The ‘Bullies’ was part of a series of stories that I wrote some 30 years ago. And its rules are often learned by boys through a gauntlet of terrible experiences. We teach our boys that the bully is not liked. But you must take him into consideration. And anyone can theoretically become the bully. It just depends on the mark, the kid that gets picked on. The other lesson boys learn is that the only defense against bullies is to have friends. And so developed life long friendships. And gangs.

You can download Bicycle Thieves by clicking on the title.

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Bullies

      A role of paper tumbled along the asphalt toward the school fence and stopped. Greg Tower turned and spat at the paper, then thinking it was money picked it up and unrolled it.

      “Nothing,” he said, wiping his fingers on his jeans.

      Greg was a small boy for fifteen, but had taken up smoking and a swagger and a duckbill haircut.

      “You think that was money, eh?” Bower laughed. Bower a large boy of sixteen was Greg’s buddy. On a dare, Bower had burned his initials into his arm with a magnifying glass. When asked if it hurt, Bower would reply, Well, it used to.

      Greg took a cigarette out from behind his ear and cupping the match, light up his cigarette.

      Between the two boys, Danny Cameron, stood nervously moving from foot to foot. Greg blew smoke into Danny’s face.

      “I told you I don’t have any money,” Danny said. Danny’s lower lip began to flutter.

      Bower laughed.

      “That’s what all the kids say,” Bower said looking at Greg. “Funny, ain’t it?”

      “Ah, we ain’t looking for money,” Greg responded putting his arm around Danny’s shoulder.

      Danny smiled nervously. The blood began to drain from his face.

      “We have this club,” Greg said. “Very prestigious club.”

      Bower laughed. Greg smiled.

      “Presstish,” Bower repeated.

      “Prestigious,” Greg repeated with a scowl. Then he turned back to Danny.

      “You want to join our club, don’t you?” Greg asked. “Why wouldn’t you, eh?”

      Danny shrugged his shoulders.

      “Of course he does,” Bower added putting his hand on Danny’s shoulder as if he was guiding him through a difficult decision in the young boy’s life. “It’s a great club. We got a special handshake and a motto. What’s our motto, Greg?”

      “What’s yours is mine!” Greg replied.

      “Ya, that’s it.” Bower shook with laughter then began to cough. “I need a smoke.”

      “You got a cigarette for my buddy?” Greg asked Danny.

      Danny shook his head.

      “I don’t smoke,” he said.

      Greg turned to Bower.

      “He doesn’t smoke,” Greg said.

      “That’s too bad,” Bower said with a sneer. “Cause I really need a smoke.”

      “My parents won’t let me smoke.” Danny grinned sheepishly.

      “Well,” Greg responded, “that’s one of the advantages of our club. You can smoke all you want.”

      “I’d have to ask my dad if I could join,” Danny said.

      Bower and Greg both laughed.

      Into the far end of the schoolyard, David rode his bicycle. He stopped, noticing Bower and Greg. These were two boys he had been warned about by his friends. Now in high school, they returned to the grounds of Our Lady of Peace to re-establish their reign of terror amongst the younger boys.  David wondered why they had decided to pick on Danny. Maybe Danny was just in the wrong place at the wrong time or maybe he hadn’t heard about Greg and Bower.

      Bower had a grip on Danny’s jacket and each time Danny made a move to leave, Bower threw him back into the fence. Greg laughed and slapped Danny across the face.

      “You don’t get it, do you?” Greg laughed, waving his hands in the air. “In order to join our club there’s a small initiation fee. And you’ve got to join. See, if you join, we’ll protect you.”

      “That’s right,” Bower said. “A kid like you must have a lot of enemies.”

      “I better go,” Danny said and moved to leave.

      Greg grabbed Danny and shoved him.       Danny took a swipe at Greg. Bower grabbed Danny and bashed him on the side of the head. Danny cried out, falling to his knees. Bower grabbed the small boy and lifted him up.

      “That ain’t no way to behave, Chief.”

      Greg spit into Danny’s hair and rubbed it in, his cigarette bobbing up and down in his laughter.

      “Come on, Chief,” Bower laughed. “It prevents baldness.”

      Across the street from the school, David spotted Mr. Moore mowing his lawn. Didn’t Mr. Moore notice what was going on? Why didn’t he try and stop them? Just then David noticed Greg’s attention turning toward him.

      “Who’s that kid over there, watching us?” Greg asked.

