Tom and the Sociopath Bully

Some bullies have an aura around them that says they are tough and will not be broken. Generally, schoolyard bullies enjoy the power and esteem of harassing a person who will not stand up to them; however, there exist a class of bullies that do not fear opposition. If you beat this type to a pulp, they will just come after you with a knife or a gun later, so it is best to avoid tangling with them.

Thomas sat back in his office chair. As a criminal defense attorney in Sin City, he had no shortage of clients. Unlike many other criminal defense attorneys who wanted money and did not care whom they represented, Thomas always sought innocent people to represent. First time offenders or people who were truly not guilty of the crime charged kept his client base small and exclusive. Yet he was busy because he found that it was often harder work to represent the innocent than the guilty.

Thomas decided long ago that he did not want to represent sociopaths. Even though sociopaths could be repeat business, they have a tendency to lie to get their way and resort to violence when they do not get their way, or just for the hell of it. Thomas did not need to worry about this element when innocent people required justice. Besides, good people paid their legal fees with honest money.

After his ten-year high school reunion, Thomas thought about those who did not attend. One in particular, John, was a bully that followed Tom through twelve years of public schooling, and every several years they had a run in. John was a stocky kid who was probably beaten at home by abusive parents and did not care about pain. He also hung with a rough crowd and seemed to enjoy violence for the sake of violence, and not for another reason. Thomas thought about some of the fights he and his brothers had against John and his gang.

In fifth grade, Tommy and his twin third grade brothers rode their bicycles home from elementary school together. John and a gang of five fifth graders saw them and started to chase, calling them every imaginative name they could muster with their limited four-letter vocabularies. Tommy’s dad, Noland, happened to drive down the street toward them in his truck and stopped.

“What’s going on?” he yelled across the street.

Tommy crossed as the five fifth graders pulled up behind his brothers, “They are chasing us. They want to beat us up.”

“Go tell them you’ll fight them, then,” Noland said. Noland always believed that standing up to bullies would make them leave you alone. But, he did not know John. To Noland, John just looked like another little fifth grader. He did not see the monster in the child.

Tommy walked back over to his brothers and faced the gang, which outnumbered and out-sized them, “I’ll take you all on!” he shouted angrily.

Over the next several minutes, the three brothers and the five fifth graders tussled. Fifth graders would pick up the younger boys and throw them down. Finally, a school crossing guard and some parents from down the street pulled up and threatened to call the police and the school, which effectively ended the melee.

Tommy and his brothers rode toward home and John and his gang followed. Noland stopped John and Tommy on the side of the street to figure out what happened while the other boys rode on.

“They called my mother a f*cking whore,” John lied without blinking.

“What!” Noland’s face contorted with fury. He set his beer can on his seat, reached out, and slapped Tommy across the face. “Get home! I’ll deal with you when I get there!”

Tommy rode home in tears. His own father did not let him speak to defend himself. Noland had just undermined the whole effort in fighting the bullies. John now knew that he could harass Tommy and Tommy would not even have the support of his own father. When Noland arrived home, his three sons endured hours of Marine corps punishment, including “dirty doubles” and other physical exercises, picking up cigarette butts along the street, and instructions on how to fight well into the evening. Tommy remembers the stench of alcohol, as this was a few years before his father gave up his addiction.

Over the next several years, Tommy avoided John in every way he could, but sometimes it was unavoidable. When Tommy had to take a bus to school in sixth and seventh grade, John knew where to find Tommy. One day in eighth grade, Tommy had just exited the bus on his way home and John, with his teenage friends in their car, chased him. Tommy ran through private yards and jumped fences. When he thought he was in the clear, he continued on foot down the road toward home, only to have John pull up near him.

John got out of the car and ran over to Tommy, who stood burdened with a violin and a book bag. Tommy was out of breath from the running and jumping he had just done. Adrenalin coursed through his veins, telling him to flee and hide instead of stand and fight.

To Tommy’s later shame, he stood there as John pushed him up against a wall, “Please, leave me alone,” Tommy struggled saying, “I have asthma, and you could kill me.” Tommy did not have asthma, but he did not want to fight this kid who had teen-aged friends and who already had Tommy’s father on his side. The adrenalin seemed to flood into his stomach, his arms felt heavy.

