When I was boy growing up in the Bronx, there were a lot of bullies in the neighborhood. Nowadays, the subject of bullying, with its countless technological tentacles, is front and center—and rightfully so—but back in the
1970s, it was tolerated and largely ignored. In fact, all of us in the
non-bully—and potentially bullied—class lived our lives with these individuals
always on our radars and with the hope that we’d never get ensnared in their villainous webs.
There was one particular bully entourage that will forever
define, in my mind at least, what bullies and bully-ism are all about. This
was, of course, in an era before cyber-bullying, and these boys did their dirty
work in the bright light of day—and, yes, at night as well. Naturally, a band of
bullies needed a leader of sorts, and this crew had one. I’d really like to
mention his name—not to seek retribution forty years later for all his juvenile
transgressions, but because it was the ideal moniker for a bruiser bullyboy
who looked and acted as he did. I’ll call him “Ted” for the time being, who was a scary fellow, as were his underlings, one of whom used to stick
firecrackers in pigeons' you know whats and blow them up. I always
thought Ted resembled an over-sized marshmallow—a “Mr. Marshmallow Head,” if
you will, with curly locks and a porker’s nose. He was big, burly,
and mean. One friend of mine recalled him as an Incredible Hulk-type.
Another old friend, when asked if he remembered Ted, replied: “The bully?” So, take your pick, Mr. Marshmallow Head or the Incredible Hulk. He was the
last person any of us wanted in our lives in that colorfully raw snapshot in
time.
I realize now that when I was very young—grade-school age—that I
exhibited a fair amount of courage and willingness to “boldly go” and take on a bully
and his bullyboy brigade. Perhaps it was more naiveté than actual
courage—youthful exuberance unleashed and unafraid. Well, less afraid. And I’m talking about “taking on” bullies in a roundabout, clandestine
way, because I weighed ninety-nine pounds at the time. Yes, from bullyboy Ted’s
perspective, I was a ninety-nine pound weakling. And years later—as a high-school kid who tipped the scales at a whopping 115 pounds—the thought of doing
what I did as an eleven year old seemed extraordinary to me, as it does now. What was I thinking?
Along with the bullies, there were a lot of stray cats in the old neighborhood. One
of the more fecund females in town was named “Tiny,” and she belonged to a
family up the block. Tiny had many male suitors and was the mother of a mother
lode of kittens. All of us in our little clique loved Tiny and her
always-expanding family, fed them pieces of white bread and saucers of
milk—that’s what we did back then—and generally looked out for their
well-being.
Then one day out of the blue, Ted and his bullyboy underlings came
down to our neck of the woods loaded for bear and started harvesting stray
cats. They whisked away those that they could catch in a burlap sack, as I
remember, while claiming to be concerned “cat people.” They even accused those
in their way of “animal abuse.” In one of their roundups they snatched a young,
very friendly cat that we had named “Goldy,” based on her peculiar color scheme. Ted and
friends brought their collection of cats to a small lot wedged in between a
pre-war walk-up apartment building and a neighborhood bowling alley near Broadway.
When combined with the passion of youth, love conquers all, I suppose, because my best friend and I ventured into Tedville, which was
just up the hill from us, and found Goldy the cat in that very lot. We coaxed her out of this feline sanctuary of theirs and brought her back home, which was
only a couple of blocks—but, really, seemed worlds apart—away. The bullyboys were
down on us in short order, seeking the identity of the catnappers. I’ve always
wondered what they had in mind for us, but fortunately the non-bully set had
their version of omerta. So, while Ted and company
didn’t return home with my head on the platter, they, sadly, had Goldy the cat in their
clutches again. Ted had renamed her “Judy,” and I can still hear him
saying, “We’re going to bring you home now, Judy.” I was only eleven years old
and frightened out of my skin, but still remember thinking that “Judy” was
a silly name for a cat. And bully Ted’s tone of voice was also silly and stupid—stupid and
scary, a toxic combination.
I don’t know whatever became of Goldy and all those cats that
were rounded up. Ted purported to be a cat lover and maybe he was. It wouldn’t
be unprecedented that a Neanderthal brute liked cats. But considering who he
and his partners in crime were, it seems a long shot that their motives were absolutely pure. I’m just happy that I went into enemy territory—risked life and limb in a
manner of speaking—to do what an innocent kid who loved a cat thought was
right. And I take some pride that Mr. Marshmallow Head never did solve the Catnapping of the Century.
