All these years later, I still remember the bully from third grade: Trey Shelton.
Trey was the son of a well-to-do businessman in my hometown, and he lived down the street from me, in a sprawling estate that took up the end of our cul-de-sac and wrapped around behind the other houses on the street. They had a large ranch-style house, a big barn with horses, a pond…in other words, pretty much anything that a young boy could possibly want. Growing up in this environment, one would think that Trey would have been perfectly content, but for some reason, he wasn’t. He was a bully.
Trey would pick on anyone, anytime...verbal abuse, physical threat, and finally, if lesser abuse failed to evoke the desired response, physical attack. To a third-grader, Trey Shelton was terrorism.
Placating him had no long-term effect. Being nice to him, giving him your lunch money, sharing your dessert, might keep him off your back for a day, maybe two, but the reprieve was always short-lived. In fact, such tactics tended to be counterproductive, because when he felt the urge to bully, your face was fresh in his memory, and he would seek you out like a guided missile. Avoiding him altogether was no good either, because then he knew that you were afraid of him, and fear is to a bully as blood is to a shark.
Trey was not just mean, he was devious too. At one point, I attempted to befriend him, and joined him in play at his barn, horses, pond, and land on at least one occasion. He quickly tired of his friendly charade, though, and reverted to his bullying ways. On one occasion, he and his cronies came to my house and were friendly just long enough to get me behind some new construction across the street, at which point they knocked me off of my bike and began beating on me. Anyone who thinks people are basically good, never met Trey Shelton.
After almost three years of failed attempts, I finally hit upon the solution. I was flying a kite when Trey happened by and decided that I was a prime target, and the net result of his subsequent efforts was that I lost my kite. My favorite kite. In raw anger, I chased him down and pelted him with rocks until he ran home, bleeding and crying like a baby. He never bothered me again.
He kept on bothering others, though. Several years later, Trey was riding his motorcycle across someone else’s land--someone who had warned him against trespassing--and that someone picked up a rifle and shot Trey, dead. Friends and relatives were distraught over this “senseless crime,” but I could find nothing senseless about it. The harsh reality was that Trey brought it upon himself, and the world was a little friendlier place with him gone. Sadly, another boy who was riding with Trey was also shot, and was crippled for life.
If a bully cannot be placated through reason or kindness, no amount of money will do the job. History is replete with examples of protection rackets that were anything but. Ultimately, the only way to handle that sort of bully is with a bullet.
Posted by jon at May 4, 2005 10:45 AM