“You’re a weak, girly piece of sh*t,” John slapped Tommy across the face. Tommy just stood there, holding his violin. “You’re not worth it,” John punched Tommy in the stomach and then sauntered back to the car.

Tommy never told another person of this humiliating experience.

A few years later, Tom and his brothers were walking up a neighborhood street toward Frenchman Mountain with a friend. They planned to hike to the top and look down on Las Vegas. On the way, John and a couple of other kids spotted them and John decided to have some fun. He told a kid who was riding a kick scooter to run into Tom’s brother’s ankles.

“Go ahead, they won’t do anything,” Tom could hear John tell the other kid.

Tom was now fifteen and fed up. He, his brothers, and his friend outnumbered the three bullies. As the scooter was about to hit his brother’s ankle, Tom swung around and punched the kid in the face. Over the next fifteen minutes, the boys fought. Tom would punch and block in the normal boxing style. The other kid obviously did not know how to fight, and dove at Tom several times like a football tackle. On one of the tackles, Tom grabbed the kid’s shoulders and threw him to the ground with jujitsu, then sat on his stomach while pinning his arms.

“Give up!” Tom demanded.

“No way!” the kids retorted.

Tom then punched the kid in the face again so that his head bounced off the cement of the driveway they fell onto. “Give up!”

“No.”

Tom bounced the kid’s head off the cement a few more times. “I could kill you, you know.” Tom stated coolly.

“I don’t care,” the kid said. Apparently, the kid wanted to save face in front of John--the instigator, the ringleader.

Tom hit him a few more times, “Concussions can be serious--give up!”

“No!”

“Ok, let’s call it even. Neither has to give up, let’s just walk away.”

“I’ll get you off of me and then you’re done!” was the weak response.

Tom slammed the kid in the head a couple more times. The old man who lived in the home whose property they were on came out and threatened to call the police if they didn’t get off his property.

“Call the police!” Tom yelled, but the old man mumbled, "snotty brat" and ignored Tom.

“I’m letting you up, now. We can walk away from this with all of our teeth. I haven’t knocked any of yours out yet, but if I get you down like this again, you’ll need to see a dentist.”

Once up, the stubborn boy wanted to keep fighting. “You’re bleeding,” Tom pointed out, “and you probably don’t have a headache yet, but you will. I can block what you throw all day long. You’ve barely touched me. Let’s just call it a truce.”

The kid reluctantly decided to take the advice.

The crowd of neighborhood kids that had come to audience the fight disbanded as Tom and Co. continued their hike. John and his beaten bully went the other way.

That had been the last incident that Thomas can remember involving John. Thomas gazed at his computer monitor and decided to type John’s name into the criminal database to learn whether John ever had been incarcerated. Sure enough, John had a long rap sheet and was currently in prison for twelve years. John had assaulted several people with a weapon and also committed armed robbery.

“John was a sociopath as a kid, and he is to this day,” Thomas thought, “Nope, not the kind of client I would represent. The amygdala is just a little too small to be helped. The public defenders can have that joy.”

Tom and the After School Spit in the Eye

Ms. James was a beautiful “Careers” teacher, perhaps in her mid-twenties when Tom took the class as a requirement for eleventh grade. This was one of the few classes where Tom had to spend time with average and below-average students because all of his other classes were designated “Honors” or “Distinguished Scholar” for students that had college in mind. Tom never liked the required classes that contained students with mixed motivations about school because he felt bored, unchallenged, and frustrated with the clowns that caused problems. These classes included Driver’s Ed, PE, Careers, and Health. One reason Tom took Naval Junior ROTC in high school was to avoid the morons in PE.

At the desk next to Tom sat Woran, a stocky teen with a scar on his forehead. Tom and Woran had gone to the same schools for many years but rarely had classes together, so Tom knew almost nothing of Woran. As Ms. James spoke about résumés, Woran started talking loud enough for his neighbors to hear:

“I’m going to f*ck that hot b*tch after class.”

Tom glanced over at Woran, but held his breath.

“She gonna get it long and hard.”

Woran was bobbing his head with a smirk and was obviously referencing Ms. James. As he was about to speak again, Tom leaned across the aisle and said, “Be quiet!”

“Boy you gonna get it!” Woran threatened.

