When I was disgusting snot-nosed little twerp (no not least weak, I mean a young disgusting little snot-nosed twerp,) there were these two girls that lived across the street.
They were fourteen years old or so about the time that I was nine years old, and good Catholic school girls having matriculated from the coed St. Cassians middle school I intended to the all-female Lacordaire Academy.
We secretly called them “the pigfaces.”
Well we were all playing ultimate frisbee in the front yard, and for once the pigfaces were interested in playing with us.
Well, when one of the pigfaces had the frisbee and I was wide open and I yelled at her to throw it to me forgetting that “pigface” was our secret name for these girls (As unkind as this appelation was be it told truthfully that both girls we’re unfortunately porcine visaged.)
I said something like “Here, Pigface! Throw it to me!”
The game suddenly stopped.
Now, I’ve already parenthetically stated that pigface was an apt describer of their faces, but I don’t think you’re really getting the picture. Calling these girls “pigface” was as unmistakeable as calling Cyrano De Bergerac “Big Nose.” As it turns out it was also as ill-advised.
These girls could not help but be aware of their facial resemblance.
“What did you call me?” the Pigface asked.
Being a nine year old boy with my friends around, backing down was not a possibility. If I did, I would be made fun of.
“I said throw me the frisbee, Pigface,” I replied with all the insouciance I could muster "It’s not my fault you have beedy little eyes and big fat pink cheeks, and little tiny ears, and a big round nose with tiny little nostrils. "
“Listen, you little shit, I am not a “pigface” and you better say your sorry for calling me one.”
“If you’re not a pigface,” I said, summoning the unequalled debating skills that would serve me so well in later years on the SDMB, “Than why did you answer when I called you one? How didja know I was talking to you? Huh?”
This got some “oooooohs” from my friends.
“You better take it back and say your sorry,” she said. “Or else.”
“Or else what?” I replied, according to formula.
“Or else I am going to kick your sad little ass.”
“Oh yeah, you and what army?”
“Just me,” She said. At this time I noticed that she was no longer holding the frisbee, and was a lot closer to me. I also noticed that the pigface was a lot bigger than I was and that her sister pigface had cut off my escape route.
“I don’t waste my time fighting girls,” I explained, as if regretting this ethical restriction, “especially not pigfaced ones.”
My friends were just in the middle of another “Ooooooh,” at my wit, when she slapped me hard across the face.
Now, the truth be told I was not a very good kid. I was a bully and a jerk, and I was insecure, and I was the veteran of a lot of fights. I almost always won, usually because I picked fights that I had a good chance of winning.
Somehow the fact that the Pigface was much larger and stronger than I was really didn’t register, and attacked.
The Pigface punched me once hard in the gut, grabbed me, threw me to the ground and then sat on top of me.
I was then given the chance to take back what I had called her or suffer further consequences. I opted not to, anc chose to reiterate my prior argument.
“Get off me, you Pigface!” I yelled.
I got asked again whether I wished to retract my statement and again refused.
I got a handful of grass and dirt rubbed into my face.
“Are you going to take it back now?”
“____ you, Pigface!” I screamed (If nothing else, you have to admire my steadfastness and moral refusal to capitulate to duress.)
The Pigface then loomed her horrible face over mine. She hawked from deep in her throat, parted her lips and a long-trail of goobery saliva began to extrude.
“NOOOOOOOOOOOOO!” I screamed.
At the last second she sucked it back in.
“Last chance,” she said.
“Get off of me, you big fat Pigface!” I yelled.
She let the goober fall right into my eyes. I went from being totally enraged to totally humiliated.
I started to cry like the little boy I was.
I cried loud and hard with shame, and finally with disdain they let me up.
None of my friends would meet my eyes, and they were kind of smirking at what had happened to me. I had after all, deserved it.
Crying my head off I ran home and told my mother what had happened.
Running into her open arms she held me and asked what happened.
“The Pigfaces held me down and spat on my face!” I told her, outraged.
“Who are the pigfaces?” asked Mom.
“The girls across the street.”
“Why did they do that?” I knew that tone of voice. My Mom was going to go marching over and let them have it.
“Because they are mean. They did it to make fun of me.”
So my Mom comforted me for a while and then went across the street to kick some pigface ass.
It was at this precise moment that it occured to me that I may have miscalculated in letting my mother confront them.
Indeed I had.
My mother came back home.
“Did you call that girl a Pigface?” She asked.
I was sure that there was some answer that would validate my position. I searched for it by shifting my eyes back and forth and looking sheepish.
“You got what you deserved. And, you owe that poor girl an apology. You go right out there, knock on her door and apologize for what you said.”
“NOOOOOO!” I cried and screamed. “She spat on me. She beat me up. I’ll never do it. I won’t.”
“Now.” My mother said.
“You can’t make me!” I exclaimed.
About two minutes later I knocked on her door. She opened it, and I apologized in the way that only a nine year old who is making it clear he didn’t mean it can.
“I’m sorry I called you a Pigface,”
“I’m sorry I spat you.” said the Pigface.
It should have ended there but it didn’t.
I got teased for my humiliation by the pigface.
Lacordaire Academy was unavoidably on the way home from my school, St. Cassians.
One day, while walking home with my friends, I saw the Pigface exiting the school.
“Hey Pigface” I yelled. “Yeah you, Pigface. Bite me pigface!” And then I ran away.
I was careful for the next few days, but nothing happened. Unfortunately, at nine years old my tactical attention span wasn’t as long as it should have been.
The Pigface and her friends caught me on the way home and extracted retribution in gang form. I was slapped and spit at and ridiculed and called names until I was made to cry.
I suffered all that one can suffer at the hands of angry Catholic School girls.
This time I didn’t tell Mom.
The rest of the year passed in an uneasy detente.
It should have ended there, but it didn’t.
Fast forward to Christmas 1987 or so. I am home from College for the Holiday and at a party at a friend’s house, drinking beer and whatnot.
I hook up with this older Irish Lass by the name of Megan. She had huge freckles and dark sloe soulful eyes, and this cute little upturned nose.
That night the Pigface and I swapped spit again.
