[The Insignia Pin is an original allegorical fable intended for our times that I’m offering to you in weekly-serial form.
The Insignia Pin is an epistolary novel - composed as though the characters themselves are writing it.
This is Part Eight. Please read Part One through Seven to follow this weekly serial post… and thank you for sharing with others.
Please note: The Insignia Pin is rated PG-13 for coarse language, drugs, war violence, and teen sexuality.]
Caff, 1971
I’m fifteen but it’s no big deal. It was my birthday last weekend, and there wasn’t too much to it. Dad and Mom bought pizza, and I got some clothes, books, and a gift certificate from my brother Arnie to Discount Records.
I don’t mean to act all unthankful. I just am having so much trouble feeling much about anything. My family is always such a downer, and I sometimes feel like I am not even part of it.
Anyways, I’ve been in a very bad and sad mood all day today.
In English, we were supposed to be learning about haiku. I don’t hate haiku as much as diagraming sentences, but I sure didn’t want to write some stupid Japanese poem.
Here is the one I wrote:
If I knew haiku
It is not what I would do
I am glad I’m throughThen Mrs. Fitch said we had to read what we wrote out loud.
I hate reading out loud! Everybody laughed at mine.
Then she said haikus don’t usually rhyme.
“It’s five-seven-five syllables,” I told her, kind of pissed off. “Did Japanese people say haikus can’t rhyme or only you?”
I know Mrs. Fitch isn’t used to me being rude, but she didn't say anything. I guess I felt bad because she's the only teacher I like. Instead she turned the lights down, started a filmstrip, and sat down to flip the slides when the record goes ‘bleep’.
Tip to teachers - don’t turn the lights off. That’s how Mr. Maxwell does math filmstrips, and he even flicks your elbow super hard if you sleep.
In the dark, right away me and Jarv and some other guys started tearing off little pieces of paper from our 3-ring binders and chewing. We got our Bic pens out and pulled them apart. When the paper’s good and soft, you bite off a little tiny bit, load it in, and if it’s wet enough, it’ll stick.
I admit it that I’m the one who called the first barrage, and when my hand went down, I swear ten or twelve spitwads hit that screen at the exact same time.
Blap-blap-blap-blap!
Up came the lights, and Mrs. Fitch came rushing up to the front of the room. We put our pens back together fast as lightening, and I wouldn’t be surprised if some guys swallowed their chewed-up paper.
“You kids. . . ,” she got kind of spluttery and was standing right in front of her desk, red as a beet.
“You kids. . .”
She looked across the whole room at us, and then right at me. Like into my eyes. I know she saw me as leader of this whole spitwad thing.
“You don’t care about anybody,” she says, and her words hit me just like a slap in the face.
I’d never heard any class get so quiet as when she said it. Nobody not even me moved an inch.
Then, her face scrunched up and I thought she was going to sneeze, but she started bawling. I never saw it coming.
She turned back toward her desk, reached down and opened up her little purse, and pulled out this little dinky hankie and blew her nose.
“I had to special order this film strip. I had to research four big catalogs. This is about the history of haiku. I’m trying to teach you something . . . And you . . . Caff! What is wrong with you??? And all of the rest of you! You don’t care about anybody!!!”
“For shame!!” she like shrieked this at us while she was sobbing, and we all nearly jumped out of our skins.
It was like she was putting a hex on us.
She just couldn’t stop crying and it just went on and on. And I felt really bad because this was all my fault. If I wasn’t in such a bad mood about all the problems in my life, none of this would’ve ever happened. I wouldn’t have done the spitwad thing at all.
Mrs. Fitch kept right on weeping for like ten minutes. Not talking at all.
I’ve actually had this happen where you can’t stop crying but only in my own bedroom.
I mean, no guy would ever want to let anybody in the world see him cry like this.
It had to be pretty embarrassing. There was still ten more minutes of class time too.
Then Jarv raised his hand and I right away was waving at him to lower it. I mean, just leave her alone, right?
But, really, is that what you do when somebody can’t stop crying right in front of you?
Katie Cartwright and Robin Meade got going on whispering at him too, “Jarvis—stop!”
But he kept his hand pushed up there.
“Yes?” Mrs. Fitch finally spots it and calls on him.
“Is there something we can do for you, mam?” he asks, talking all clear and quiet. I mean, you could actually understand him. His voice was all caring.
I had never in all the time I’ve known him heard him talk that way before.
“God, I’m just not cut out for this. I’m a terrible teacher.”
“Oh no, you aren’t,” he says because she really isn’t. It’s just not true. "We’re just very bad kids is all there is to that."
“Yeah, Mrs. Fitch. We’re bad students. You’re a good teacher,” Katie Cartwright says, and then she stares hard at me.
Well, I felt real ugly about it when Katie looked at me like she'd thought the better of me, and I'd let her down.