Ms. James then called across the classroom, “Something you two need to say?”

Tom and Woran said nothing.

Tom went the rest of the day without thinking about the incident. After school, he strapped his violin to the back of his bicycle, adjusted his backpack over his shoulders, and headed for home.

At about the mile mark, a car of teenagers veered up next to him, and drove to keep pace alongside Tom’s bicycle. He heard someone from the backseat shout, that’s him. Tom saw that it was Woran. The teen in the passenger seat shouted, “Faggot!” and hurled spit which landed in Tom’s eye.

Tom quickly considered his options. There were five boys in the car, two in the front, three in the back. The only one he recognized was Woran. The street was vacant except for them. Should he drop his bike and run? Should he stop and throw his bike at the car and fight? This looked like a gang, and so they very likely had weapons. Was it worth losing his teeth or his life? Was it worth killing one of them?

Tom swiveled his bike around and up onto the side walk. He sped around a corner onto a street in a residential neighborhood. The car flipped and followed him. At 15 miles per hour, the car drove two feet behind him, threatening to run him over if he stopped or fell. Tom headed for a house, drove up the driveway, dropped his bike, ran up to the front door, and knocked and rang the bell furiously. A woman answered, without opening.

“Please, call the police. I’m being attacked by a gang. This is Tom.”

The car of boys left while Tom waited an hour for the police to arrive and escort him home. Tom was so upset that he stormed down the hallway to his room, ripped off his jacket while yelling at his parents that he needed a car, and swung the jacket with the intent of it landing in his bedroom. Instead, the jacket snagged the overhead light fixture in the hallway and shattered it. That night, as he took out his violin to practice, he found that it was completely out of tune from the violent bike ride. He was lucky. The violin was a family heirloom passed down from his Grandmother in Switzerland. It could easily have been destroyed had he not exercised the better part of discretion and ran for safety.

The next day Tom went to the Principal’s office to make a statement about the attack. As he walked in, he noticed the kid who spat on him sitting in a chair. Upon seeing Tom, the kid went down on his knees. He was crying.

“Dude, I’m so sorry about yesterday. Please don’t report on me. I don’t wanna go to juvie again.”

Tom looked at him for a second, “Why should I care? You spat on me.”

The kid begged, “I’m so sorry. I’ll make sure no one messes with you anymore. You won’t have to worry. Please don’t report.” His voice stammered and choked as a new volley of tears fell forth.

“I don’t need you looking out for me. I didn’t have a problem until you ruined my day yesterday. Am I going to have to get a rabies shot? You don’t have rabies or AIDS, do you?” Tom had zero respect for this punk begging for mercy. “If I don’t report you and you kill me, no one will think it was you who did it. If I end up killing you, no one will understand why if I don’t report you. Next time, think before you act!”

Tom went on to write his report. He mentioned Woran and described the other gang members. While there, he noticed another student in his class also writing a report. He learned this other student had been attacked by the same gang moments before they targeted Tom. They held him up at knife point and stole his jacket.

The remainder of that year and the following year, Tom did not see any of the gang again.

Eleven years later, at Tom’s ten year high school reunion, a tall slender man walked over to him. This man looked like the movie star Will Smith and carried himself in a respectable manner. Tom glanced up, then glanced up again. It was a taller, leaner version of Woran. They shook hands and Woran stated that he was now a high-ranking official in the United States Navy. Tom, on the other hand, was a Las Vegas criminal defense attorney.

Tom shared his memory of the attack all those years back and that he did not hold a grudge. Woran said that he was in a different mind-set back then. Tom thanked Woran for his service in the military, especially during a time of war, and they parted as friends who would keep in touch.

Tom wonders what happened to the kid that spat in his face all those years ago, but he had long since forgotten the kid’s name.

Spelling Bee Given by Illiterate Screwel Employee

It was lunch period at Von Toilet Bowl Tommy’s nickname for his favorite school in the seventh grade. A small group of thugs encircled him on the playground. One of the bullies shoved him and yelled, “Wanna fight $#!+head?”

Tommy’s backpack fell off his shoulder from the push. His marine father would not have taken this treatment from anyone. An adult playground monitor stood nearby, vigilantly monitoring, but doing nothing to help.

“You’re going to die,” the bully shouted as he shoved again. “I’ll shove that violin you play up your @$!”

