My first year with Malcolm
Malcolm Mahan was a four foot eight bundle of vicious hate with two legs. Three days after we moved from Westboro to Wellesley Hills, I came in to lunch and told mom that the kids were still in the Barn. This house came with a city barn. In the days this house was built, cars were still somewhere in Otto Benz’s nightmares. Horse and buggy or wagon or open buck boards was the only way to get to the train if you didn’t have half an hour to walk. In those days, men still worked in the city but the suburbs had been invented. So I’ve always called this place an urban farm. The real suburb grew up around it.
The barn was big to a third grader and build solid as all heck. The hay mow was large, but amazing of all was a full-fledged fight of stairs going from the ground floor up to the floor of the mow. It was heaven to kids. Anyway, Mom told me to get them out of the barn. So, I went out there picking up a hammer on the way. Little Malcolm stood a foot away from me and said: “Make me.” So, I hit him on the head, not too hard, but hard enough to make him bleed a bunch and leave. The others had already left. I went back in the house and sat down to lunch.
“How’d you get them to leave?” asked Rodney?
“I hit Malcolm on the head with the hammer.”
“Oh boy, that was smart.”
Mom said something like: “Phillip that wasn’t nice. You’re not supposed to kill your neighbors when they don’t do what you ask. After lunch go and apologize.”
Well, I did, and Malcolm charitably thanked me and socked me four time in the face. I ran, and kept on running for what seem like six months. I knew I was in the wrong. but when Malcolm told the tale to his friends at school, my future was dim indeed. About six of them, one if which was Edmund who was meaner than Malcolm. After they ran me down in the school yard, they stood around while Malcolm beat me up for real.
Every day after school, even though the Warren school was across the street and the building three blocks away, I would leave on the Washington street side of the property, and crawl in the ditches so no one would see me up the hill till where Longfellow road met Washington street, cross over and sneak through the neighbor’s yard to our back yard and the house. Oh, O forgot to tell you, Malcolm live next door on the other side of our house. He was difficult to avoid.
After what was probably a month of this cowardly and sneaky avoidance and being beaten up at least three more times. I was a basket case. Brothers Nick and Rodney sat me down in a family conference and persuaded me that if they guaranteed that Malcolm’s brother Leland (who was certifiably crazy) would stay out of the fight. And they guaranteed that they would assure Leland would not jump in.
So, with their coaching, I went out and called to Mal. He came over and I challenged him. He was all confidence, after all, he’d beaten me to a pulp at least five times by then. So, there and then we agreed. And I beat him till he gave. and Leland didn’t dare jump in with my brothers standing by.
After that Mal I and I became fast friends. He even joined my Cub Scout den which mom mothered. He did clay work, and all the projects, and Mom let me know that Malcolm’s family didn’t really know how to care for him the way he needed. I addition I learned from him that when Leland, or younger brother, Peter, misbehaved it was Mal who was beaten with the strap, or worse. So, I learned early-on what makes for bad boys isn’t always their fault. They’re just trying to survive in a very confusing world.
The barn was big to a third grader and build solid as all heck. The hay mow was large, but amazing of all was a full-fledged fight of stairs going from the ground floor up to the floor of the mow. It was heaven to kids. Anyway, Mom told me to get them out of the barn. So, I went out there picking up a hammer on the way. Little Malcolm stood a foot away from me and said: “Make me.” So, I hit him on the head, not too hard, but hard enough to make him bleed a bunch and leave. The others had already left. I went back in the house and sat down to lunch.
“How’d you get them to leave?” asked Rodney?
“I hit Malcolm on the head with the hammer.”
“Oh boy, that was smart.”
Mom said something like: “Phillip that wasn’t nice. You’re not supposed to kill your neighbors when they don’t do what you ask. After lunch go and apologize.”
Well, I did, and Malcolm charitably thanked me and socked me four time in the face. I ran, and kept on running for what seem like six months. I knew I was in the wrong. but when Malcolm told the tale to his friends at school, my future was dim indeed. About six of them, one if which was Edmund who was meaner than Malcolm. After they ran me down in the school yard, they stood around while Malcolm beat me up for real.
Every day after school, even though the Warren school was across the street and the building three blocks away, I would leave on the Washington street side of the property, and crawl in the ditches so no one would see me up the hill till where Longfellow road met Washington street, cross over and sneak through the neighbor’s yard to our back yard and the house. Oh, O forgot to tell you, Malcolm live next door on the other side of our house. He was difficult to avoid.
After what was probably a month of this cowardly and sneaky avoidance and being beaten up at least three more times. I was a basket case. Brothers Nick and Rodney sat me down in a family conference and persuaded me that if they guaranteed that Malcolm’s brother Leland (who was certifiably crazy) would stay out of the fight. And they guaranteed that they would assure Leland would not jump in.
So, with their coaching, I went out and called to Mal. He came over and I challenged him. He was all confidence, after all, he’d beaten me to a pulp at least five times by then. So, there and then we agreed. And I beat him till he gave. and Leland didn’t dare jump in with my brothers standing by.
After that Mal I and I became fast friends. He even joined my Cub Scout den which mom mothered. He did clay work, and all the projects, and Mom let me know that Malcolm’s family didn’t really know how to care for him the way he needed. I addition I learned from him that when Leland, or younger brother, Peter, misbehaved it was Mal who was beaten with the strap, or worse. So, I learned early-on what makes for bad boys isn’t always their fault. They’re just trying to survive in a very confusing world.
