HIGH SCHOOL - OLYMPIC DESK TIPPING - Ever been bullied in High School? Me too.

[Dalan]

DESK TIPPING – THE CLASSROOM OLYMPIC SPORT

I was a fairly shy fellow in high school. I did not even have enough courage even to be the wallflower at the dance. I had my few friends. I tolerated math class and usually could not wait to be in whatever science class I was taking. English was always a favorite class and this year, I would be in a science fiction class with Mr. Hollenbeck.

Mr. Hollenbeck was a fairly tall fellow, but a bit shorter than my six feet and five inches. I rather imagine that Mr. Hollenbeck was a pacifist of sorts, much like I saw myself at the time. I never used my size to bully others, and I despised bullies of any type. I probably should have stood up more for others than I did, but was generally bent on peaceful intent. Among teachers I had ever had, Mr. Hollenbeck’s class must the most lacking in discipline. This class had some of the worst hoods in the school in it. Oscar was not the friendliest fellow, and he had several of his cronies with him in the class. I had no idea what they were doing in there, as I doubt Oscar and Co were into science fiction. Perhaps Ray Bradbury’s writings were of interest to them as well.

I was not a target for Oscar, as my size made me less than appealing as an object of torment. My friend, Bruce sat just behind me, at the front of the classroom. Bruce was a fellow in a perennial good mood, quick to laugh and joke around. He also enjoyed science fiction, and looked forward to an English class that focused on the genre. However, as the days went by, Bruce found the class not so much to his liking.

Oscar and friends took an instant liking to Bruce, who was tall and over six feet, but skinny as they come. He presented to them as the ideal target for their kind advances. He was a tall fellow, which would bolster their standing in the bully community, but not inclined to strike back. Day after day, Bruce endured more and more torment from them. He said nothing however, except to me. He had no confidence in Mr. Hollenbeck’s ability to control his classroom, and in particular Oscar.

Bruce found himself an unwilling pincushion. Pencils jabbed into his back. Tacks on his seat. He appeared to have a palsy in class, jerking around, but unwilling to do or say anything to his tormentors. George, a smaller fellow who liked to hang with Oscar and friends, was a willing accomplice. He thrived on knowing no one would touch him, as he did Oscar’s bidding. The smirk on his and Oscar’s face told it all.

Bruce told me he wanted to just leave the class, as it was reputed that Oscar carried a knife now and then. I offered something else up and another plan of action. I figured there was no way that George would mess with me, as Oscar’s assistant demon. I was the better part of a foot taller than him, and likely had a sixty pound weight advantage. So, I resolved to swap seats with Bruce, and let him sit in front. Bruce rapidly adopted my idea as his own, and we agreed to do it the next day in class.

The next day or two, Bruce sat in front of me, and nothing happened. However, after a few days without having someone handy to torture, Oscar and pals became bored. Oscar reminded me of a Mr. Dark, who was the evil protagonist of a Bradbury store called “Something Wicked this way comes”. Like Dark, Oscar would not be denied and always got what he wanted: People’s souls.


George, at Oscar’s evil bidding, started on me. Doubtless, the evil imp relished his position as giver of torture and had no standing with Bruce now out of reach in front of me. I stared him down when it started, but George protested his innocence. “It’s not me, It’s Oscar!” Oscar looked at me, smiling and daring me to do something about it. However, lacking six foot long arms, Oscar could not possibly had been the tormentor. George’s stubby arms, however, could bridge the gap.

For two weeks, George unloaded his arsenal on me. Pencil stabs in the back, with lead, now and then, under the skin. Tacks on my seat, later discovered by others to be lodged in my wallet, or to the valley just West of it. As George grew bolder over the days, I grew steadily more angry. They were just like the kids throwing random chemicals together in Mr. Taylor’s chemistry class. Oscar and his assistants had no idea that they had created an explosive compound, until it blew up in their face.

I was beyond mad. Beyond angry. I did not want revenge, I wanted nothing more than to be left alone. I knew I could not expect Mr. Hollenbeck to intervene, as he treated Oscar with kid gloves. My pacifist days were coming to a close. As I got ready to go to English class, I told myself over and over, that I was not going to take it anymore. I had no plan at all, I only knew I had all I was going to take.

I left Mr. Irick’s math class and headed to English after stopping at my locker. Bruce took his seat of safety in front of me, and class began. It was not too long before George, who was emboldened by his weeks of limited response from me, decided to deliver his nuclear weapon. He applied it to my rear end through my blue jeans, but I was only somewhat aware of it at first. As it rapidly turned to a sharp burning pain, I knew my tormentor had somehow snuck a blowtorch into class. I was not sure what instrument of pain was trained on my rear end, but I was sure of my tormentor. I think I had some form of “fight or flight” thing going on, and I was not inclined to run away from the evil imp behind me, or his demonic boss.

When my mind cleared of its crimson rage, I found myself standing over George in the aisle. We had those old time chairs, which are mounted to a small desk as a single unit. George was still seated in his, after I had (evidently) picked up both him and it, and threw both about 10 feet down the aisle. He was, however, now seated on his back, with his desk tilted up in the air. I have no particular recall of throwing him. My reaction was the response of a wild animal, that was done being provoked after repeated torment.