      “Where?” Bower turned.

      Greg pointed across the schoolyard at David.

      At that moment, Danny made his escape. Bower tried to grab him again but it was too late. In a few brief strides, Danny was out of the schoolyard running home.

      “Shit!” Greg cried, kicking the fence in anger. “What did you let him go for?”

      “I thought you had him,” Bower said in his defense then turned and waved at David.

      “It’s his fault!” he declared.

      The two teenagers began to walk toward David.

      “Come here, kid!” Greg cried out.

      David turned his bike around and rode off.

      It was a warm Friday. David and Michael, David’s young cousin, crossed the hydro field toward the Ashborne Fish’n’Chips to buy dinner for the family. Three boys, Greg Tower, Bower, and Psycho Bob, blocked their way. David took Michael’s hand and tried to walk around them.

      “Whose the girlfriend?” Bower asked.

      “I ain’t a girl,” Michael replied.

      Greg and Psycho Bob laughed.

      Bower bent over to speak to Michael.

      “That ain’t very friendly, kid,” he said.

      Michael moved closer to David, his six year-old frame trembling.

      “He’s my cousin,” David responded, squeezing Michael’s hand.

      “I think she’s your girlfriend,” Psycho Bob laughed. David had been warned about Psycho Bob. He’d been expelled from Our Lady of Peace for bringing a knife to school. Psycho Bob liked weapons.

      “Ain’t that against the law?” Bower asked.

      “Two boys!” Psycho Bob added.

      “It’s against all that I stand for,” Greg howled in mocking indignation.

      “His girl friend is kind of cute,” Psycho Bob said and reached out to touch Michael who shrank behind David.

      “Bob likes little girls,” Bower said.

      “He ain’t a girl,” David responded.

      “He ain’t!” Greg said. “Well, if he’s a boy he must have a weenie.”

      “That’s right,” Bower added.

      “Show us his weenie,” Bob said.

      The three boys laughed.

      David did not respond.

      Greg looked at David and then pointed to the hydro field.

      “This is our field,” he said. “I admit it ain’t much of a field, but it is ours. And you are trespassing.”

      David turned with Michael in hand and tried to retreat. Bower stopped his exit.

      “You’ve got to pay a toll to cross our field,” Greg said.

      “I ain’t paying no toll,” David said turning back to Greg. David tried to push past Greg. As he did, Bower came up behind David and kicked him in the back of the leg. David turned around, grabbing his leg in pain. As he did, Greg jumped on his shoulders, howling like a cowboy riding a bronco. David spun around trying to throw Greg off his back when Psycho Bob hit him lower in the legs. David turned raging with frustration. The three boys formed a circle around him. Every time he attempted to respond to one of the boy’s assaults, he was attached from the rear. Spinning around David fell to the ground. The three boys started to kick him. David curled in a ball to protect his face and balls. The three boys laughed as they continued to pummel him. Behind them Michael stood, his mouth open, trying to scream, but all that came out was a low whistle. Mr. Shanahan who was walking his dogs yelled from across the field.

      The three boys looked up.

      “Ah shit!” Psycho Bob. “It’s old man Shanahan.”

      “Just when we were having a little fun,” Bower added.

      “You owe us,” Greg cried pointing to David as the three boys turned and ran.

      David lay on the ground, sobbing. Michael walked over and put his hand on his shoulder.

      “Did they kill you?” he asked.

      David stood up and wiped the tears from his eyes. By now Mr. Shanahan had reached them.

      “Are you alright?” he asked.

      David nodded.

      “Those little thugs,” Mr. Shanahan said. “Do you know them?”

      David shook his head. Mr. Shanahan’s dog began to lick Michael’s hand. Michael pulled away.

      “Don’t worry, son, he won’t bite,” Mr. Shanahan said.

      When Mr. Shanahan moved off with his dog, David took Michael’s hand and they walked quickly through the field toward the fish and chip store.

      “You going to tell uncle Gerry?” Michael asked.

      David looked at Michael and shook his head. David couldn’t tell his parents. His father would be disappointed that he didn’t fight back. And his mother wouldn’t let him out of the house for days.

      “And don’t you say anything,” David instructed Michael.

      Michael nodded.

      “You going to get your gang and beat them up later?” Michael asked.

      David shook his head.

      The two boys remained silent. On the way back with their fish and chips, they took the longer route around the hydro field.

      Michael looked up at David.

      “If it was me,” Michael said, “I’d get a gun and kill those mother fuckers.”

