His name was Yashar. He was cross-eyed and pigeon-toed. I didn’t like him as he didn’t look good. He shared his bologna sandwich with me. And, he had some potato chips, too. They were salty and very crisp. They were really good. He was a nice person. Overly nice. But, the assholes in the school bullied him. We walked to home together since his home was on my way to my home. I didn’t much like walking with him, due to the aforementioned reason. One day as we walked along I noticed a whole gang of boys, following us. At first they were half a block behind us, then they closed the gap to several yards behind us. Then they circled us. One of them had Yashar by the collar. He threw him onto a lawn. Yashar stood up. A boy got down behind him on his hands and knees. The other boy shoved him and Yashar fell over backwards. Another boy rolled him over and rubbed his face in the grass. Then they stepped back. Yashar got up again. He didn’t make a sound but the tears were rolling down his face. The largest boy walked up to him. “We don’t want you in our school, you fucking sissy. Get the hell out of our school!” He punched Yashar in the stomach. Yashar bent over and as he did, the boy brought his knee up into Yashar’s face. Yashar fell. He had a bloody nose. Then the boys circled me. “Your turn now, you faggot!” They kept circling and as they did I kept turning. Then they backed off. I didn’t understand why they backed off. Perhaps, I will never understand, either. Yashar was waiting for me. We walked down the sidewalk toward his place. The sadder thing began as he walked in his home. I heard his mother’s voice. “Yashar! Look at your knickers and shirt! They’re torn and full of grass stains! You do this almost every day! Tell me, why do you do it?” He didn’t answer. “I asked you a question! Why do you do this to your clothes?” “I can’t help it, mom . . .” “You can’t help it? You stupid boy!” I heard her beating him very very severely. Yashar began to cry as she beat him harder. I stood on the front lawn and listened. After a while the beating stopped. I could hear him sobbing. Then he stopped. The afternoon light started hurt my eyes. I felt like vomiting. I got up and walked home.
Saddest story ever.
Ham And Eggs, by Charles Bukowski?
I’m assuming you mean Ham on Rye by Bukowski?
Sad story, whether true or not, it definitely conjures up images of childhood bullying that most people are familiar with.
I was still asleep when I posted. Yes, I meant Ham On Rye. :smack:
Fixed that for you.