My First Fight

Confessions of a short, recovering book addict.

Hi. My name is Timothy Tweed and I’m a recovering book addict. I am also a short guy.

When I was in the sixth grade, I was obsessed, you could say, like most pubescent boys, with two things: Sex and violence. Upon reflection, I am astounded at how many times we see these two words linked together now days. Nevertheless, it is not my purpose here to rhapsodize on the sad condition of morality and culture in the U.S., which might have been implied by the mere mention of those two oh-so-enticing subjects. I cannot, of course, speak from any moral high ground, having been raised on The Dukes of Hazzard and Charlie’s Angels. Alas, so many of my generation were spoon-fed this type of violent soft-core crap, that it really is no wonder that we are in such a mess these days. But I digress…

No, my purpose here rather, is to rhapsodize on the random rites of passion I endured and how my book abuse led to the tattered cover of a man I am now. For you see, unlike my fellow classmates, besides sex and violence, I was obsessed with books. Everything about books. From the texture and images of the covers to the dank, earthy smell that some of the old ones had. Each unread book was a new conquest brimming with the potential to yield so much information with each fresh, crackling spread of the pages. Books were my friends. They led me by the hand and took me to new worlds. You probably wouldn’t understand. Anyway, I started out on The Hardy Boys, like most, and then I got turned on to Judy Blume. That’s how it was with me. First the juvenile section and then I eventually got into the adult stuff. Stuff I had no business knowing at such a young and impressionable age. I think I maybe went too far too fast. The books told me so much and so much of it was false.

Like sex, for example. I didn’t have much experience with girls…well, none actually. At first, most of my conception of the anatomy of the opposite sex came from the JC Penney’s catalogue which was kept in my family’s bathroom. But so much was left to my imagination that I became a little scared about what actually be underneath those bras and panties. For example, it was obvious that some women clearly had two breasts. But through pictures and personal encounters, I was convinced that some women had only one long breast, taking the place of the two. Later, I heard a name for this effect… the uni-boob. Of course, I had heard that, to my surprise girls did not have penises but what they did have in its place, was not clear to me in any definable way. I remember at this time in life, referring myself to the Biblical story of Adam and Eve. To make sense of the anatomical differences between the sexes, I imagined that when God split Adam to make Eve, the penis was on the “male side” of the incision, leaving Eve with nothing. Thank God, this is not true. In fact, my understanding of the whole concept of “where babies come from” was pitifully confused with certain eliminatory functions. Somehow, giving birth must be like taking a crap, I thought. A really big, long one.

Needless to say, as a result of all these books and stories, I guess I was a shy around girls. But I had a gentle crush on Jill. Yes, she was the girl next door. When she first moved in to the neighborhood, I held her hand and walked her to school, showing her the parentally-approved path to Roosevelt Elementary. She was afraid and crying and I felt so chivalrous and…big. I wondered if a girl like her, namely a tall one, could like a little guy like me. I could only hope. Afraid as I was of the opposite sex, my book induced fears could not have been as strong as the natural curiosity which wells up in every young boy when he realizes that the mom in Family Circus comic strip has nice tits.

I turned to books to compensate for the fact that I was short, I guess. If I couldn’t be big and strong like most guys, I thought, maybe books can teach me to fight well. I checked out all the books on war and after seeing The Three Musketeers on television, I took a fancy to fencing and checked out all the fencing books and practiced the lunge and parry with a yardstick for a foil. But more than anything, I wanted to learn Kung Fu. There was, at this time, a popular television show called King Fu and I, being young and impressionable, fancied myself as a future Shaolin warrior. Being short, I was hopeful of the martial arts’ promise that size does not matter. Of course, I imagined, I would always try and avoid a fight, but if it came down to it, I’d have the Kung Fu.

The best martial arts book I found was the one with all the pictures. Secrets of Kung Fu, it was called. In two weeks, after studying the illustrated positions, titled with names like crane, tiger and serpent, I awarded myself the black belt.

One day, I gave a demonstration for Jill and some other neighborhood kids.

“First position: the crane. Stand on your left leg, with the right knee up, ready to kick. Notice my hands, pressed together as if praying yet ready to strike.”

In a flurry of hands and feet, I disabled the imaginary enemy in front of me.

“The bigger they are, the harder they fall”, I said as I clapped the imaginary dirt from my palms and glanced sideways to catch Jill’s reaction. Even though she was a good five inches taller than me, it seemed like those baby-blues twinkled up at me. She was impressed. They all were and that day we played Kung Fu instead of cops and robbers.

Then that fateful day came, like I knew it would, when I was to be forced to use the Kung Fu. I was on my way home from school, scuffing through the grocery store parking lot, a shortcut my mother had warned me about, when I crossed the path of Eric Doublex. He was a well-known bully from the fourth grade. It was rumored that he’d been held back more times than anyone in school. He was twelve going on 25 and much bigger than me.

“Hey, punk”, he started.

Now, I was anxious to avoid any problems. That was the very first lesson of Kung Fu; shun the need for violence. I looked up and just over Eric’s left shoulder. I could see my house, about a block away, sitting up on the hill. I wondered if my mom was home. I didn’t say anything. I just lowered my eyes and started to walk past him.

“Where ya going, shrimp?”

“Home.”, I said and pointed to my house. “There.”

“Isn’t that where Jill Mound lives? Next door, there?”

“Yeah.”

“She your girlfriend?”

“No.”

“Yeah? Well, she’s a slut and I fucked her last night.”

There was that word. I wasn’t sure what it meant but it always sounded bad by the way it was used. I could smell the greasy dumpster, which was next to us, exhaling it’s stench in the afternoon sun. I thought of Jill. She was my best friend and what he said…

“I dare you to say that again”, I threatened. Somewhere, courage had found me.

Eric looked at me, amused.

“Jill Mound is a slut and so is her mom. What’cha gonna do about it, shrimp? Fight me?”

“Okay.”, I said, almost convinced.

Eric raised his fists and grinned. I raised my right knee and folded my hands together, ready to strike.

“The bigger they are…”, I told myself.

Eric charged and I tried a strike to his face and shouted “Kee-yaa”, just like I had read in Secrets of Kung Fu. But I missed and he countered with a right to my gut and I folded onto the asphalt parking lot, the wind knocked out of me. I just lay there, all crumpled up and gasping for breath and looking at his tennis shoes. They were white.

“You idiot”, he said, looking down at me, “you’re supposed to aim for the stomach not the head.”

Obviously, Eric Doublex did not know Kung Fu.

Well, long after Eric had left and my breath had returned, I just stayed there on the sun-warmed asphalt of the parking lot. I don’t know how long but after awhile, amongst the sounds, blown to and fro with the wind, of passing cars and squeeling kids, I heard a familiar voice.

“Timmy, oh my God.” It was Jill.

I heard the quick footsteps as she approached and almost looked up to meet her eyes but at the last second I decided to hold in my desire and I let out a weak but audible “oohhh”.

Now, you may say to yourself that things like this just don’t happen in real life or that I have, perhaps, reached too far to make some kind of point but, nevertheless, I tell you it is true: Jill picked me up and carried me home.