I keep remembering a guy I met one summer. Working for my tuition. We were digging a ditch. He was about 50. Told me hopped trains during the depression across the country. And that in one of his stops he had sex with a nun. Depression – a nun – sex. Life is very odd.

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THAT’S ALL I WANT FROM YOU. THAT’S ALL I EVER WANTED

Mrs. Murphy bobbed up to the cashier. The classic 18 step. With her walker. Shaking those screws and bolts. Rattling. Bones and bones. None of that osseous matter. Something that the Roman Empire could never understand.

Josephine, the cashier, smiled. She loved to see the old lady in her element. Not all her marbles are working but she sure can move those steins.

“Got a tune in your head, eh Mrs. Murphy?” Josephine nodded her head to one side and winked. Like the Andrew sisters. The blond one.

Mrs. Murphy nodded as her head bobbed up and down.

“That’s all I want from you.” Mrs. Murphy pursed her lips. She loved to purse. “A lovely song from Jaye P. Morgan.”

Josephine smiled. Then Bea, another cashier, dropped by for a moment. And the two cashiers sang together. A sunny day with bolts up to the sky. A kiss and no goodbye. That’s all I want from you.

The two cashiers laughed. In perfect harmony. Bea moved on. Shuffling her feet. Waving the palms of her hands in the liquescent air.

“You’ve got to have some fun,” Josephine said. Flashing her pearlies. Pieces of dental floss hanging out of her mouth. Like Romeo’s braided twine to Juliet. And never the twine shall meet.

Mrs. Murphy smiled patiently. She loved the song, but didn’t appreciate these kids confiscating her mood. Why do they consider their own thoughts worth expressing?

“I guess every generation has an ipod in their head,” Josephine said. Josephine loved to imagine that she could smooth over any discord. With her sassy observations.

But Mrs. Murphy had no idea what an ipod was. She would have understood jukebox. Making the gap between the generations. A language problem between teenagers from different eras.

“I don’t know about that honey,” Mrs. Murphy said shaking her head, “but I feel like there’s a juke box playing in my head. Those tunes fall into place. Can’t help but put you on your toes. Make me feel like smoking a Chesterfield. Oh boy. What a time we had during the war. The best of times as they say. My goodness how I loved to dance. My mother would have sworn that I’d been swept away by the devil himself.”

Bea stopped by again.

The two cashiers sang, Don’t let me down, Oh show me that you care. Remember when you give, You also get your share. Don’t let me down, I have no time to waste. Tomorrow might not come, When dreamers dream too late.

Josephine giggled.

Bea moved on. Oh that Bea loved to giggle. A jiggle in her jello.

Mrs. Murphy was not so impressed. She watched Bea dance toward the magazine stand. Where she was shuffling in the new magazines. And noticed her ass. Wide load on that carriage.

“She is very annoying, isn’t she?” Mrs. Murphy said. And wondered why people insisted on imposing their silliness on other folks who might have wonderful thoughts in their heads.

“Oh, we’re just having fun. Girls just want to have fun.” Josephine smiled.

“You don’t say,” Mrs. Murphy responded leaning on the counter. Her hand jumping. Her jowls shaking. “You know there are no old people. Some of us just have bad makeup.”

Josephine laughed. That’s very clever.

Mrs. Murphy noticed that the young woman was impressed by her remark, a remark that she had repeated thousands of time over the last few years. After she read it in a Chinese fortune cookie. Still it made her think better of the young woman.

“In your head,” Mrs. Murphy continued, “you’re always 24. God, when you get to my age it seems that the rest of the world are children.”

“I never thought of it that way,” Josephine said as she scanned the diapers designed for seniors that Mrs. Murphy had placed on the counter.

Mrs. Murphy added some toothpaste. For dentures. And some ointment for hemorrhoids. And a brush.

“Or maybe it’s the other way round,” the old lady said caught up in her own nimble wit. “Maybe we’re all old. And being young is an illusion. A joke. A tease.”

At that moment Bea showed up again and the two cashiers finished singing their song. A little love that slowly grows and grows. Not one that comes and goes. That’s all I want from you.

Bea and Josephine laughed. And when they were finished they noticed that Mrs. Murphy had departed. Left all of her things behind. Unbagged. Unpaid for.

“What got into her?” Bea asked.

Josephine shook her head. “She’s just old.”

Bea nodded as her head bobbed up and down.

