Steven at Seven (part 2)

So anyway, at John Fisher Public School, it was a very cool thing to get into fights. One of my pals, Billy Rose, fought a lot. The Skinner brothers fought all the time. They were tough, stupid, and mean. Everybody was scared of them. "Spare me nails," we used to holler at them. Damned if I know what it meant, but I suppose it was something like "Man, you're really cool. Don't hurt me." It was very much the Silverback, praise-you praise-me kind of thing. "I bow to you; you own me," and so on. It was also a way for us more timid souls to ape the tough guys, to release the tension of being around those hardcore alpha males. A way to both laugh at the idiocy of their posing and to pull our own pose too. It's what you do.

One day, Steven and I were walking home from another gruelling afternoon in Miss Gladiola's class—Miss GladAss we called her. What the hell we were talking about at the time I have no idea, but suddenly we were down on the ground, rolling around trying to punch each other's eyes out, all the while surrounded by a gleeful chorus of "fight, fight, fight" crowed out lustily from our little group of bully-boy friends—a frenzy of palace eunuchs suddenly given balls and the need to use them—"fight, fight, fight" they screeched and bellowed, grumbling around us like ravenous vultures looking for something to puke on and immobilize.

Of course, Steven and I knew we had to cause each other some serious harm. Had to look good in the eyes of the hovering crew. Had to look good to the other Silverbacks. I don't know if it was me on top and him below, or the other way round, but when I looked into Steven's eyes he smirked. Just a bit. Then before our disappointed chorus of vultures could turn tail and root for berries and worms, Steven was laughing so hard he had tears blooming in his eyes.

I think I knew then what a best friend was.

I like to think the most important thing I learned from Steven was the futility and utter uselessness of peer pressure; the complete immobile stupidity of that sort of venal competition and follow-me-along and damn-the-reason. Maybe I simply learned the potency of friendship.

I haven't seen Steven in many, many years. One of the last times I saw him was when he came to visit me on a farm, way out in the Ottawa countryside, for a week or two. He was learning to play chess from my friend Jim. Jim was very good at chess. Steven wasn't. He kept losing and losing. He probably played over two hundred games of chess with Jim. A thousand games. He didn't win one of them.

I'll never forget how completely happy he was.

Copyright 2003 Greg Watson

© 2003 True Life Story Contest