I can't forget "Fatty McFarland". I remember the day he got what was coming to him. I can still feel the warmth of his blood as it soaked my shirt. I can smell his breath.
Fatty was the Astrodome with legs, not solid, just big. Put him on a spit over a fire for an afternoon and he would melt down into a nice bracelet charm.
Possessing absolutely no other talent, Fatty became a bully.
I was built more like a praying mantis, and that's what I did when Fatty approached. I had guts, but size trumps guts. Fighting Fatty was a lot like wedging your body under a Buick.
I didn't have a lot of talent either, so I became Fatty's punching bag, albeit a reluctant one. I apparently did that job satisfactorily since Fatty used me often.
Then one day Fatty got what he deserved. He never touched me again, nor did he even come close enough to me again to offend me with his horrible body odor and bad breath. It was rumored that Fatty bought his breath mints from a rabbit farmer.
It was a spring day and as I waded home from school in the gutter water after a shower, I saw Fatty ahead of me splashing in a large puddle at the next intersection.
Why didn't I select another route home, you might well ask?
The answer is simple, or, maybe it isn't simple. Anyway, all my life there has been camped out in a pup tent deep in the wilderness of my soul an impish, little Huck Finn sprite that would rather see me beaten to a pulp than called chicken. His nickname is "Stupid".
Seconds later, I approached Fatty McFarland. He mouthed off. I told him to go rent himself out to a church picnic for shade, and the war was on.
Fatty wasn't tough, just big. All our fights were the same. He grabbed me, I hit him four or five times and he fell on top of me. That's it.
My punches were ineffective. His blubber was so thick that if I hit him on Thanksgiving Day he felt it on Christmas.
With Fatty spread comfortably (for him) atop me, there was nothing to do but endure his bad breath and body odor. His odor was a combo of wet dogs and ammonia; it made used kitty litter smell like potpourri.
But this was the day that Fatty would get his recompense, the day his ducks came home to roost, clock-cleaning day, it was Fatty's payday, and his check would be delivered by my sister, who, unbeknownst to either of us, was drawing nigh.
Closer and closer she came, until she noticed that the muddy lump upon which Fatty sat was her little brother.
Timeout here. To fully appreciate this story, you need a sketch of my sister. She was serious and determined. If Fatty was the Astrodome, my sister was Houston, the difference being that my sister was made of saddle-leather. Back to the story.
She calmly approached Fatty, and swung her heavy, metal lunch bucket at his head. Now, these were the days before OSHA required air-bags, rounded corners, padded protrusions and the abolition of all potentially harmful components on every product sold in America .
The lunch bucket had square corners. You could slice ham on those corners.
My sister got way more than she bargained for.
The gash in Fatty's head started just above his right ear and tracked down to his lip. I felt a warm sensation spread across my back. From that puddle in Iowa, Fatty's screams broke eardrums in Cleveland .
Believe it or not, my sister wasn't done.
She jerked Fatty off my blood-and-mud-stained body, flipped him on his back and sat on him.
"Like it?" she asked.
As a crimson flower blossomed around Fatty's head in the muddy puddle water, she calmly told him if he ever touched me (or breathed on me) again, his little head cut would look like a fly speck on our water tower and he would mysteriously disappear from the streets of our town forever.
Fatty ran (well, fast-waddled) home screaming.
If this happened today, attorneys would be swirling thicker than Starbucks coffee.
In 1947, we heard nothing. Nothing from Fatty, nothing from his parents, nothing from anyone. That's the way it was in 1947. Your kid came home bleeding, you basted it with mercurochrome, installed a big bandage and chalked it up to life .
Today the first call goes to the attorney. Then, if the kid hasn't bled to death by the time the litigation is planned and after the jury photos are taken, the ambulance would be called.
From that day forward, I was free of Fatty McFarland. It wasn't a rose garden, however. My sister sometimes over-collected on my debt to her to the extent that I often wished Fatty was back. He wasn't as heavy as my sister. Of course, she smelled better.
Anyway, to this day, I'm not real crazy about bad breath, BO and Buicks parked on my chest.
Be sure to read the article titled:
Cramps, Greasy Fast-Food, Political Correctness, Intestinal Disorders, on this website by the same author.
