BB am I: There's a buzz in my head, like some hornet locked inside a car.

Bear with me.

***

Why do people just randomly do or say mean things to me? Why can't we be nice? Did some sort of memo come out that it's okay to pick on me?

Kindergarten, first day... it's all new, I'm checking things out, and two kids chase me down and punch me in the ear. I was younger than Wolfboy, and I'd been in my first scrap. I didn't fare well.

And that's how it so often went with bullies. So often I'd think, Do you think I'm someone else? Why are you being mean to ME?

Second grade, some older kid who looked like the redheaded bully in A Christmas Story kept finding it amusing to jump out at me from nowhere and yell "Rabies!" at me. I had no idea what the hell that was all about. One day between buildings he picked up a rock, threw it, and hit me in the head. It cut me, and he got busted, bigtime. I never saw him again after that.

Later in elementary school... some kid name Paul from down the street decides he wants to run me off the road as I ride my bike. He's swerving at me, saying belligerent crap to me, and I'm just overwhelmed with how... random it seems.

We built up a full head of steam that school year, talking some trash. Finally one day after school we both ended up at the playground, with a circle of older kids around us, goading us on. We were supposed to fight. We exchanged punches, and I popped him one that sent him to the ground. In my mind, I'd whipped his ass. I turned to walk home and the tears just burst out of me.

The rumor at the school the next day was that I'd lost the fight.

Or later... fifth grade? Again, some random, big older kid found it amusing to chase me around as I rode my bike. He was a real gorilla, and I had no idea what he'd do if he caught me. He chased me one day, and I was almost home, almost home... I looked behind me, and when I looked back, something happened and I went headfirst over the handlebars, onto the asphalt. I split open my eyebrow, scraped the skin off of my cheek, shoulder, elbow, arm and knee. That took a trip to the ER, and stitches. I have that scar under my eyebrow to this day. IT HURT LIKE HELL.

I never saw him again either.

I could go on and on like this, naming the bullies. I fought with that kid Paul a few times, and I won every time. Why wouldn't he leave me the hell alone?

On into junior high... a shoving match in the locker room early in 7th grade, me and some kid whose last name was Hunt (Bruiser probably knows who I mean). He had that crazy look in his eyes, and later he very calmy produced a throwing star and told me that if I didn't watch it he'd bury the thing in my back one day.

Or Chizer, same year... that sumbitch tossed me around like a rag doll. They put a handful of terrified advanced class students in a gym class with several students who were clearly bound for prison. Don't laugh, it's not a joke.

Chizer was a beast, claimed he drove to the junior high. All I could do was go into passive resistance and hope to survive.

Run-ins in high school, like with that kid Van, or that kid Hebert, who put a wooden knife he'd made in shop class up to my throat one day. The art teacher didn't do shit as he held me there like some hostage, and I thought, I hope this idiot realizes that thing might really cut me if he runs it across my throat..

I saw Hebert some years back. That crazy Cajun was hanging off the back of a garbage truck. Serves you right, I thought. Then I realized he probably made more than I.

And on and on. Muggers at a Foreigner concert. A pistol-wielding redneck in Danbury, Texas. A homeless guy in 1990 in downtown Austin who wanted to fight me for my last quarter as I waited for the bus.

Or how about last year? A kid at Blockbuster wants to scream at me for not leaving my parking spot on his schedule. Or a strangely buff homeless kid terrorizes a park full of families, mine being one of them, here in Hurst? Or the stranger who burst into the daycare and wouldn't leave?

Or even little stuff... yesterday, at a snack bar, I asked the gal behind the counter if they take plastic. She snickered a "no" and rolled her eyes at me. I snapped, "You have a credit card machine RIGHT THERE. It's a reasonable question."

***

I mean to walk in peace. I think it's the way our creator wants it. In every situation that's become ugly, I've been reacting. Reacting.

I desire peace. I do.

I don't think I'm tough, but I've gotta say I get tired of being a target. For every time the average person has watched American Idol or Everybody Loves Raymond in the last 18 months, I probably went to the gym and sweated and improved and generally got one more inkling of an idea of how to handle myself.

Tool number one to get out of a pinch is intelligence, and it's served me okay so far.

But you know, as often as I get backed into a corner, it just makes me wonder sometimes.

And this is a shameful post in a way, and I apologize. I don't mean this to be foreshadowing, or to mean that I intend to pop someone one day soon. Those things get you sent to jail.

Heck, a couple days ago someone screamed at Whit's wife, and suddenly he got to be the Angry Sifu. The old fool may have had no idea that he was dealing with someone who could break his neck two dozen different ways.

But this is Whit, and he said: "This is modern day; we settled it with words."

I have every intention of doing the same.

And you know, I'd like to hear some kind words once in a while.

***