There is no shortage of psychological explanations for why I was a bully in 7th and 8th grades. Missing-father syndrome, big brothers hog-tied me and left me blue in the linen closet, family fell apart when I was eight. Who knows?
I had two best friends at the time. Mike and Bird (Steve). For years we played all the sports together, both organized and pick-up. We explored, laughed, and had a normal interest in girls. All in all, nice kids.
Mike is off the hook for being a true bully, though. Mostly because he never initiated it. He stood by and watched. Thirty-some years later, he regrets his passivity. Bird was nicknamed Bogue (mean, not cool) Bird, Black-hearted Bird, among others; he initiated, and so did I. We weren’t big kids, just athletic and confident, and although none of our parents were assholes—and I mean, not one—we were.
After school, Matt Ross walked down Roanoke toward his home, and we caught up to him. In previous encounters, we punched his arms, back, chest, and pushed him over knee-high hedges for at least the previous year. We didn’t pay much attention to him, but now I realize he normally saw us coming and hid. On this day, he didn’t.
“Hey, Matt. Stop. We want to talk to you.”
“No, you don’t.”
It wasn’t much of an exchange, but it accomplished two things. First, it gave us license to punch him again because he knew it was coming. An invitation of sorts. On the other hand, had he said, “Yes? What is it?” He would have sounded stupid, as if he didn’t know.
Matt wasn’t stupid. Not that a stupid kid deserves to be bullied, but years later, meeting him at the 20-year reunion, hearing him articulate thoughts that matched the bright kid he was in 8th grade seems to make the whole experience all the more haunting. Like, in retrospect, maybe we could have been friends, under different circumstances.
“You’re right, Matt.” Bam! Bird punched him in the face. A simple hard shot to his left cheek bone. Jarring, I’m sure, but no teeth knocked loose, no black eyes, no bloody lips or noses. Just punched him the head.
Matt took a step back and placed his left hand on his face at the point of impact. He turned pale right away.
Something about his response was different. Something about Matt’s immediate stillness. He didn’t move, and even though these things happen fast, we seemed to know in about a second or two not to punch or push him again. Ever. We knew, somehow, on some level: this was over. No visible damage, no evidence, no screams, crying or flailing. Just Matt holding his face. Pale.
Matt remained still.
And one step at a time, with no words among us, Mike, Bird, and I took a step back. And then a few more. And slowly we turned, still eyeing him as though it were some kind of trick, until before we realized it, we were a block away. And then two blocks. It was time to turn the corner on Sherman Street, my street, and we would go to my adult-less house and be mindless, as usual.
But we couldn’t. In fact, we stood there, two blocks away from Matt, who remained in the exact position, hand on cheekbone, at the exact spot where Bird punched him. We stood for a good three minutes, watching, waiting, hoping he would move. Walk. Look down the street. Something. But he didn’t.
“What’s he doing?” I asked.
“I don’t have a clue,” said Bird.
“This isn’t good,” warned Mike.
So, we walked on. Matt hadn’t moved. And we never picked on him again. In fact, all our bullying days were over. That was the last time ever, for any of us.
Jump to 2004. Twenty-year high school reunion. 25 years after that day.
Everyone at the reunion interacted by all the ordinary rituals: meeting, greeting, and dancing to “Beat It” and “Thriller” and all other 80’s greats. There were the routine old and new flirts, the shoulda’s and coulda’s, and oh my god, where did s/he come from … Is that …? And so on.
Then, from across the generic hotel conference room, there was Matt. Matt Ross. The same kid I saw 25 years before, holding his pale hand against his long pale face on Roanoke and Oak Park Boulevard. Except now, he was 38 years old with well-groomed peppered hair, a chiseled and handsome face, well-dressed, and self-assured. Smart, like I remembered him. Well-spoken, like I remembered him. Good eye contact, confident, and decent, like I remembered him.
It was time.
The opportunity stared at me like it were my only chance to tell god I was sorry for all my sins. And I walked directly toward him, balancing a nervous smile with reasonable confidence to say, “I’m sorry.”
“Hey, Matt, how’s it going?”
“Hey, Flavin, what’s up?”
And the conversation was as normal as ever. Except I could only listen long enough to wait for a polite opportunity to tell him I was a piece of shit.
“Matt, I have to say, I was an ass in junior high. I have to say I’m sorry for all the shit I did.”
“Oh, don’t worry about it, Flavin. That was a long time ago.”
Wait. What? It was a long time ago? That’s it? After 25 years, I’m off the hook because time went by? No, Matt. That’s cruel. You can’t do that. You have to acknowledge that I was a dick. An asshole. A jerk. A bully. You have to say so, and you cannot, by any means, let me off the hook. It is not okay.
But that was it. He let me off the hook. And I could not argue. Somehow I knew that encouraging him to not accept my apology would only have made things worse. So I kept on with 20-year reunion-like small-talk.
The conversation was pleasant, somewhat healing, and ultimately, he made the choice to absolve me, and his choice it was. I faded into the darkness behind me, pursued other interests, and eventually forgot about the lost moment.
It was nice to see Matt.
* * *
Two years later, Devin Benner, my very good friend since 1st grade, informed me that Matt Ross committed suicide. Age 40. No other details available.
Written January 15, 2020