January 30, 2004
FISTICUFFS
When I entered 7th grade Effingham County built a new Junior High, right behind the High School. Which meant we strawberries got to share the same cafeteria with the Big Boys, so to speak. And every lunch hour was Fight Night.
These huge cracker farm boys had fistfights at lunchtime in the open air corridors every day. It was not only like clockwork, it was sanctioned, in that the Head Honcho, a principal named Ross "The Boss" Roundtree, a mean motherfucker in his own right, was conspicuously absent from the corridors during lunch. I believe his philosophy was "If They're Fighting, They're Not Fucking".
This was during the days of segregation, so there was no race aspect to the Fights. No, sir. This was just general pissedoffedness. These boys (and I use the term loosely; these hosses were men, as some were in their twenties) would put four senior rings on each hand, and proceed to wale the fucking tar out of each other. And us strawberries had to walk that gauntlet to get to the Junior High classrooms in back. And it was nothing for a 9th or 10th grader to get the bloodlust up, and want to beat the mortal shit out of a 7th grader, especially one like me, who'd skipped third grade, and was only 12.
Fights. These guys would walk away with one-inch strands of lip meat hanging off their faces. And they were the lucky ones, the winners. The losers were bloody pulps, their faces resembling your mama's recently canned jellies and jams. I remember a guy named Eric Heidt getting stomped for the mere presence of long hair. I understand he took a beating for about 10 days straight, but wouldn't cut his hair. The brutes eventually tired of that game, and began beating each other again.
This activity horrified me for about a month. After a savage beating or two from the inspired 10th graders, though, you just learned to skirt that shit, and take a paddling from Ross The Boss for being out of area. A virtual reward compared to getting enmeshed in the fights.
I went to private schools after that year, but I hear the racial fights weren't nearly as savage as what these fellows did to each other, their friends.
So when Acidman talks about his nice rustic bedroom community of Rincon I have to laugh.
That used to be the Killing Fields.