I don’t recall her name — I’m not sure if I ever knew it — but I would like to apologize to that skinny, curly-haired girl for giving her a bloody nose.
It happened long ago, sometime in the 1950’s, but I’m sure she remembers it even if she never knew my name either. Victims of violent crimes don’t forget, even after all this time.
It happened at a bowling alley where my parents were members of a Friday night league. Sometimes mom and dad brought my brother and me along if they couldn’t get a babysitter. This was one of those times.
Once the bowling began, my brother and I were left to roam the bowling alley with the caution to “stay out of trouble.”
Their caution was meant to keep us from committing misdemeanors like stuffing gum into the hole of a bowling ball. They never dreamed that one of us would be capable of violent, unprovoked felony assault.
I blame the Clark bars, which were my favorite candy bar at the time. Dad always gave us a nickel or so to buy a treat, and if we had squirreled away a bit from our weekly allowance, we might gorge on a bit more than that. And on this Friday night, because I had been frugal, I had enough money for three Clark bars, which I wolfed down before the first strike thundered from the lanes.
We rarely ate candy at home, so the effect on my system was immediate. My ears buzzed, my fingers twitched, and I took off running at top speed, chasing nothing. A few other boys had been similarly empowered by Paydays or Milky Ways, and so the race was on.
I don’t remember what our goal was, but it was vitally important for us to hurtle past the locker rooms, skid left past the lounge, and blaze toward the far end of the pinball machines.
And in the middle of things, there she stood.
As I said, she was skinny with curly dark hair. She wore a dress, as all girls did in those days when they were out with their parents on a Friday night. She had white saddle shoes on her feet.
She stood against the wall with her hands behind her back, watching us rocket past her — first one sucrose-addled addict, and then another, and then me. She may have said something like, “Where are you going?” or maybe even “Can I come along?” Or maybe not. Maybe it was just the look on her face that said that she wanted to join in whatever fun had frenzied us so fiercely.
And before either of us knew what had happened, my right fist shot out and cracked her in the nose as I dashed past.
Oh, it would be easy to claim now (as then) that it was a complete accident, that I had lost my balance, that my arm had flung itself out to keep myself from falling and that she just happened to be in the line of fire.
But that is not what happened. She knew it, and so did I.
I had punched her in the nose willfully.
It was over before I could stop myself from doing it. And once it was done, the best course of action seemed to be to keep running.
Of course, it didn’t take long for the crying, bleeding girl to find her parents. And then for her parents to find my parents. And then for my parents to find me.
And then came the interrogation and the angry incriminations.
“Did you do it?”
“No…well, yes, but it was an accident…well, not really an accident, but I didn’t really mean it…no, I don’t know why… well, yes, I’m sorry…”
Except that I didn’t mean it. Not at the time. I didn’t really feel responsible for my fist, which chose that moment to take on a life of its own. And I didn’t really feel that I owed that skinny little girl an apology, because it was her fault that she chose that time and that place to be standing where my renegade fist might find her nose.
I don’t expect you to understand. But if you ask a sugar-charged eight-year-old about it, he’ll explain it to you. Or, if the sugar has rendered him incoherent, he can show you.
For the record, I have never before or since committed an act of violence to compare with this one. Never in my life have I punched another person in the head who hadn’t already spent a few moments punching on my head. And never a girl.
And I can’t really place all the blame on those seductive Clark bars, not even to indict three of them for ganging up on me to send me over the edge. Heck, I have wallowed in far worse binges every Halloween of my life and no noses were knocked by my knuckles at any of those times.
There is no excuse, and no explanation, for what I did.
And so, at long last, there is nothing more to be said to that skinny, curly-haired girl except to say that I am sorry. I am truly sorry, with no parents here to make me say it.
I don’t know why I did it.
I wish that I hadn’t, because I think of it with a wince whenever I see a Clark bar, even after more than 50 years.
Author, musician, and storyteller TR Kerth is a retired teacher who has lived in Sun City Huntley since 2003. Contact him at trkerth@yahoo.com. If you can’t wait for your next visit to Planet Kerth, then get TR’s book, “Revenge Of The Sardines,” available from Amazon, Barnes & Noble, and other online book distributors.