The other thugs chuckled at Tommy’s torment.

Tommy punched the bully in the left eye hard enough to knock him to the ground.

The monitor sprang to the rescue, while calling bravely on his walkie-talkie for backup. He and his brave backup dragged Tommy and the bully to the Dean’s office.

Tommy had thought his fighting days were over after moving to Von Toilet Bowl Junior High from the sixth grade center in the bad neighborhood the year before.

Not so.

Tommy sat in the dean’s reception area facing a wall that was one big window looking out into the hall. The bully stood in the hall taunting him with his middle finger and making evil faces. Why was Tommy in the dean’s office and the troublemaker apparently free out in the hall? The injustice made Tommy tear up.

The secretary noticed Tommy’s tears, “Need a hanky honey?”

“Why is he free out there while I’m still in here?” asked Tommy, sounding somewhat meeker than he had intended.

“Oh, he’s not out there. He’s in the other room.”

“I saw him through the glass out there. He just flipped me off and threatened me. I could read his lips.”

The secretary rolled her eyes and dialed Tommy’s parents for the inevitable meeting – the meeting that would precipitate punishment for violating the zero-tolerance fighting rule.

Tommy would later learn that the bully had an identical twin, which explained why the bully in the window did not have a black eye. For the following two weeks, the identical twins were not so identical.

The Dean could have suspended Tommy, as he did with the bully. Instead, he punished Tommy with “in-house” suspension for three days, so Tommy wouldn’t miss school and his grades would not suffer. Tommy spent his suspension in a room with bad kids, isolated from everyone. He even had to eat lunch there.

Tommy’s sense of justice was shattered. He cried in front of his parents and the dean. The school did not care whether he lived or died. Kids could knife him while the monitor watched and did nothing, but the moment he defended himself, he was in trouble.

The Dean seemed genuinely concerned, “May I give your son something to read?”

It was the poem “If” by Rudyard Kipling. It was the Dean’s way to show that he disagreed with the school district’s draconian policy. The poem would comfort Tommy when faced with injustice in the years to come.

If you can keep your head when all about you
Are losing theirs and blaming it on you;
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,
But make allowance for their doubting too;
If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,
Or, being lied about, don’t deal in lies,
Or, being hated, don’t give way to hating,
And yet don’t look too good, nor talk too wise;
…
Yours is the Earth and everything that’s in it,
And – which is more – you’ll be a Man my son!

The rest of the year, no bully bothered Tommy. The mark of courage he punched into the bully’s eye lasted long enough to get the point across that Tommy should be left alone.

During in-house suspension, the school hosted a school-wide spelling bee for students in honors English classes. The winners would compete with the winners of other schools in the county, and eventually the State. Tommy knew he was by no means the best speller in the school.

The in-house suspension monitor called him to her desk to administer the test for the spelling bee. None of the other suspended students there were honors students, so only Tommy would take the test. The monitor was to read a word, and then Tommy would write it down correctly. Then the monitor would take Tommy’s list to his teacher.

Frequently, she did not know how to pronounce the word she was to read, and showed the word to Tommy before he wrote it down.

“I not sure how this word sounds. What you think?”

Tommy looked at the word, “Oh, that’s mnemonic (nuh-mon-ik).”

“Ok, what about this word?”

Tommy looked at the list again, glancing up and down it quickly before stating, “Oh, that’s pneumonia (nuh-moan-e-uh).”

After completing the list of twenty words, Tommy went back to his carrel desk and smiled. He could have written them all correctly, but he purposefully misspelled a few. He did not want to be the spelling bee champion of the school only to lose against another school.

In spite of his efforts, it was a three-way tie. The three top scorers went to the principal’s office for another bee to select the final representative. The other two students were eighth-graders, a year older than Tommy. Tommy did not win. He remembers one of the words that the principal told him sounded like “lawn-jer-ay,” a word Tommy had never heard before, spelled l-i-n-g-e-r-i-e. Tommy could not believe it. Later, he found the word in a dictionary and learned it was French for women’s undergarments.

“I thought it was supposed to be an English spelling bee,” he later told his English teacher. She was surprised he had scored so high the first time but came in last the second.

“Besides,” he added, “I don’t know much about women’s underwear!”