(Originally
published 2/22/15)
When I was
boy growing up in the Bronx, there were bullies in the neighborhood. Nowadays,
the subject of bullying, with its countless technological tentacles, is front
and center—and rightfully so—but back in the 1970s, it was tolerated and
largely ignored. In fact, all of us in the non-bully—and potentially
bullied—class lived our lives with these individuals always on our radars.
There was
one entourage that will forever define, in my mind at least, what bullies and
bully-ism are all about. This was, of course, in an era before cyber-bullying,
and these boys did their dirty work in the bright light of day—and, yes, at
night as well. Naturally, bullies need a leader of sorts, and this crew had one—
an
archetype. This bruiser named Tony looked and acted his part. He was a
scary fellow, as were his underlings, one of whom used to stick firecrackers in
pigeons' anuses and blow them up.
I always
thought Tony resembled an over-sized marshmallow—a “Mr. Marshmallow Head,” if
you will, with curly locks and a porker’s nose. He was big, burly, and mean.
One friend of mine remembered him as an Incredible Hulk-type. Another
old friend, when asked if he remembered Tony, replied: “The bully?” So, take
your pick, Mr. Marshmallow Head or the Incredible Hulk. He was the last
person any of us wanted in our lives in that colorfully raw snapshot in time.
I appreciate
now that when I was very young—grade-school age—I exhibited a fair amount of
courage and willingness to “boldly go” and take on a bully and his bullyboy
brigade. Perhaps it was more naiveté than actual courage—youthful exuberance
unleashed and unafraid.
Well, less afraid. And I’m talking about “taking
on” bullies in a roundabout, clandestine way, because I weighed ninety-nine
pounds at the time. From bullyboy Tony’s perspective, I was a ninety-nine-pound
weakling. And years later—as a high-school kid who tipped the scales at a
whopping 115 pounds—the thought of doing what I did as an eleven-year-old
seemed extraordinary to me, as it does now.
What was I thinking?
Along with
bullies, there were a lot of stray cats in the old neighborhood. One of the
more fecund females in town was named “Tiny,” and she belonged to a family up
the block. Tiny had many male suitors and was the mother of a mother lode of
kittens. My little clique of friends and I loved Tiny and her always-expanding
family. We fed them pieces of white bread and saucers of milk—that’s what we
did back then—and looked out for their well-being.
Then one afternoon
out of the blue, Tony and his militia came down to our neck of the woods loaded
for bear and began harvesting stray cats. They whisked away those they could
catch in a burlap sack, as I remember, while claiming to be concerned “cat
people.” They even accused those in their way of “animal abuse.” In one of
their roundups, they snatched a young, very friendly cat named “Goldy,” based
on her vivid color scheme. Tony and friends brought their collection of cats to
a small lot wedged in between a pre-war walk-up apartment building and a
neighborhood bowling alley near Broadway.
When
combined with the passion of youth, love conquers all, I suppose, because my
best friend and I ventured into Tony Town, which was just up the hill from us,
and found Goldy the cat in that very lot. We coaxed her out of this feline
sanctuary of theirs and brought her back home, which was only a couple of
blocks away—but, really, seemed worlds apart. The bullyboys were down on us in
short order, seeking the identity of the catnappers. I’ve always wondered what
they had in mind for us, but fortunately the non-bully set had their version of
omerta. So, while Tony and associates didn’t return home with my head on the
platter, they, sadly, had Goldy the cat in their clutches again. Tony had
renamed her “Judy,” and I can still hear him saying, “We’re going to bring you
home now, Judy.” Frightened out of my skin, I still remember thinking that
“Judy” was a silly name for a cat. And Tony’s tone of voice was also silly
and
stupid—stupid and scary, a toxic combination.
I don’t
know whatever became of Goldy and all those cats that were rounded up. Tony
purported to be a cat lover and maybe he was. It wouldn’t be unprecedented if a
Neanderthal brute liked cats. But considering who he and his partners in crime
were, it seems a long shot that their motives were absolutely pure. I’m just
happy that I went into enemy territory—risked life and limb in a manner of
speaking—to do what an innocent kid who loved a cat thought was right. And Mr.
Marshmallow Head never did solve the Catnapping of the Century.
