The Bully

By Roger Kiser


I walked into the Huddle House restaurant in Brunswick, Georgia, and sat down at the counter as all of the booths were taken. I picked up a menu and began to look at the various items, trying to decide if I wanted to order breakfast or just go ahead and eat lunch.

"Excuse me," said someone, as she touched me on the shoulder.

I looked up and turned to the side to see a rather nice-looking woman standing before me.

"Is your name Roger by any chance?" she asked.

"Yes," I responded, looking rather confused as I had never seen her before.

"My name is Barbara and my husband is Tony," she said, pointing to a distant table near the door leading into the bathrooms.

I looked where she was pointing but did not recognise the man sitting alone at the table.

"I'm sorry ... I don't think I know you guys. But my name is Roger. Roger Kiser," I told her.

"Tony Claxton. Tony from Landon High School in Jacksonville, Florida?" she asked me.

"I'm really sorry. The name doens't ring a bell."

She turned, walked back to her table and sat down. She and her husband immediately began talking and once in a while, I would see her turn around in her seat and look directly at me.

I finally decided to order breakfast and a cup of decaffeinated coffee. I sat there racking my brain, trying to remember who this Tony was.

"I must know him," I thought to myself. "He recognises me for some reason." I picked my coffee up adn took a sip. All of a sudden it came to me like a flash of lightning.

"Tony. TONY THE BULL," I mumbled, as I swung around on my stool and faced his direction. "The bully of my seventh grade Geography class."

How many times had that sorry guy made fun of my big ears in front of the girls in class? How many times had this sorry son-of-a-gun laughed at me because I had no parents and had to live in an orphanage? How many times had this big bully slammed me up against the lockers in the hallway just to make himself look like a big man to all the other students?

He raised his hand and waved. I smiled, returned the wave, turned back and began to eat my breakfast.

"Jesus. He's so thin now. Not the big burly guy I remember from back in 1957," I thought to myself.

All of a sudden I heard the sound of dishes breaking so I spun around to see what had happened. Tony had knocked several plates off the table as he tried to get into his wheelchair, which had been parked in the bathroom hallway while they were eating. The waitress ran over and started picking up the broken dishes as I listened as Tony and his wife tried to apologise.

As Tony rolled by me, pushed by his wife, I looked up and I smiled.

"Roger," he said, as he nodded.

"Tony," I responded, nodding my head in return.

I watched as they went out of the door and slowly made their way to a large van which had a wheelchair loader located on its side door.

I sat and watched as his wife tried, again and again, to get the ramp to come down. But it just would not work. Finally I got up, paid for my meal, and walked up to the van.

"What's the problem?"

"Darn thing sticks once in a while," said Tony.

"Could you help me get him in the van?" asked his wife.

"I think I can do that," I said, as I grabbed the wheelchair and rolled Tony over to the passenger door.

I opened the door and locked the brakes on the wheelchair.

"Okay. Arms around the neck, Dude," I said as I reached down, grabbed him around the waist and carefully raised him up onto the passenger seat.

As Tony let go of my neck, I reached over and swung his limp, lifeless legs, one at a time, into the van so that they could be stationed directly in front of him.

"You remember, don't you?" he said, looking into my eyes.

"I remember, Tony."

"I guess you're thinking, 'What goes around comes around'," he said softly.

"I would never think like that, Tony," I said, with a stern look on my face.

He reached over, grabbed both my hands and squeeze them tightly.

"Is how I feel in the wheelchair how you felt way back then when you lived in the orphan home?"

"Almost, Tony. You are very lucky. You have someone to push you around who loves you. I didn't have anyone."

I reached in my picket, pulled out one of my cards and handed it to him. "Give me a call. We'll do lunch."

We both laughed. I stood there watching as they drove toward the interstate and finally disappeared onto the southbound ramp. I hope he calls me sometime. He will be the only friend I have from my high school days.

Story sent in to Starmag by Vincent.