Mean Mathlete

              My high school bully was a pure bread mathlete and towered over me at a meager 5’4”. An alliance was impossible, for he defended his tiny world with tyranny and oppression. His colorful personality warned outsiders to stay back while he snapped and snarled at the world. He was no match for the athletes, conversationalists, or the secure. He avoided those he disagreed with, which was a great many indeed.  During times of mingle, he could be found leashed to our English teacher’s desk for office hours or hiding in the band supply closet. I did not notice these signs of loneliness or anxiety, for here, we were the same.

              I shared many classes with this mathlete, both of us took a rigorous AP schedule and were in the band, to a varying degree. Our divide was simple. He was a straight arrow of the system, but I fought the system, cheated on tests, and skipped class more than not. Our clash was not over our differences as much as similarities. He saw my trembling inner child, and in turn, himself. So, he was scared and lashed out. I cannot blame a man for fearing himself. I do too.

              In the beginning, I could not hear his berating over my internal monologue. Little things, little comments. I already knew I was no Pythagoras or Thelonious. I never felt good enough and he just drove me deeper into the pit. One day I was holding the door open for him (as I do for everyone), and he said “at least you are good for something.” So pointed, I could not pass it off. His snide comments were passed off as generally rude, but without intended harm. My line was crossed. His character stood plainly before me in that miserable small frame, retaliation was required. And I laughed. This little man was talking down to me, the audacity. I had a foot and 100 pounds on him. After the laughing matter was determined, I never missed a chance. I sat on his desk before class and waited for his arrival. Every day. I asked how his day was until he exploded and told me to get off his desk. Every day. The man of order could not fathom such a disruption. He became my agitator, to my favorite joke.

              Little jokes. When I was harassed by lightning in the Cirques of Wyoming, I was able to laugh at the ridiculous situation. So some miserable shmuck is paying for their groceries in pennies, I take a step back and realize how silly people are. In such a serious world, I choose to cope with laughter.