I decided to double post the entries for this story here and on the
Fragments of Fiction blog. It will be interspersed with normal posts here.
The funny thing about my relationship with Georgie was the way we looked together. Georgie was only about 5â€™7 or 5â€™8 and he couldnâ€™t have weighed more than 165 pounds or so.
On the other hand I was almost 6â€™4 and weighed a solid 230 pounds. If you looked at us you would have never guessed that for years I had been scared of Georgie, afraid in a very real and tangible sense. And he knew it, he could smell it in my sweat, or so he claimed.
I canâ€™t explain what it was about him that frightened me so, I just know that he did. It might have had something to do with the time he beat David Jackman with a tire iron, or the time that he hopped over the counter at the mini-mart and beat the shopkeeper up for insulting him by asking for proof of his age. He was like a mini-volcano, ready to blow at any time and unpredictable.
In some ways my size had put me at a disadvantage. I had always been bigger than everyone else. In school the bullies had avoided me as had most of the other kids. No one wanted to risk having their head handed to them. The end result was that because I never had any fights I was afraid of what would happen, worried that I could get hurt and quite concerned about what a fist to the mouth would feel like.
Georgie never had those fears and I donâ€™t know why. He came from a middle class home. His mother was a housewife and his father was chief mechanic. It was a blue collar job that paid enough to provide white collar lifestyle. Georgieâ€™s father never hit him, never used any sort of physical threat to control him, so who knows why he turned out as he did.
Psychologists and social workers get paid a lot of money to improperly diagnose people like Georgie. I wonâ€™t waste my time trying to do their job, and who cares what made him the way he was. The more important question was how to stay on his good side because he was mean and proud of it.
Georgie bragged about the fights he got into, showed off his scars and told stories of the past hurts and battles like they had just happened. The chip on his shoulder was never very far from his present.
We must have been around 20 or so when Georgie decided to teach me his life lessons. At first I was shocked and confused. I couldnâ€™t believe that he was hitting and kicking me and then I was too bloodied and bruised to do anything but curl up on the floor and try to protect myself.
If I had any sense he beat it out of me there because the smart thing would have been to just walk away and not speak with him again. Alternatively I could have fought back, hit him, the lack of resistance only encouraged him to continue to batter me longer and harder.
This went on for a couple of years, maybe a little more, maybe a little less. I was in a funny place then, so time really didnâ€™t have much meaning to me. It would probably still be going on if not for the accident.
It was a Saturday morning. Georgie showed up at my apartment at around , sat there kicking and yelling at my door. When I answered it he told me to get dressed, we were going out.
I threw on a pair of jeans, some Timberland boots, flannel shirt and topped it off with a baseball cap turned backwards and followed him to his car. We were heading into the mountains to â€œsee someone.â€
That was bad news for someone. Any time Georgie said he wanted to â€œsee someoneâ€ it meant that he wanted to see them bleeding, preferably because of him. I didnâ€™t bother to ask who or why, it wouldnâ€™t matter and it wouldnâ€™t change anything. Georgie would do what he did just because and that was the fact of the matter.