I’ve only been truly challenged to a fistfight once in my life.
I’ve worked at avoiding them mostly because I didn’t want to get my glasses broken.
It was back when I was in the 8th grade, junior high school. What it was all about is lost in time to me. I do know I had gotten tired of the “jocks” hassling me and I stood up to a member of their clique, Reggie Howell.
“Meet me after school, I’ll kick your ass,” Reggie said.
“Where and when,” I said.
He just stared at me.
“Okay,” I said, “Four o’clock in the big field behind Berkowitz’s house.”
Berkowitz was one of the school jocks, but he was more easygoing than the others. Berkowitz was standing there, so was Randy Thomas who liked to bounce basketballs off the top of my head when I wasn’t looking.
When school was done for the day I rode my bicycle home, had a snack and went out to the big field behind Berkowitz’s house.
There was Berkowitz, there was Thomas.
Reggie was nowhere to be seen.
“You didn’t bring your pal?” I asked them.
“This is all up to him,” said Thomas. “If he wants to wuss out, he wusses out on his own.”
Berkowitz looked around and smiled. “I guess you win by default,” said Berkowitz.
The two of them turned and walked away.
“Maybe I won’t bounce balls off your head anymore, McGee,” Thomas said without turning around.
And you know, he never did again. And Reggie never mouthed off to me again.
Then one day here in the future I got to wondering whatever became of those guys. So with the help of the Internet, Great and Powerful, I looked them up.
Berkowitz became a software information technology dude. Thomas runs one of those publication companies that make regional magazines.
And Reggie Howell is dead.
Reggie Howell has been dead for over 20 years.
And he died in a fashion I wouldn’t wish on anyone: He was at the wrong end of a shotgun.
The details were all there on the internet.
Reggie at age 38 had become the boyfriend of a woman he worked with. She was married to an older guy approaching 50. That guy, Keith Wilson, had been in Vietnam, had worked for the railroad and become disabled.
Keith’s wife Lorrie made it public that Keith was abusive and she’d had enough. Lorrie left Keith and took their two little girls with her.
The old newspaper article posted in the local university’s archives was well written, it told the tale of Keith turning to whiskey after Lorrie left. “It was just to calm him down,” a brother told the reporter. “It’s not like he was a drunk.”
Lorrie had been out of Keith’s house for about 6 weeks, she had filed for divorce and outlined the terms for child support. She was still letting him see his girls.
It was a sunny Sunday afternoon in May when Lorrie went to a local bar to pick her girls up from visiting with their father. She took Reggie along with her because Keith made her scared.
Two men inside the bar told the tale: They heard a “pop” outside. They went to the window and saw a man lying bloody in the parking lot. There was another man who had his over and under shotgun pointed at a woman…and he fired, she fell to the ground. While one of the patrons went to go call the cops the other watched as the man chased his screaming little girls, shooting one, then the other. The man then got in his car and drove away.
Keith went home and as he sat in his car in his driveway blew his brains out with a pistol.
Reggie Howell was dead, so was Lorrie.
Keith and Lorrie’s daughters, ages 7 and 9, spent some time in the hospital but both recovered and went off to live with a wealthy uncle in Richmond.
After reading all this I leaned back in my chair and pondered how life goes.
I pondered Reggie’s fate.
I pondered two children, now fully grown, and pondered the scars they must have.
I pondered what would make a man decide that killing people, even trying to kill his own children, was an acceptable choice.
And then I thought that I’m probably glad I don’t know.
I’ve worked at avoiding them mostly because I didn’t want to get my glasses broken.
It was back when I was in the 8th grade, junior high school. What it was all about is lost in time to me. I do know I had gotten tired of the “jocks” hassling me and I stood up to a member of their clique, Reggie Howell.
“Meet me after school, I’ll kick your ass,” Reggie said.
“Where and when,” I said.
He just stared at me.
“Okay,” I said, “Four o’clock in the big field behind Berkowitz’s house.”
Berkowitz was one of the school jocks, but he was more easygoing than the others. Berkowitz was standing there, so was Randy Thomas who liked to bounce basketballs off the top of my head when I wasn’t looking.
When school was done for the day I rode my bicycle home, had a snack and went out to the big field behind Berkowitz’s house.
There was Berkowitz, there was Thomas.
Reggie was nowhere to be seen.
“You didn’t bring your pal?” I asked them.
“This is all up to him,” said Thomas. “If he wants to wuss out, he wusses out on his own.”
Berkowitz looked around and smiled. “I guess you win by default,” said Berkowitz.
The two of them turned and walked away.
“Maybe I won’t bounce balls off your head anymore, McGee,” Thomas said without turning around.
And you know, he never did again. And Reggie never mouthed off to me again.
Then one day here in the future I got to wondering whatever became of those guys. So with the help of the Internet, Great and Powerful, I looked them up.
Berkowitz became a software information technology dude. Thomas runs one of those publication companies that make regional magazines.
And Reggie Howell is dead.
Reggie Howell has been dead for over 20 years.
And he died in a fashion I wouldn’t wish on anyone: He was at the wrong end of a shotgun.
The details were all there on the internet.
Reggie at age 38 had become the boyfriend of a woman he worked with. She was married to an older guy approaching 50. That guy, Keith Wilson, had been in Vietnam, had worked for the railroad and become disabled.
Keith’s wife Lorrie made it public that Keith was abusive and she’d had enough. Lorrie left Keith and took their two little girls with her.
The old newspaper article posted in the local university’s archives was well written, it told the tale of Keith turning to whiskey after Lorrie left. “It was just to calm him down,” a brother told the reporter. “It’s not like he was a drunk.”
Lorrie had been out of Keith’s house for about 6 weeks, she had filed for divorce and outlined the terms for child support. She was still letting him see his girls.
It was a sunny Sunday afternoon in May when Lorrie went to a local bar to pick her girls up from visiting with their father. She took Reggie along with her because Keith made her scared.
Two men inside the bar told the tale: They heard a “pop” outside. They went to the window and saw a man lying bloody in the parking lot. There was another man who had his over and under shotgun pointed at a woman…and he fired, she fell to the ground. While one of the patrons went to go call the cops the other watched as the man chased his screaming little girls, shooting one, then the other. The man then got in his car and drove away.
Keith went home and as he sat in his car in his driveway blew his brains out with a pistol.
Reggie Howell was dead, so was Lorrie.
Keith and Lorrie’s daughters, ages 7 and 9, spent some time in the hospital but both recovered and went off to live with a wealthy uncle in Richmond.
After reading all this I leaned back in my chair and pondered how life goes.
I pondered Reggie’s fate.
I pondered two children, now fully grown, and pondered the scars they must have.
I pondered what would make a man decide that killing people, even trying to kill his own children, was an acceptable choice.
And then I thought that I’m probably glad I don’t know.
-30-
*All names, except mine, have been changed.
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