Bea pursed her lips and Josephine followed suit as they sang. “That’s all I want from you.”

So I’m surfing blogs. And I come across blogs. Religious ones. About Jesus. About giving yourself to God. About filling your mind with nothing but thoughts about God. And you know what these young people sound like. They’re ‘bliss’d-out.’ Am I the only one that notices this? That God has become another drug for people. A way of giving up the pain of being alive. About giving up anguish. And curiosity, doubt, fear and wonder. I see the same thing on religious programming. That wide eyed sense of ‘just going with it’.

This is not the worship of God. It is the worship of the feeling of God’s presence. It is idolatry.

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THE COSMETICIAN’S QUIET RANT

“All we do is talk. Walk and talk. Walk in place. When you come right down to it. That’s our job. To keep the customer happy. By talking. And smiling. And listening. And walking. In place.”

“It’s very important to listen. The customer must feel… comfortable. As if she is the centre. Of your world. Like the sun. Listens all the time. Didn’t know that? That big ball. I call it Big Mike. And it sends back out laments. Plaints. And all that alimony. Back to God. Everyone loves to bath. In the ear of Big Mike.”

“You could fall asleep. Listening. It is so hard to focus. I like to rub my tongue along. My teeth. Feel those ridges. Like elastics across a comb. Customers can go on. About their sorrows. Dry hair. Or dry skin. Or dry eyes. Can be heart breaking. Everyone needs to be held. And your eyes. Like arms. Sometimes I wish I could rhyme.

“Dry is a common refrain. One lady. Drove up in a Lamborghini. Black leather upholstery. Cried. About her nether regions. Those private parts. Being dry. She should talk to a doctor about that. Right? Does she? No. A friend. No. She talks to a cosmetician.”

“We live on the surface. Beauty is skin deep. You don’t make an impression at work and you don’t get that promotion. Even if you look like. A hag. No reason to dress like one. Everyone just wants to see. That you’re trying. Everyone will give you a break. If you take. The time to try. Oh that terrible feeling. Of saying, wait until. I put on my make-up.”

“Most women’s looks leave them pretty early. In the day. And once you lose. Once the bloom is off the rose. What are you left with? Photographs. The look that used to sell. You. In bottles. In tubes. In sprays. That women on the covers of magazines. The look that younger women wear. On commercials. Will bring you happiness. But then.”

“Younger women want to look. Everyone wants to be liked. To own their own lives. Always talking about romance. Like it existed. Outside this industry. You know the morons. They’ve been making themselves up. Since grade seven. They keep looking in the mirror thinking that they’ll find something new. It’s terrible to say. A lot of them become cosmeticians. But they don’t last. No discipline. No ambition. Think they’re in show business. Think they’re going to be a starlet someday. You can’t afford to get caught up in the illusion. A dealer shouldn’t get hooked on his own merchandise.”

“And what about men? Well, in our world, they don’t get a vote.”

A few years ago I received in the mail a cheque for a substantial amount of money. Royalties. I was suspicious. I had several books released before that date but I could not imagine that I had made this much money. But there it was, made out to me. David Halliday. I sent it back. It wasn’t my publisher. How much money have I lost over the years,  how much of my intellectual property has been lost to other David Hallidays? This has to stop. Everyone should have their own name.

Here is an award ceremony where an award for teaching physics is given in my name.  You are probably surprised. I know I was.

Here is the first David Halliday. A photographer. One thing you’ll notice right away. He takes pictures of things. Those are my things. I’m sure of it. Or the portraits? Actors. Those aren’t the real people. The real people live in Hamilton.

June 6 through July 12 @ Carrie Haddad Photographs – 318 Warren Street, Hudson, New York

carriehaddadgallery.com/index.cfm?method=Photography.ExhibitDescription&ExhibitID=62B3FB86-19DB-5802-E02E8C518213B9AB

To celebrate nearly 20 years of work, Carrie Haddad Photographs is pleased to announce “Two Decades”, an exhibition of photographs by David Halliday. This comprehensive exhibition, spanning from the early 1990s through the present, traces Halliday’s intimate artistic journey and focus.

Halliday’s primary subjects are carefully-composed still lifes, portraits, and landscapes which he shoots in black and white film with only natural light. He is a purist behind the lens, rarely manipulating his negatives in any way and a master in the darkroom. His work has an ethereal quality that’s translated not only through the subject, but also by the warm sepia tones he uses in his printing.

Ya. Right.