Bus stop hallucinations

An elementary school friend told me a former classmate of ours has been asking about me. She said that the former classmate, now an attorney, accused me of having beaten her up at the bus stop in 4th grade.

I’m a big believer in taking responsibility for one’s actions, so I’ll admit it: I was among the legions of classmates who bullied her--with good reason. I regret--really, I do--any pain I caused her, but not nearly enough to make amends. That would necessitate my talking to or--worse--seeing her again. I would rather pour lye into my baby blues.

But beat her up on the bus stop? We weren’t even on the same bus, for fuck’s sake. I would have needed a bionic arm to reach her bus stop from mine. Besides which, I would never risk damaging my fist; I’d reach for an RPG, my weapon of choice--at least according to a silly Facebook quiz.

Six years ago, this lunatic decided she wanted to meet me for dinner. She left a bunch of messages on my voicemail. I could tell you I didn’t call her back because my dad had just died and I was institutionalized, but the only thing true about that statement would be the first part. No, the truth is simple. Every dead person I ever knew and loved could be resurrected in my living room and I’d still have to be grossly overpaid to spend five minutes with this chick.

I don't want to hear her histrionic rants about how mean I was. Bygones, honey. Truth is, she owes me a debt of gratitude for giving her the strength and wherewithal to overcome adversity. Especially because she brought it on herself.

What self-respecting, awkward adolescent tries to craft an Oscar-worthy performance from a stupid report? You got up in front of the class, you mumbled--at breakneck speed--whatever was written on your index cards, then you sat the hell back down as fast as you could. But not my little punching bag. She stood up and --with great pride, drama and an overabundance of volume--cleared her throat and announced the title of her project: “CLAra BARton. (LONNNNNG pause.) ANGEL (pause, pause) of the BATtlefield.”

Important note: I’m not a lawyer, but if I were defending me against my friend’s bogus assault and battery charge, I would look knowingly at the jury as I restated the full name of her book report, emphasizing the word “battlefield.” Then I would hint, ever so slyly, that my old buddy had a longstanding fascination with fighting.

Hmmm. I'm liking this court scenario.

So hear this, Clara. Keep slandering me and my niece and I will see you in court. She'll be passing the bar exam next week. Or, of you prefer, I will gladly meet you at a bus stop and, this time--I promise-- I will beat the living shit out of you.