It was a pitch-dark, moonless Halloween night, “blacker than a hundred midnights, down in a cypress swamp,” poets would say. All of us are crazier at night than in daytime … triply so on Halloween.
Wayne’ s plan was not only crazy — it was diabolical. Muscular, barrel-chested and an imposing six-foot, four-inches tall, he was an outstanding athlete at the college where I taught English. He was also a bully.
Dressed in a white sheet with a bloody knife wound over his heart and a hood with slanted eyeholes and fanged, frowning mouth, he hid in an oak tree above a sidewalk, dropped in front of approaching trick-or-treaters, raised his arms, and roared “Y-A-A-A-R-GH,” causing terrified tots to drop their bags of booty and flee. Handing the stolen sweets to his cohorts in nearby bushes, he would climb again to his perch.
Casper the Unfriendly Ghost had robbed several kids when he spied his next victim, a boy in a black cape, pointed hat and witch’s mask, skipping along on a broom, clutching a bag of treats.
Swooping to the sidewalk, Wayne raised his arms and roared. He assumed the lad was petrified, but this pugnacious, pint-sized poltergeist performed unpredictably. He dismounted the broom, grasped it and swung with all his might, swatting the fiendish foe squarely across his horrific hood!
Clutching his candy bag, he calmly re-mounted and skipped away, leaving an enraged, moaning monster holding his face and cursing his guffawing comrades.
Wayne came to class Monday morning with a purplish diagonal swath, a broom handle’s width, from temple to jaw. One eye was shut, with blue and green arcs beneath it.
“Well, Wayne, does the other guy look worse?” I asked teasingly. He hung his head, and the class fell silent, obviously knowing something I didn’t. After school that day, I called the dejected youngster into my office.
As he explained what happened, I sensed his self-esteem, along with his face, had suffered a telling blow. Wayne needed a way out, so I told him about the upcoming essay contest sponsored by the English Department.
Toward the end of the semester, students would read each other’s entries and vote. Authors of the top ten choices would read their essays at a combined meeting of all English sections. Reluctantly, he agreed to write about his Halloween experience.
A week before the contest, Wayne dropped by my office and handed me an essay. Penned in his neat hand, it was entitled “Bullying Does Not Pay.”
I was struck by his writing’s clarity. There was much more between this young man’s ears than I suspected. The essay won hands down, and I knew from the way his once broom-bruised face shone that Wayne had grown up a lot that semester.
After graduation, Wayne coached and taught English in high school. In both positions, he became a role model — tough and tender. He never learned who the bold little boy was, and to this day just calls him the “Meanest Goblin.”
Jimmy Reed is an Oxford, Mississippi resident, Ole Miss and Delta State University alumnus, Vietnam Era Army Veteran, former Mississippi Delta cotton farmer and ginner, author, and retired college teacher.
This story is a selection from Jimmy Reed’s latest book, entitled The Jaybird Tales.
Copies, including personalized autographs, can be reserved by notifying the author via email (.(JavaScript must be enabled to view this email address)).
