Taking careful inventory in the quiet of my shared bedroom like a civil war quartermaster preparing for an onslaught, I lightly ran my hands over the perfectly placed composite doppelgangers. There was a gap. What was missing from our arsenal? Immediately a scene from the recently viewed "9 Deaths of the Ninja" forged in my brain and made it crystal clear: a blow gun. Thinking back, it seemed like a good idea at the time. I mean, I could think of no better way to spend an entire school day in Mrs. Uhl's 3rd grade class than building my own air-powered death tube. I carefully constructed the barrel out of rolled construction paper, ensuring the diameter was consistent for the entire length. The dart itself was fashioned from a straight pin from Mrs. Uhl's little desk pig and a ball of scotch tape acting as the projectile body. I had 8 full hours to kill and I intended on using every last publicly funded moment to hew my aboriginal death-dealer. As I reflect even now, I question the inferred omnipotence of the responsible parties and supervision of whom's care I was under as I walked into the afternoon sunlight, innocuous tube in tow.
Ricky was a bully. He lived between Donny and I in the complex and was often a source of my bruised cheek and swollen knuckles. Overweight and suffering from a mild case of "Uncle/Dad/Grandpa showed me he loved me with his penis", he took his frustrations, and possibly his latent homosexual feelings, on those smaller than he. Being from a lower socioeconomic class, Donny took the worst of Ricky's abuse because the "playground hierarchy" deemed it so. We made it a point to only interact with him under the confines of parental eyesite and protection.
My stomach tightened as I saw Ricky come into view. Donny swore audibly, yet just enough so only I could hear him. "Sheeit, he comin' toward us" he followed. It was now passed the point to casually head in the other direction without drawing further attention to our activities from our nemesis.
"Hey, buttholes, whatcha doing? Being gay?" Ricky had a way with words. Before I could retort, he snatched my mystical weapon of the Ninja from me and looked it over. Without a word, his eyes lit up recognizing the loaded cylinder and allowed a smirk of malice cross his oversized, spittle covered lips. With a huff from his distended belly, he aimed the blowgun in Donny's direction and exhaled sharply. I saw the dart leave the barrel and strike Donny directly in the left jugular.
Panic overcame me.
At that moment, Donny's sole parental figure rounded the corner of the cracked pavement in her aged Pontiac. Upon seeing Ricky's look of satisfaction, my look of terror and Donny holding his neck, she exited the still moving beater and roughly inspected her son like a piece of damaged fruit.
"Hee coulda blayad tah dayeth!" Diane screeched absent-mindedly in Donny's ear as she held a dirty thumb over the tiny red bump that now resembled a wasp sting. Being of limited capacity for rationalization, my 8 year old brain processed that information as "he IS going to bleed to death". The tears started. The apologies followed in between sobs. Diane looked at me with a twinge of pity, but mostly contemtuous parental scorn. The fear that enveloped me was far worse of a punishment than anything my hard working parents would inevitably dole out.
Eyes blurred by stinging salt, I felt a strong hand on the back of my neck leading me to the door of my tenement. The next moments were a confusing mixture of fear, shame and a need for self-preservation of my own ass. Knowing my propensity towards anxiety and a sense of worry over the implications of my actions, my parents took it easy and simply sent me to my room with a stern warning. It wasn't until a post-punishment reflection that I realized Donny would be the one to feel sorry for...he would be both the victim of an unprovoked straight pin puncture and a severe belting at the hands of Sancho for "being such a pussy."
(to be continued...)
