This is a story I like to call Packey Bush.
Packey, or Patrick Bush grew up on the culdesack on Windmill Lane, roughly five houses down from mine. In our neighborhood child community of Willow Farms, we frequented to such games as kickball, pickle, football and night tag. Packey had been a friend of mine for as long as he lived in the former household of my current roommate Dave. We were close friends, often sleeping over at one anothers house, trading baseball cards, and naturally bickering over the trivial things that almost youngens seem to but heads over.
The commons were the backdrop for our usual night’s consumption of capture the flag. We divided into two teams, with no man’s land as a neutral ground connecting each border. Often there were arguments resulting from the judgment call of whether an individual was on the opposition’s boundary, or in no man’s land. In this particular instance Packey and myself were disputing this very scenario. The argument grew heated and turned into a shoving contest. We were in middle school at the time and such behavior was only natural with our growing testosterone levels, and hardly isolated to this particular incident.
Cursing feverishly I shoved Packey for the third or fourth time, only this time rather than responding with a push, he used the flashlight in his hand otherwise deemed for flag finding utility, to smash my glasses and face in. Without a moments transition our shoving match had me laid out, glasses shattered, in shock over over the transpiring events.
Before I had a chance to respond- Packey moved in for the second violent flashlight bearing blow to my face. While processing the moments events, blood poured from cuts throughout my face, and I was ready to make an attempt at self defense. Placing hands on ground, while in an effort to stand, Packey delivered a swift kick to my kidney, halting my rise to defense. IN the process I was able to land a right handed hook to his eye- before collapsing once more to the earth.
Without another moments passing- he bolted off into the distance. By then the remainder of the group, our friends had gathered and come to my assitance. The event happened so fast that many were still flag seeking- unaware of any altercation.
Packey ran to a nearby neighbors house where our collected parents were enjoying the evening. Unaware of the nights events- my parents witnessed a tear filled Packey with a soon to be black eye desperately seeking his parents comforting.
One of the witlessness’ house was parallel with the commons. He ran and got his father to tend to my aid.
The following Monday morning I walked with slightly more anticipation to the bus stop with vengeance on the agenda. I haven’t mentioned it but I am not a little guy. Today I am 6’7- and It didn’t all come over night. In an honest fight between Packey and myself, let’s just say it wouldn’t be very honest. This is why it came as no surprise that the cowardice asshole didn’t ride the bus on that particular Monday, in fact- he didn’t even come to school.
Needless to say Packey’s and my relationship did not extend passed this particular night of capture the flag in the commons. I slightly hesitate to make this connection- but I think it strongly supports that you get what you give in this lifetime, otherwise known as karma. Years later Packey was in a terrible car accident- summoning him to a wheel chair for several months thereafter. He was not permanently handicapped, but without a doubt irrevocably touched by the hand of fate.