I punched my friend Max in the face as hard as I could. In the nose, to be exact. He let out an ungodly yelp and rushed to the bathroom so he didn't get blood all over his bedroom. This was a highly unfortunate turn of events when you consider I was actually aiming for his older brother's ribcage.
For me, there's a moment during childhood roughhousing when it goes from innocent fun to over the line, and the gradient between those states is nil. It's like when you pet a dog a bit too hard for a bit too long and he snaps like a Venus fly trap, though at least with the dog you might get a growl of warning. However, this haymaker, and my subsequent premature departure from a highly anticipated sleepover, represents the worst case of instant rage I ever experienced. I was 9 or 10, and nothing has come close since.
I arrive at Max's house just after lunch on a Saturday. Our big plans for the day include some emergent combination of video games, nerf battles, hacky sack, Mouse Trap™, and trying to hit each other in the face with balled-up socks from the other end of the hallway. The primary objective of every activity is to become unable to continue due to incapacitation by laughter. Mix in some time running around outside, a snack raid (my friends always had better snacks), and staying up too late, and we'd have one flawlessly executed sleepover.
We're about an hour into playing Sega in Max's room when his brother Christian pops his head in. Siblings are a wildcard. They can either add to the fun by joining in or throw a blanket over it by constantly antagonizing us. Max has two. His sister is two years older and keeps to herself. In fact, if she didn't occasionally wander out of her bedroom to do...whatever it is girls do, I wouldn't even know he had a sister. His brother is much older. Seven years, so he's well into his teens. To me, a 9-year-old pipsqueak, he may as well have a full beard and be walking around with a briefcase and newspaper smoking a pipe. He's an enigma. I don't know what makes a teenager tick, so in my mind, he could either be an overachiever on his way to becoming an internationally renowned chemist, or a drifter who's into hard drugs. It's too close to call. Anyway, on this particular occasion, Christian is bored and decides to remedy this by instigating a little wrestling match with Max and me. We audible away from Sega and join in.
When it comes to physicality, Christian holds all the cards, obviously. So we're not really competing, per se, but more letting him playfully kick our asses while we give half-hearted attempts to stop him. Usually this kind of roughhousing ends in nothing more than a few scrapes and a couple of kids left giggling and catching their breath. But then, as we're each being picked up and tossed on Max's bed, Christian grabs my leg and induces an awkward backflip. I don't land wrong and hurt myself or anything, but the disorientation does something to my brain. The flip turns out to be physical and mental, as my glee turns to fear and rage. It all happens in a split second and as I bounce back up, I decide I'm going to resolve my fear by punching Christian as hard as I can in the ribs.
Two critical mistakes contribute to what happens next. First, I close my eyes. Like any bad deed done hastily, it's always a good plan to just close your eyes and hope for the best. My second mistake, undoubtedly caused by the first, is I completely airmail my punch, sending it around his torso, directly into Max who is hugged around his brother trying to pull him down. One could argue that my first first mistake is throwing the punch in the first place, but I want to stress how instantaneous and emotional the decision is. It's less a decision than a primal reaction, circumventing my admittedly underdeveloped rational abilities with ease. The only thing I actually "decided" is the fact that Christian is so much older that I can punch him as hard as I can and he'll probably just shrug it off. Seems logical, though I doubt Max's beak would share that sentiment.
After I channel my inner Mike Tyson, I hear a sound like a beagle getting its tail jammed in a closing door. Since Max is obscured by his towering brother, I don't even realize what I did until Max rushes to the bathroom with his hands cupped below his face, catching the drops of blood leaping from the end of his nose. Christian appropriately admonishes me, but I'm still in shock and can only utter a meek "I didn't mean it!" The next few minutes are a blur, as their mother rushes in to investigate the commotion. With her youngest son hunched and bleeding over the bathroom sink, she looks to me for an explanation. I reenact the scene and even though it was an accident, I don't come off looking too good. Christian slips out quietly as their sister emerges to see what happened. Max's mom, in more gentle a manner than I deserve, suggests we call my mother to pick me up early. I agree, as I'd like to make myself scarce as soon as possible. I gather my sleepover stuff and when Mom arrives, I slink into the car as she gets the debrief. The ride home is quiet and my face is puffy with sadness as I replay the incident in my mind. I'm hoping I didn't just lose a friend.
The next time I see Max is the following week at our baseball game. We're on opposite teams, so I don't get a chance to speak to him. In fact, despite peering over at him the entire game trying to gauge his level of anger at me, the only interaction we have is in the handshake line after. The handshakes aren't so much handshakes as they are limp and lazy high fives, but I feel compelled to do something when we cross paths to show him I still feel bad. After high-fiving most of the opposing players, Max approaches. All I can do in the split second we have is give him a full, executive-style handshake and tell him I'm so sorry. It seems so pitiful and insufficient compared to my crime, but Max nods and gives that close-lipped smile that represents the unspoken version of "tough break, kid". God, I feel dumb.
The following year, my family moved across the state and although our friendship recovered, it was never quite the same. We kept in touch for a short time, but as is common when children relocate, we eventually fell out of contact. Years later when I was attending college nearby, I decided to drive to my old neighborhood and try to find Max's house. When I rang the doorbell, the nice woman who answered was not Max's mom, unfortunately. She did, however, reveal they'd moved just across town. It was dark and rainy and I barely remembered the area, but somehow I managed to find their new house. I pulled into the driveway and found Max's dad outside in his pajamas letting the cat back inside. I got out and said hello, reminding him I used to be friends with Max and asking if he remembered me. To my delight, not only did he remember me, but he invited me in. Max was away at college so I didn't get to catch up with him, but I spoke with Max's parents for about twenty minutes on a rainy Saturday ten years after I punched their son as hard as I could in the face. We small-talked about a variety of things, but I went out of my way to refrain from reminiscing about that particular memory. Finally, a wise decision.
Feedback time!
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Not the ending I was expecting - and I love that! Overall, it left me wanting more in a good way. I can't wait to see what dumb thing you do next week! Some of your other posts have included more of a "moral of the story" punch and I have to admit I was looking for more of that. Still, really great. Please keep them coming.