"Johnny, come out here!"
Karen was agitated -- more so than usual, anyway. I was just irritated. I was on my summer vacation, too. I was right in the middle of doing nothing in particular, and didn't appreciate the interruption.
"What?" I demanded of my kid sister. I was eight years old, and had no time for her five-year-old nonsense.
"Sharon and me are our riding bikes and there's a kid that won't let us ride past his house."
I got to my feet. Probably another little snarky kid bugging my sister and cousin. I followed them down the street.
Less than a block away stood a monster. He had to be at least ten years old, and was holding a broom handle, minus the broom. I had severe second thoughts.
"What do you want?" he sneered.
"You won't let my sister and cousin ride their bikes here."
I don't know where I got the courage to follow through with this confrontation. I didn't care whether Karen could ride past this bit of road. But, I saw cousin Sharon only once a year at best, and harbored a sort of crush on her. A bit inbred and creepy maybe, but we were kids, and Jeff Foxworthy was still in diapers.
Back to the behemoth, who was saying, "What are you gonna do about it?"
"You're gonna let 'em ride," I challenged. "I'll make you."
His sneer grew wider, and he stepped forward, swinging his makeshift staff at me.
I caught the it in mid-arc and wrested it from his grip. Then I laughed defiantly. "There!" I gloated. "You ain't got your stick!"
"So what?" The bully yelled. "You won't do nothin' with it!" And once again he advanced, this time raising a threatening fist.
Without thinking, I swung the broom handle like a broadsword, connecting with the ogre's head with a resounding THWACK!
He yelled! Oh, how he shouted, clutching his temple and swearing, dancing in a little circle. The three of us stood, transfixed by the performance.
The boy stopped shouting long enough to give me a hateful glare. "You won't do that again! I dare you to do that again!"
I carefully parsed his words and decided that they formed an invitation to take another whack at it. That's exactly what I did, repeating the first swing precisely, since it had worked so well.
The youthful roadblock, unfortunately, hadn't learned to duck, and so was soon repeating his Indian Pain Dance. Possibly with even more volume and vehemence than before.
At this point, Karen -- always alert for authority figures -- shouted, "Someone's coming!"
Emerging from the nearest house was a weather-worn giant of a woman who could only be the kid's mother.
All my courage fled. I dropped the broom handle and together we sprinted down the street, heedless of sharp rocks on bare feet, toward the sanctuary of Sharon's house.
Though I fled from the larger foe, I still considered myself the hero of thge day. Sister Karen and cousin Sharon rode their bicycles peacefully for the rest of the day, while I heroically picked gravel from the soles of my feet.
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