The Tragic and Agonizing Lives of People I Once Knew

We each hated him for different reasons. He was odd, spewed from the sporogenous loins of parents whom I only knew of from riding passed their house. It was a small chipped-white house that sagged on the corner of Delaware St. and Chenango Ave., where a large tree canopied the entire property. When it was cut down it revealed the home as if it were just unclothed and violated.

Not a damn thing stirred in that house, and I only knew Elmer Peatry lived there because I saw him booting home one day as I was riding my bike. The site’s dilapidation made sense to me when I discovered it was the Peatry’s, the dried grass and tree stump, the cracked walkway, flat roof top, and vinyl sided structure, were all props that explained Elmer Peatry, and Elmer Peatry explained them.

The boy had no friends. He was content though, parading around with his mouth slightly opened in an inward smile. He’d wander around the playground of Clayton Elementary talking to himself, throwing his hands in the air as if twirling an invisible baton. He did not simply walk as much as stride with deliberation; his back and arms rigid and straight, his neck and head motionless. Only his legs kicked out high in front of him as he patrolled the grounds or hallways.

Bobby Mattheson always yelled at him about his peculiar gait, and like an angry mob, we’d wind Bobby up so tight he’d punch Elmer in the back, his face fanned into rage by our hysteria. Elmer’s simpering sustained all through the teasing and bullying and up until the punch. The smile, now completely its own and detached from Elmer’s face, would hold back the tears for a couple of seconds, then cry. The teachers would stroll up to us and ask what happened, but they hated him too.

One day I told the boys in class to invite Elmer to play touch football during recess.

“Screw that, who wants that pussy on their team?”

“Who cares?” I said, “Just give him the ball. Then cream him.”

The trick was to convince him, to interrupt his hermetic baton twirling and explain that we wanted him to play with us, even with Bobby Mattheson on one of the teams. Because I never initiated Elmer’s ridicule I was the perfect candidate to recruit him. I did, however, participate in the disparagement of Elmer Peatry. He never changed, as if each time we chased after him he’d hole up somewhere in his head, hiding and waiting from us to leave, which incensed us further and further until we looked like slavering imps. At that exact moment I’d feel sick and wish to God he’d fight back, that he’d punch me in my mouth and shut me up. But he’d let me wallow in it and I hated him for that.

It was like trying to get an alley dog to trust you. I finally persuaded him to play when I let him hold the football and he tossed it in the air replacing the imaginary baton. We picked teams and Elmer was on mine. On the first play I threw a pass to him as hard as I could and it zipped right through his hands and dug into his chest. “Keep your eye on the ball!” I said, “Just keep your eyes on it and you’ll catch it.” Elmer took the advice to heart and it cured his tears.

I snapped the next play and lobbed the ball to Elmer. He caught it and looked at it. “Run!” I pointed towards our end zone. He marched up the field swerving to miss the tags. He was in the open when suddenly the entire field converged upon him. Even his own teammates, even me. He ran right, left, then right again but everyone was rushing him. He dropped the ball and braced for impact. We fell on him, kicked him, pulled his hair, punched and kneed him. He absorbed blow after blow without making a sound and I thought we killed him. He laid there flat and bloodied. His eyes opened large and bright and his mouth gaped wide and dark like a graveyard in the middle of his face. But still no sound came from him. We walked away knowing no one would call after him, his parent’s wouldn’t talk to the school about the cuts and bruises, the teachers wouldn’t spend a breath.

I barely remembered him in middle school and I don’t even know if he made it to high school. We turned from chasing Elmer Peatry to chasing girls and making sure we didn’t care about a damn thing.

Incidentally, one day Bobby Mattheson was, what one would call, walking through our high school commons, lips cotton-mouthed, when he collapsed and died in front of the lunch crowd. His freckly arms were bruised and punctured with numerous intravenous attempts to inject, and his head split open where he hit the corner of the metal bench and gushed red all over the linoleum.

I did find out, however, that Elmer Peatry was born with the umbilical chord wrapped around his neck, apparently that way for many months, restricting proper blood flow that weakened then under-developed his legs. In the incubator he was going through methamphetamine withdrawal and constantly cried and jittered. At five-years-old he taught himself to walk again.

Now, late at night in bed, falling asleep with the tv on, I think of him twirling those invisible batons to the sound of the infomercials, and he grinning at me. Grinning, because maybe all along they were grenades.