“No, you kids get the better of me,” Mrs. Fitch says, and she’s using her blackboard eraser to knock spitwads off the projector screen. She’s still crying too.
“You don’t want to learn. If I was a better teacher. . . I could help you learn. But I’ll never make it. I can’t get you interested in learning anything.”
Nobody spoke for the longest time. The bell was going to ring, but I couldn’t take the quiet a second longer.
“But we are interested, Mrs. Fitch,” I said. I was feeling pretty much ashamed by then.
“In poetry, Caff? You know and I know that’ll never be true.”
What am I going to say? Was I going to disappoint her?
“Sure. I love poetry,” I said. "I even write it some sometimes.”
“Well, if you were interested, you’d behave,,” she says, looking at me all the sudden right eyeball to eyeball all over again.
It was a real strong stare, and I felt real small from it.
“We will, Mrs. Fitch,” said Mindy Moore. “Give us another chance.”
The bell rang and we were all really glad to leave. I just got up and felt super sorry.
After all that heartache, Jarv and I were walking down the hall to science, and Jim Green came behind me, and dumped my books.
Jarv wasn’t having it and caught him by the shoulder.
“Dawnfugwid little Caff, gawnfugwidme!”
“What, redneck?” Green said and popped him in the chest. “Stop talking out the side of your neck.”
Other kids stopped to watch, and there wasn’t a single teacher in sight.
“You’re gonna have to take a shower before I’ll be ready to whup your ass.” Green said.
He has a scrunched up, ugly, pimply jock face and a butch haircut. He’s about six feet tall and a football player.
Jarv got all dead serious, and everybody thought they would get it on right then and there. Instead, Green pushed off and jogged away.
Honest to God, I think he was chicken shit of Jarv. Before he got around the corner, Green turned back and shouted at me.
“Tarkington's looking for you, Caff-ass. Wednesday at the water tower or you’re the pansy pussy femme everybody already knows you are.”
Jarv took one look at me and shook his head. I hadn’t told him anything about Springer Park.
“Thaz naw right. Tha boyz tabiga bull for y’all, Caff.”
Well, he’s supposed to be my best friend and other kids were still listening.
“I’m not afraid of Randy Tarkington, Jarv. And I’m no pussy.”
“Okay,” he said. “Dawntakit personal. Y’all need to grawup wit Mrs. Fitch too and bekinder. Ainnothin’ wrongwit poetics neither. But jestha boy’s a big bull and noneed atoll ferya to scrapwithim.”
“Be nicer to Mrs. Fitch, Caff,” said Katie Cartwright. She was all the sudden standing behind me, listening. “You can’t disrespect her anymore. Lots of men in history have been great poets. You should think about that sometimes. And please don’t fight Randy. He’s too big and a true blue asshole, let's face it. Just let it go.”
I was surprised to hear her talk that way. And as stupid as it sounds, being doubted like that was even more embarrassing.
I was just all around ashamed and felt like I wasn’t being man enough about anything. Including in how I behaved with Mrs. Fitch. I knew I knew better.
With all I’d done, it seems nobody anywhere believes in me anymore.
I know I can take Tarkington even if I am small-framed.
I’m no pussy.
I don’t know how to fight so I got Arnie to do fake boxing with me. I told him this was his chance to try to pound me. I got out winter gloves from the closet and we went at it in the backyard. He’s only eleven and I wasn’t going to hurt him - he’s almost my size anyway. Then Dad came out.
“Do you have a bout coming up?” he asks me.
“What’s that mean? ‘About coming up’?” I asked him.
“A bout. A fight.”
“Yeah,” I said while Arnie kept swinging at me. He hit me when I wasn’t looking.
“Hey! Wait until I’m ready.”
“At school?” he asks. I get it - he’s worried I’m going to cause more trouble. Then Mom comes out to sit at the picnic table.
“Nah,” I said. “At the water tower.”
“What’s this about fighting?” Mom’s all worried.
“I have to fight a kid named Randy Tarkington.”
“Tarkington,” Dad’s thinking. “Plays football, right? Hey, say, he’s a big boy.”
“Well,” I say, and Arnie and me stop and Dad’s got this look. I have no idea what it means.
Arnie shakes his head and says, “Caff, as your brother I have to tell you that you are going to get creamed.”
“Great, that’s what you all think,” and I just walked inside. Even my family can't believe in me.
On fight day, I couldn’t think too well. I didn’t skip any classes. Jarv knew I was nervous.
“Gotchecovered, Caffrey.”
I kept telling him to fuck off even though he wasn’t doing anything wrong.
At lunch, Tarkington and Green were in the cafeteria with the other jocks. Tarkington says, “Gonna pussy out, McCaffrey?”
“Nope. Looking forward to getting a piece of you.”
Then my stomach started churning and I couldn’t eat. I don’t even remember much more from school that day. After the last bell, Jarv and I started walking to the water tower.
