Bright white shortish hair with the slightest natural curl wisping around the sides. Large, bloodshot eyes, bulging from inset sockets. Prominent cheek bones sitting a top a half-crooked grin full of even more crooked teeth. He is adorned with bountiful pimples and that teenage perma-grease gloss.
He’s the kid who works at the Jimmy John’s around the corner from my house.
I want to punch him in the throat.
“Can I take your order?” he asks so congenially.
His thick white eyebrows slant downward ever so, as if drawn on by a cartoonist who never wants his creation to appear as anything but angry.
His pleasantry is a ruse.
I shake my head at him, letting him know that I see right through his smug little smile. I know who he is.
He’s the devil.
Then, as if being controlled by a puppeteer, I impulsively reach out, grab him by the collar, and yank his entire body across the countertop. He screams in fright, and I silence him by pushing him into the ground and pressing his bony right cheek hard into the cold tile below.
“Sir, what can I get for you?”
My daydream is interrupted by the kid with white hair. My bully.
He works exactly 312 paces from my front door. He’s never done anything wrong. At least to me. He doesn’t know who I am. He’s probably one of the nicest kids on Earth. He always is helpful and cheerful and he always makes me a fantastic #12 with bacon added.
But still, every time I see him my blood warms within me, my heart starts to pound, and I start daydreaming of all the awful things he deserves.
The white-haired kid has taught me that old childhood feelings don’t die just because we grow up and become happy.
I spent so many lunches and even more school recesses, hiding in bathroom stalls, envisioning and fantasizing the exact same things about my bully.
The kid with bright white shortish hair that wisped ever so around the sides. Those deep sockets, eyes bulging red from within. Those cheekbones. That god-awful perma-grin full of crooked teeth. The pimples and the grease. The whine in his voice. The stupid bushy eyebrows that always aimed themselves angrily at the ground.
It is the same kid.
It is him.
Either science or God had a sick sense of humor and created a second little monster using the exact same DNA.
I tell him I’ll take a #12. “Don’t forget the bacon,” I say.
“You got it!” he punches something in and gives me a total.
I try hard not to think about my face being pressed against a toilet seat by this kid. I try hard not to think about all the times I was slammed against lockers or tripped in the hallways. I try hard not to think about entire rooms full of people laughing and pointing and chanting “fat boy!” at the top of their lungs as this kid pushes them all merrily along having his fun at my expense.
I hand him my credit card.
Before he can take it, I yell out to everyone in the sandwich shop. “Just so you all know, this kid has a tiny penis and he likes to sniff his own ass when he’s alone.” Everyone erupts in laughter, and the kid hangs his head in shame.
I stretch my head forward and whisper to him, “I will never forgive you.”
CONTINUED ON NEXT PAGE