Chapter 25: Fighting for Rank

I managed to survive high school by keeping a low profile.

“Low profile” in my case remained elusive since my stepfather happened to be the minister of the oldest church in town. By default, I became the resident PK, or Preacher’s Kid.

The title offered a mixed blessing. As the stepson of a man who made his living by talking to the Almighty, my status was uncertain. The theology around beating up the son of a man of God remained unexplored.

One of the downsides of being a PK was I couldn’t get away with anything. Any parishioner who spotted me jaywalking or smoking considered it their sacred duty to report my transgressions.

Over time, “Preacher’s Kid” evolved into the nickname “Preacher,” and I’d cringe whenever I heard it. Nicknames are a product of a mysterious consensus. Only the community-at-large assigned nicks, and upon reaching critical mass, a nickname is born.

My new given nickname might as well been tattooed to my forehead. Nicks, once assigned, tended to follow the recipient to the grave and beyond.

My stepfather’s religious calling was only part of the reason I earned the name of “Preacher.” I carried the reputation as being the boy who when asked, “What time is it?” would respond with a lecture on how to build a clock.

I only got into one fistfight in high school which I had the bad luck to win. My opponent was a kid named Joey, an average looking boy who would easily blend in and disappear in a crowd. Joey, like me, was destined to occupy the lowest rungs of the social ladder. For some reason, he decided beating me to a pulp might improve his place in the pecking order.

Most schoolyard slugfests followed the same script; two kids would start circling each other while trading insults as each tried to work up the nerve to take the first swing. I despised school fights and regarded them as dangerous and useless spectacles.

One day after classes, Joey backed me into a corner and offered me a choice: fight him “right here, right now” or we would fight in one of our backyards.

We flipped a coin and my yard won the toss. A short time later, we met behind my home on Weymouth Street. My parents were away for the day. A couple of friends came along keep lookout while acting as seconds.

As far as I can remember, we fought over nothing.

“Joey, I don’t want to fight you! Let’s call it a day and we can both go home. No harm, no foul,” I pleaded with him.

My peace offer appeared to be a sign of weakness to Joey and he lunged forward and swung at me. As I danced away, his fist sailed through empty air and left him off balance and open. I stepped into the gap and smacked him as hard as I could across his face with my open hand. The slap sounded like a gunshot. Joey gave me a startled glance and lunged at me again.

The second verse went the same as the first, a wild swing and a miss. The yard echoed with the sharp crack of my hand. Again, I asked him to stop fighting. Our fight continued this way over the next several rounds: swing, miss, slap, and repeat. Each slap ended with me pleading with him to end the fight.

What Joey lacked for in skill he made up for in determination. After I delivered a dozen slaps to his face, he bawled like a lost child. Nevertheless, he kept trying to land a punch. As scared shitless as I as I felt, I also felt awful over Joey’s beating. The expression of fury in Joey’s eyes left no doubt he would kill me if he got the chance.

Was it possible I’d found someone in school who was a worse fighter than me? I never missed a hit and he never landed a blow. The sides of Joey’s face glowed red like severe sunburn and the palm of my hand stung like fire. Joey was a blubbering mess when his friends finally called an end to the contest.

The fight was over and I’d won, but my knees shook so badly I could hardly stand. From my friends I expected to hear words of congratulations, instead silent and disapproving frowns greeted my victory.

“Dennis, you slapped the shit out of him. Why didn’t you use your fists?” Mike demanded.

“I didn’t want to fight him and I didn’t want to hurt him. So I slapped instead of punching,” I explained.

“You’re an idiot. Slapping a kid in the face is the most fucking insulting thing you can do. You might as well have pissed on him,” my friend admonished.

My fight violated an unwritten code. I never got the memo.