“Wazwrong, Caff?”
I had my arm up against my stomach.
“Fuck off.”
I kept thinking about my dad saying I looked like a fag.
“Geez . . .” Jarv said, “Y’all prickly.”
There were kids behind us - everybody was going the same direction.
“Be brave, bro’,” Jarv whispered.
We crossed the bridge over the tracks and walked into a park that’s not even big enough to have a name. There’s no playground, just sidewalks and a fence painted green around the water tower and big bushes that back up to train tracks. You can’t see back there from the street.
Tarkington, Green, and other jocks were standing around, waiting. I think I hoped they wouldn’t show up.
My mouth was all dry, and my heart was pounding like a hammer. Lots of kids gathered around in a big circle.
Jim Green thought he was supposed to be some sort of referee.
“‘Kay,” he’s acting all serious, “Nobody steps in. First to give in and it’s over. No below the belt. Come front and center.”
Fucking front and center.
I didn’t expect all these kids. Everybody’s there watching like they’re afraid for me. Katie Cartwright and Mindy Moore are looking scared. Thank God Robin McGee didn’t come.
I was just real nervous and starting to think, man, I am so stupid. I tried telling myself how much I hated Tarkington to kind of wind myself up, but I was just plain scared.
I decided to kind of imagine like being Ali facing Oscar Bonavena. I thought about Tarkington being maybe six inches taller than me. How’s that for shit for brains?
Yeah, I’m no pussy.
“Go ahead. Take the first punch,” I told him.
Tarkington looked at me like I was crazy.
“You sure?”
I started bouncing all around. “I can take whatever you dish out.”
I caught a glance of Jarv looking at me and shaking his head.
That’s about when Tarkington hit me with a straight punch to the mouth. I sort of remember smacking the ground with the back of my head and then crawling around and kids going “oooh.” I looked up at Tarkington and he was looking down at me. There was two or three of him.
Look, maybe I’m no fighter, but that doesn’t mean I haven’t looked into it. I passed beginner Judo at the YMCA and got my yellow belt. I read Bruce Tegner’s Complete Book of Karate and practiced all the moves in my backyard. It’s not like I’m going to use a solar plexus blow and stop Tarkington’s heart or an upward palm and push his nose bone into his brain.
And you have to understand that this was my first time ever being punched in the face. I’d punched guys in the arm or even in the chest but how was I even going to reach up there to hit him back??
I guess if you’re not tall enough to punch somebody in the face, you shouldn’t be talking shit.
Green yells, “Who’s the pussy now, McCaffrey?”
I was still trying to get up but that punch really rang my chimes. I was dizzy, and Tarkington went to hit me a second time.
I slipped it!
Then I got my right foot behind his right ankle, blocked his right arm with my left palm, grabbed his collar with my right hand, and shoved him back over my foot. To be honest, I didn’t even think about it.
Tarkington tried hard to get his feet back under him, but he couldn’t, you know?
His balance was off, and he was swinging both arms around in back of himself with nowhere to go. He started pedaling along backwards, further and further, right to the big prickly bushes.
There’s big thorns in those!
He fell all the way in and was laid out sideways with thorns poking his ass and legs.
There’s a God in Heaven, I'm thinking to myself.
Everybody started cheering!
I put up my puny arms like a champ. Then I wiped my mouth. There was blood. Yeah, blood - and I didn’t even give a shit!
It might have looked like I ran, but I didn’t when Tarkington got back up and came charging like a mad bull. When he caught me I started swinging with everything I had. He tackled me, and we were rolling all over the ground.
All the kids were yelling, the girls were screaming, and then all the sudden, I was down on my back and trying to get out.
I was flopping up and down, wriggling around on the ground like a squirmy puppy. Pretty soon, I couldn’t move. Tarkington’s straddling me, and he’s got my puny arms pinned with his legs. I mean, the guy was just way too big and heavy on top of me.
And that’s when he really started.
Boom, boom, boom.
My eyes, my mouth, both of my cheeks.
I couldn’t move. I couldn’t get out.
Boom, boom. Boom.
“Had enough, pussy?”
“No.”
I was wriggling hard as I can. There’s no way. I’m no pussy.
“Give up,” he says.
“Fuck you!”
Boom. Boom, boom.
“Say ‘uncle.’”
“Fuck you!”
Boom boom. I’m no pussy.
It started to really hurt.
“Uncle.”
I said it.
Fuck.
I said it.
Future dude, saying it was so much worse than getting pounded. So much worse.
Tarkington got off and I crawled back up to my feet. Everybody faded away from me.
I don’t remember anybody saying anything to me. Jarv put his arm around me and we walked home along the train tracks.
I went straight into the bathroom and washed up. When I came out into the kitchen, Mom took one look at me and started crying.
I’m thinking, how bad can this even get?
I’m going to crawl down into a hole, hunker down, and never leave.
