It happened in a slow-motion purple haze - one of those moments in your life where everything else fades into the background and the event before you unravels crisp, clear and slow ... in such a way that it is forever imprinted on your mind.
It was 1987. I was in the seventh grade, sitting next to some bushes in the schoolyard with Themy and Gia, my two only friends. Yes, we were nerds. There would be no 'palin' around with the popular crowd today ... or any day for that matter. Behind Themy and Gia's heads, I could see Robert, a boy even more pathetic than the three of us. His family was extremely poor. He smelled, wore the same clothes to school every day and, of course, had no friends. He was teased and taunted constantly. As usual he was sitting alone on the steps outside of a classroom on the other side of the schoolyard. This was one of those rare days he was smiling ... all day long as a matter of fact. He had completed his woodshop class project, a toolbox he had carefully crafted for his father. He sat beside it on the steps and admired it for much of recess.
From, the corner of my eye, I spotted Gary, another seventh grader who had recently moved to our small, sheltered, low crime town on the Jersey Shore from Miami. He said he was (gasp) a gang member. Everyone was afraid of him and stayed away. He usually spent his recess walking aggressively in circles around the schoolyard, giving off plenty of attitude, straggly, long, dirty blond hair flopping menacingly in front of his eyes. He always looked angry, had a major chip on his shoulder and was clearly looking for any excuse to start a fight. He was trouble at its worst. The only other person who came close to the fear Gary evoked, was a large 15-year-old girl named, Tracy, who had been left back two or three times. She popped in and out of our school at the beginning of the year, just quick enough to beat me up in the hallway. Other than that, our school was full of pampered, wussy, rich people's kids, whose words often cut deep, but, words were usually the ony real threat.
Just then, the conversation shifted to Themy's new sunglasses. Gia tried them on first. Then it was my turn. They were tinted purple and made the whole world suddenly feel like a lavender dream. I flipped my hair in a playful, "How do I look, dahhhhling?" way, and as I turned my head, I saw it happen, through the purple, across the schoolyard ... everything else vanished in those seconds. Time stopped as Gia and Themy's voices and giggles faded to a far-off place. I saw Gary's "attitude walk" pick up pace as he spotted Robert sitting alone, still admiring his toolbox, a several-months-long project.
Robert didn't even see Gary approach until the mean bully snagged the perfectly sanded, painted and handcrafted piece right out from under Robert's nose. I couldn't hear him, but I could see Roberts lips moving, his face contorted with worry as he pleaded for Gary to give it back. Gia and Themy finally noticed my motionless stare and turned around to see what was happening. Although, this might sound like it took a while and may have felt like it was happening slowly, in reality, I'm sure it all happened very quickly.
As Robert panicked and dove from one side of Gary to the other in vain attempts to retreive his toolbox, Gary, kept it just out of reach. Through the purple tint, I could see Gary laughing, sick and pervertedly, all the while. In one quick motion, Gary smashed the toolbox over his knee, snapping the entire wooden box completely in half as though it were made of nothing but styrofoam. He handed both pieces back to Robert and walked away.
I don't know when other kids noticed what was going on, but by this time, most activity on the schoolyard had come to a complete halt as everyone looked on in sheer astonishment at the agony on Robert's face. His mouth was wide open as though he should be yelling, but nothing was coming out, only tears were pouring down his cheeks. It may as well have been him that was completely broken in half. Since kindergarten, Robert suffered the cruel words and names hurled at him by other kids. He was the only poor boy in a "rich kid" school. His parents owned a fishing shack on the bay in South Jersey. They sold bait and tackle to the rich kids' families before these families boarded their luxury fishing boats.
Robert was a quiet boy, a sad boy, a child who didn't play, but worked for his parents when he wasn't in school. I had seen him running the fishing shack by himself years before seventh grade. Never before did he appear completely broken by what others said or the harshness of his own life in the midst of what others enjoyed as paradise. But, on this day he was broken. He lifted both pieces of his toolbox high above his head dramatically, his mouth still agape in agony, as everyone continued to look on in horror. Then he slammed both pieces down hard onto the blacktop and ran into the school.
Everyone stared at the pieces of tan wood, scattered across the blacktop. A schoolyard lunch lady ran into the school behind him. Soon, the shop teacher came out and carefully picked up the wooden pieces. By now I had given Themy her glasses back. Things were no longer purple, but a somber air was quickly being replaced by anger as one popular, dark-haired beauty named Gina, who somehow managed to ooze kindness and compassion though most of her friends did not, began to rally a giant mob of kids to seek out Gary, who by now had shimmied up under a brick overhang outside of one of the classrooms. He was hanging onto the side of the school, near the roof and looking down as the angry mob approached. For the first time, he looked afraid. Seeing the look on Gina's face, I would have been afraid too.
With dozens of seventh and eigth graders behind her, Gina laid into Gary about what he had done. Verbally, she broke him in half as he hung from the side of the school. That was the last day anyone saw Gary. He had popped in and out of our school almost as quickly as that large 15-year-old girl. The woodshop teacher spent the next few months helping Robert construct another toolbox, and Gia, Themy and I continued to hang out every day at lunch by those bushes.
Things quieted down for quite a while after that day. No big, mean kids popped in and out of the school in the months following so the rich, snobby kids were free to wield the most dangerous weapons they had - their cruel, nasty words, but recovery time was quick and there was always Gina, watching from the inside to make sure no one ever cut too deeply. I am sure today she is somewhere fighting in defense of the downtrodden and has probably given hell to many Gary's along the way. I imagine Robert has probably inherited the fishing shack by now and has long since healed from the toolbox incident, although, the memory is probably even more vivid in his mind than my own. And, me, well, I'm still observing the happenings in this crazy world, far beyond the schoolyard, and writing madly about what I have seen through all the sunlight, moonlight and purple-tinted sunglasses.
