Handling Bullies Me: I’m not going to school; Merciless Mel plans to beat me up, and a third grade education ain’t worth dying for. You never hear anybody looking down in the coffin and saying, “Don’t he look educated.” No, what they say is, “Why didn’t the idiot run for Pete’s sake?” or if not Pete’s, then his own. My Father: It’s a proven fact, bully’s are always more afraid of you than you are of them; stand up to them, and they’ll quit picking on you. If my father believed something, that immediately put it in the proven fact bracket. I want to squash the proven fact myth of the terrified bully right now. It’s just too much to swallow that every kid who’s a foot taller than you are—and outweighs you and your sister by fifty pounds—is so terrified of you, that he has to bust you in the nose to hide his terror. Anyway, my parents sent me to school to face the bully. The person who terrified me more than the fires of Hades, the most feared pugilist in our school district. Yes, in third grade, Merciless Mel had issued an open challenge to anyone under twenty-one years of age to a no holds barred fistfight— under twenty-one? My fake ID claiming to be twenty-eight didn’t fool “the one without mercy.” Merciless Mel. The Merciless Mel whose bedroom door had a sign claiming “Here there be Dragons”. The hometown boxing champ. Inventor of the “Mid-Georgia flying chest caver and dual lung splatter move.” A nine-year-old girl with braces, a Snoopy lunch box, and pigtails. Yes, my bully was a girl. It was a long time ago; I was smaller, and too young to buy weapons. Melissa had a crush on me, and she planned to fist-forge me into proper boyfriend material. I evaded her first forging attempt with the standard “misunderstood your instructions” ploy. Melissa: Didn’t I tell you to meet me on the playground after school, Butt- munch?         Me: Meet you on the playground after school? I thought you said, “Go home and hide under the bed.” I tried another ploy. I steeled my spine and barked a viscous threat at my fiendish tormenter, Me: I’m gonna tell Coach Pinkerton! It was to no avail; she had pummeled the coach with repeated left hooks only yesterday. I was trapped. I had to face the Melissa. Still, I was not without resources. I am usually the fastest runner in the fight; I’ve proven this many times. Part of my pre-fight ritual is to make sure my shoes are tied and pointed towards home. I always tried to take a standing eight count. If you’d give me to the count of eight, I’d be home under the bed, chair barring the door, and a pre- recorded phone message squawking, “Call back tomorrow; I’ve moved to Alaska until the weekend” playing. The fight began. I was a year older than Melissa, 20lbs heavier, 6 inches taller—I pulled a knife. Melissa reached out and pushed the button of my switchblade. Out popped a comb. Melissa: You gonna’ comb my hair punk? I dropped the “knife” and pulled a gun. Melissa: That’s a water pistol you moron. Me: Yes, and what do you think it’s going to do to that cotton pullover? Melissa: Machine-wash and tumble-dry. I dropped the gun. Melissa drew a line in the dirt and demanded repeatedly that I step over it. I didn’t let her push me around; I refused to step over the line. Finally, she gave up and stepped to my side. I went in to a defensive crouch, much like a sprinter’s ready position. I was too slow off the blocks. Melissa gave me a black eye, a bloody nose, and her home phone number. I called her that afternoon. We’ve been married nearly two decades. I might could take her now—now that I’m bigger. Melissa: What’s that you’re writing pip-squeak? Me: Nothing dear!!!