“You little SON OF A BITCH!” were the first happy words that Mr. Hollenbeck heard, as George stared at me from his impromptu spot on the floor. As George cowered below me, his hands were over his face, in case I decided to stomp on it. The smiles and smirks now gone, George appeared no more happy than Oscar, who suddenly seemed to lack interest in playing the game. I towered over George, as I stuck my finger in his face as I told him that, if he ever touched me again, that I would hurt him in no uncertain terms. That old phrase “I’ll beat the crap out of you!” comes to mind. For his part, George maintained, as usual, that he had never touched me. He directed me to Oscar and Co, who I happily and successfully stared down. Nobody wanted an invitation to this party, including other students who knew nothing of the events leading up to it.

Bruce turned around, I guess, at about the same time as Mr. Hollenbeck. The class lost interest in the story we were discussing, intent on watching the live drama unfold instead. Bruce was the first to catch on to what had happened, but had no chance to say a word to me. Mr. Hollenbeck dismissed the class early, in an attempt to restore some order. Without even trying, I became more dramatic than Mr. Bradbury, my favorite writer.

I heatedly described the events leading up to my outburst to Mr. Hollenbeck. For his part, George lied through his teeth and protested his innocence. I had a black scorch mark on my pants, where George had applied his handy Bic lighter, as a sort of stamp of verification for my version of things. Mr. Hollenbeck offered to write the thing off, if only I apologized to George. I knew my dad would never get on me for defending myself, and refused any apology. Then, Mr. Hollenbeck upped the ante, offering to send me to the principal’s office. I had never been in the principal’s office for a disciplinary action, but decided not to give in. Mr. Hollenbeck worked on me at length, but I remained defiant: No apology for George. He settled for explaining that my methods of showing my displeasure were not acceptable in class, and left it at that. Class dismissed.

As I departed the war zone, Bruce was outside. He was often in a good and jocular mood, but I had never seen him like this. He was the proverbial kid in the candy shop, and it all looked good to him. “Did you see the look in those bastard’s eyes? You scared them shitless!” Oh man, that was too cool! No way Oscar will mess with me now, after you grabbed George and threw him!” As Bruce backslapped me, he inquired how long I had been working out the plan to deal with them. High fives were not yet the norm, but Bruce verbally high fived me, time and again.

I had to admit, I had no plan and told Bruce that I did not know that I was going to pick George up with his desk. I somehow had invented the sport of Olympic desk tipping, without even knowing it. The day progressed, with Bruce walking around with his newfound offensive weapon. He loudly affirmed my new tough guy role, unafraid of hoods or the wrath of teachers and principals. For his part, George now seemed quite willing to leave me alone, and gave a wide berth in the future. I went home with burnt levis and a red spot on my butt. And, a bit of satisfaction that I had restored lawfulness, as the new Sheriff in town. Still a wallflower mind you, but a fearful one.

[Widetrack55]

When I was in 4th grade I (and others) had a tormentor named Joe. Joe was a 5th grader who picked on kids younger/smaller than him. I put up with his bull for the better part of a year but one day I had enough. That day I (and Joe) discovered the meaning of the term "berserker". By time I came to my senses Joe had a split lip, bloody nose, black eye and his shirt was shredded. I later learned that a couple of nuns saw the whole thing and didn't stop it cause they figured Joe got only what he had coming to him.

[RDLouks]

When I was in 4th grade I (and others) had a tormentor named Joe. Joe was a 5th grader who picked on kids younger/smaller than him. I put up with his bull for the better part of a year but one day I had enough. That day I (and Joe) discovered the meaning of the term "berserker". By time I came to my senses Joe had a split lip, bloody nose, black eye and his shirt was shredded. I later learned that a couple of nuns saw the whole thing and didn't stop it cause they figured Joe got only what he had coming to him.

[Widetrack55]

Yep, pretty much just like that!

[Dalan]

RD. 8th grade for me. Carlos alleged I had said something about him. Call me a total pacificist back then. Two weeks, he tells everyone he will be kicking my ass. I got sick of hearing it, and we set a time in the morning. It was the mismatch of the year. I did not hit as hard as able to.

Split lip, bloody nose, black eye and other bruises. I had at least a six inch reach on him. We broke up when someone said a teacher was coming. We got on ok after that. It was plain stupid for him to challenge me, pacifist or not.

In high school, as a freshman, I got protective of my friends, especially Bruce (we were sophomores then). I threw myself between bullies and friends. Big kids were targets if they were not mean, for others to prove themselves. After throwing George, I flat got left alone. I went off, and the other kids knew it. I honestly do not remember throwing him and his desk. Before I was thinking..."If you even mess with me...".

I have a deep hatred of anyone who bullies others. Not very Christian. Oh well.

[Blackcloud2]

Say there Dart, any chance Oscar and George hailed from Somerton AZ by any chance? Seems like that small burg produced exact replicas of your description for many, many years!

[Dalan]

Blackcloud,

From the general area, as you said. The Yuma area, for some reason seemed to abound with bullies. Not sure if you remember a particular men's coach who had a nickname of Frog. Initials J.H. Small, compact and possibly the fittest man ever known at the school. Former Olympic wrestler it was reputed.

There was a fellow who was an extraordinary bully. He beat a friend wrestling just as the guy was ready to pin by grabbing the guy in the crotch HARD and fouled him. Then exclaimed he could beat anybody.

Coach played him on the mat, like a cat who has a mouse and keeps working it, without killing it. Even when this guy cheated, coach would simply power out of the hold. He finally reversed him and took him on a 360 degree compas tour of the wrestling mat. It had sand on it. He put his nose right in the mat and shoved him along. When he got up, it looked like he had taken 60 grit sandpaper and scrubbed the skin off. That shut this jerk up for a while.

. We had a good time screaming and taunting this guy and laughing from the sidelines. Nothing like a big fat piece of humble pie. Life's simple pleasures.