Jones To The Grindstone

Let’s call him “Gramps” because it is easily mistaken for “Grumps.”

To think this sign was talking to me.

     Not caring that there were more people than seats on Bus 77, he spread himself across the blue plastic bench made for two. Closest to the driver, his throne faced toward the back of the bus allowing Gramps to view everyone. Old men on my bus usually keep to themselves, looking like they wish the world would stop changing so fast. At first glance, Gramps looked like he might still be handsome, if he tried. With the requisite brown cardigan, he could be mistaken for a grandpa you’d want to give baked goods and lemonade to. But Gramps was an odd mix and not like the others.

     His head reminded me of some kind of bird, mostly that of a Bald Eagle. Gramps had a white cap of feathers on top, predatory eyes, and a sharp, protruding beak. But from the neck down, he resembled a Daddy-longlegs spider–all the important, life-sustaining stuff clumped in the middle and extremely long limbs spreading out, occupying more space than necessary.  A Daddy-longlegs is innocuous while the Bald Eagle is feared as a feeder who swoops down and snatches prey with his taloned feet. However, I don’t mean to suggest that he looked like he was half this and half that, like the Sphinx or the Minotaur, but rather that he had traits of both the bird and the spider.

     Gramps scanned all the other passengers and blasted at an old lady with, “What are you lookin’ at?!” She didn’t respond. Then he eyed a teenager with an Ipod and fired at him, “What?!” The teenager looked away. I didn’t want Gramps to yell at me. So, I pretended to be staring out the window when he looked in my direction. Gramps wore those clip-on sunglasses that attach to regular glasses. He had his clip-ons flipped-up, as if to flip us off.

     His rudeness and aggressive behavior caused tension. This bully was causing unnecessary dischord and anxiety amongst the group. I wanted him to stop, but with his unceasing threatening quips, he had me intimidated, too. Who wants to poke the angry bear with a stick? Comfort came in knowing that it is a bus and this man will have to leave the bus at some point, ending the assaults.

     “Ding!” Gramps pushed the bell that alerted the driver that he wanted to exit at he next stop. The bus slowed and halted. Gramps rose to his feet and turned his back to us. He showed his ass, literally.  His pants were so loose that part of his butt was visible. Gramps reached his arms around back and pulled up his slacks, but his undergarment came up first. He had on diapers, like a two-year old wears. I thought, how fitting.

Those bullies...hate 'em!

Back in 2001, this was a routine thought process that went through my head:

That Damn Jack (5)! I hate that kid. I love his mom, but I cannot stand him. Originally, this weekly playgroup sounded like a godsend, but now it is a nightmare. That little shit is always purposely hurting my Maeve (2) and his mother acts like it was nothing. She just tells him to not do it again, but he never gets punished. Also, his mom never seems to see that fucking smirk on his face every time he gets away with being a bully. Hate him!

Manners are not involuntary. Self-control is not instinctive. Customs and socially acceptable behaviors are taught. Thus, parents must and do train their children to live in a civilized society. How ideal!

Yeah, yeah… fine, fine, fine. Lip service and ballyhoo.

However, let’s check back into reality where it seems that most people’s children act like they live in the baboon habitat at the zoo. This can put the self-disciplined child in a quandary while confined with the baboons, like at the playground or in a playgroup.

If a child fights the bully back, the authority figures tend to come down on both the bully and the victim. This situation creates those unsure, fragile moments in parenting. Meaning, the victim’s parent has to feign disappointment in their child and slink away, ashamed—all for the crime of self-defense. However, deep inside this parent really wants to yell, “Fuck, yeah! You showed ‘em,” but instead buckles to the bigger lesson to be taught, “Two wrongs don’t make a right.” Agonizing.

Damn Jack lived next door to us and the only thing dividing our lawns was a three-foot tall white, picket fence—kid you not. If we went outback, my children and I could not avoid Damn Jack. He was always there, menacing.

One day the kids and I spent all afternoon with Damn Jack (remember his mom was delightful company). First, he clocked Maeve on the head with a sippy cup and his mom forced him to apologize. He didn’t mean it. Second, he opened an umbrella up in Maeve’s face. Luckily, she barely escaped having her eyeball kabobbed. Damn Jack’s mom assumed he didn’t know Maeve was there, right in front of him. Third, while the kids were in the sandbox, he threw sand in her eyes. His mom gave him a warning that if he did that again, he would have to go inside.

My blood was boiling. Maeve restrained herself from doing anything back to Damn Jack. I was proud of her, but I really wanted to go kick Jack’s 5 year-old ass myself. What an asshole—she was only two!

At the end of the afternoon, Damn Jack’s mom pulled out and filled up a baby pool. It held about a foot of water. Damn Jack was sitting in it while Maeve was running circles around the pool’s perimeter. I spied him flicking water in her face every time he could She asked him to stop. He fucking did it anyway, again and again.

I suppose Maeve had hit her breaking point. She jogged on over to the Elmo sprinkler that wasn’t hooked up to a hose. She picked it up in the name of sweet justice and hurled it as his damn head. Whoosh! Cannonball! It only clipped the side of Damn Jack’s head, but he cried and wailed like a little baby.

Damn Jack’s mom looked at me like, “What in Heaven’s name?!”

I sternly said, “Maeve, you need to tell Jack that you are sorry and we are now going home because you made a bad choice.”

What I really wanted to do was hoist my little two-year old hero up on my shoulders, give high-fives all around, and do a victory dance in the end zone. Yeah! Damn Jack finally got him some—little shithead!  Woot woot.

This brings up a moral dilemma—at what point does the well-behaved child turn around and clock that little fucker back, as an act of self-defense, instead of falling into the old, “Two wrongs…” mantra? Or, from another viewpoint, that it is okay that your kid finally did what they had to do to get the respect— instead of just standing there being the doormat of abuse for the umpteenth time. I am pretty sure there is no set formula, but there is definitely a time for both sucking it up for the bigger lesson and a time for knocking the bully’s block off.