Nick (originally posted 9/12/18)

Nick was a neighborhood kid who lived in one of the apartments on Elston northwest of Winona. He was about my age, and he sometimes hung out with me and a few other boys from the block. Nick was one of those guys nobody really liked hanging out with, because he was a bully. He showed up and pretended to be cool with everyone until he decided he wanted to be a jerk. As he was bigger than most of us, we were a little intimidated. It didn’t help at all that he claimed to be gang affiliated. He would claim association when it helped his cause, which sometimes was as minor as a verbal argument or as serious as a physical confrontation.

 Nick liked to brag about his “wealth”. Actually, that was a common theme back then – for some reason kids liked to talk about how their parents were “richer” than the others’, how they had the most recent Nintendo game or basketball shoe. Kids would dispute this in groups. It was back and forth like “Yeah, well my parents have a waterbed. Your parents just have a regular bed”

 “Yeah well you guys can’t even afford Reebok Pumps, you have the fake ones.”

 “But you guys live in that dump house, at least we have a nice house.”

 The truth was, none of us were even close to being rich. We were all mostly children of immigrants. Blue collar. That was the overall theme of our little slice of the city. But because Nick had a rare Nintendo game that contained over 100 games in one, PLUS a Game Genie, PLUS a huge plastic Coca Cola bottle bank filled with spare change in his room, he was better off than me or Kris, the kid across the street. Every time he was feeling intellectually challenged, he was rich and we we weren’t.

 One time he was over at my house and we were playing with Ninja Turtle action figures on my couch. As we were wrapping up our playing session, he claimed he was one action figure short. I began looking in and around the couch for Baxter Stockman but it was nowhere to be found. He then claimed that I snatched it. I never had any intention on stealing anything of his. I vehemently proclaimed my innocence but it didn’t matter to him. He walked over to my Hot Wheels car case, opened it, and took a handful of the cars. He then told me that until he got his toy back, he was going to hold onto the cars.

 Now if I weren’t so non-confrontational, I would have stepped to him while he was still in my house and taken my cars back. But I let him walk right out the front door with those cars, and without a doubt every single Ninja Turtle toy he came in with. He was just one of those kids you didn’t want to mess with.

 I still remember the last time I ever hung out with Nick. He and I were sitting at the wooden picnic table on the back concrete patio. My little sister Cheryl was annoying us that day. The picnic table was located under an awning and next to our covered back porch. Cheryl was in the porch, and she kept tapping the window, only to duck when we’d turn to tell her to stop. This went on for a few minutes, until Nick decided to get up and spit on the window.

 Allow me to digress for a moment here and briefly summarize my dad (it’s relevant to the story, bear with me). My dad was/is a fiery Sicilian man. He has a short temper and has always been protective of his property. If you rubbed him the wrong way on first impression, he probably wasn’t ever going to like you. Come to think of it, if you were a Latino kid hanging out with one of his kids, regardless of how good you were, he probably wasn’t ever going to like you. He’s not devoid of good qualities. However, the best way of seeing his good side doesn’t involve spitting on his window just at the moment he looks at said window from the kitchen.

 My dad came STORMING out the door. Before Nick even knew what was coming, my dad grabbed him by his left ear and led him through the gangway toward the front of the house, not once relaxing his grip. Nick wailed the whole time. I’m sure my dad used some choice expletives during that walk of shame. When they reached the front, my dad let go by sort of pushing Nick toward his apartment, and Nick ran home faster than I had ever seen him run. My dad came back up the gangway, visibly angered, flashed a glare, and then back into the house. I don’t recall if we ever talked about the incident in the wake of that. I just know Nick NEVER attempted to contact me ever again.

 And that was OK with me.