-years old, almost, but not quite; thus, as I was walking through the empty lot, six boys followed me. A few looked familiar, vaguely though. One of the six boys came up to me, left the grips of the other five, and pushed me, shoved me for no reason; excited, and confused I said, “Why…” couldn’t think of another word. Perhaps he didn’t like my red hair, or my Irish temper, or my Russian bulldog head.
I looked at him again, he looked angry, and he pushed me again, and I pushed him, but I pushed him so hard, you could hear him fly unto the ground with a thump. He got back up, looked at the other five, and was unsure what to do now. I was asking him, and myself at the same time: why do you want to fight me, what did I do. There was no r eal answer, it was as I guessed, my red hair I suppose. And when you get five men or boys together, they normally go over the edge in such case, as this one would prove.
“I just don’t like you,” said the boy, and he pushed me again, and I pushed him again, and he fell again onto the ground, and got madder, but was not capable of doing much beyond falling. But then the circle of boys got closer to me, they surrounded me, pushed me back and forth like a yo-yo… and I fell a half dozen times, and when I got up, they pushed me back down again (there was more pushing going on than punches, if I remember correct). I assured myself I would not, would not give them tears, (what they all wanted to see I believe), so I grabbed sand and threw it in their faces, jumped up, and ran back down the hill to my home, Grandpa’s house where I lived. I was much faster than they, and so I was saved, but now the tears came.
Mother was in the kitchen, she sa w me crying and asked, “What happened?” then she examined me, my cloths were dirty, not torn: had they been she would have gotten mad at the kids and perhaps ran to their parents house and asked them to pay, but again I say, it was pride coming out in the form of tears, and no worn to shreds, cloths. She looked, “Sorry,” she said, “but I can’t do a thing for you, if you want to win a fight, you got to learn how to fight, or run.” Her philosophies in life were simple.
Perhaps that is why, when we moved to the house on Cayuga Street, I started weight lifting, and in the years to follow learned Karate, and out of the many fights I had, I can’t remember losing one, but I must have I’m sure.
See Dennis' web site: http://dennissiluk.tripod.com
Author:: Dennis Siluk
Keywords:: Short Story
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