Wet Grass and Hair Oil
On facing an old schoolyard bully again on facebook
Hair oil…
and body odour…
… and the taste of wet grass and mud at the back of my throat.
#
I’m staring at the popup window in Facebook. Takes me a moment to realize that my hands are frozen an inch over the keyboard, like funny grotesque zombie claws.
I’m stuck in time.
A message blinks in the window.
“Hi, remember me?”
I look at the name of the sender. I swallow an imaginary lump, and suddenly I realize I have held my breath.
“This is CD from your old school, asshole.”
#
I’m eleven again.
#
“Why’re you taking so long, pig f**ker?”
#
I feel his knee on my back. CD and his friends are holding me face down in the schoolyard, my face buried in the slushy grass, freshly wet from a recent shower. I want to scream, but I know that’ll only bring more of the same. His weight is on his knee, it’s digging hard into my spine now. I’ve held my breath for far too long now. I need to breathe. The pain isn’t helping. The mud stings my eyes, especially the left one with the shiner I just got two minutes back. I don’t even remember how it started. I’m there.
So are CD and his friends.
#
There’s a faint familiar smell that I’ve grown to associate with these increasingly frequent beatings.
#
“Hey bastard, I know you’re getting my messages.”
#
Hair oil. CD wears his hair slicked back with a generous helping of hair oil. He’s bigger than the rest of the class, and older too. I don’t know why he took a special “liking” to me. Doesn’t matter.
#
“Become a big shot now, huh? Too big to answer me?”
#
Body odour.
I don’t know why he smells. The hair oil is testament to his regular bathing. A medical condition, perhaps?
The white uniform shirt of the school is a dead giveaway of his problem. Even the first time I saw him, I couldn’t help but notice the yellow patches of dried perspiration that snuck out from under his armpits, almost halfway up to his shoulders.
#
“Remember how we used to f**k you up? You used to cry like a girl.”
#
I need to breathe now, but I’m afraid. The slush threatens to get into my nose, as CD pushes me down more. I’ve shut my mouth hard, curling the lips inwards to form a watertight seal over my mouth.
“Make him drink it.”, one of his cronies drools.
I know that voice.
“C’mon, CD. Do it.”, another familiar voice snarls.
“Look at him, like a fat little piggy.”, CD rejoices in my utter helplessness.
“Here piggy, piggy. Open wide.”
His hands are pushing my head even deeper, as he applies pressure on the small of my back with his knee. The pain is unbearable.
I open my mouth in desperation. The eager sludge slips in, rushes down my throat.
Gag reflex.
I sputter through that unholy mess of the school yard. Something gets through the neanderthal instincts of the brute, maybe he realizes I’m choking bad. I feel the grip the back of my head relax.
My head snaps back up.
I’m gasping for air.
The recess bell rings.
#
“What the f**k? Too important to answer me now, Little Piggy?”
“F**k you, man. You’ve become a total snob. Well you might’ve changed, I’m still the same — the same bad boy as ever.”
#
“Dad, why are you crying?”
It’s Adya. I didn’t notice when she came into the room. Am I crying?
“Nothing, baby. How was your day?”
She doesn’t answer. Suddenly she walks over and hugs me.
I’m crying harder. Her hug tightens.
Somewhere on my screen another message blinks. I don’t look at it.
#
I think I can smell wet grass and hair oil.
