Wanda Hickey's Night of Golden Memories by Jean Shepherd

Wolf, and my plans, before I was ready to really give him a battle. Even at that, I knew very well that my chances of breaking even with Farkas, let alone defeating him, were as slim as the chances of that proverbial snowball in hell-In public I began throwing my weight around with second-string tops, until the word slowly began to spread throughout the gym, the auditorium, the homerooms; till at recess time I could always draw a small claque of fans goading me on to belt some poor kid’s top into the boondocks.
    Since the day Farkas had publicly humiliated me, he no longer even deigned to note my topwork. Once, however, he paused briefly, while twisting Jack Robertsons arm behind him and belting him in the ribs with his free hand, to spit a thin spray of tobacco juice over my orange top, which had just landed neatly beside Delbert Bumpus’ yellow ball-bearing spinner. He might have taken me on right then and there, but he was busy giving Robertson his refresher course. Periodically, Farkas treated every kid in the class to a good, brisk, tendon-snapping arm twist. He shoved the victim’s wrist up between his shoulder blades, pushing up and twisting out, until the supplicant’s face turned ashen, his eyes bugged out and his tongue lolled in agony, Farkas yelling: “C’mon, you son of a bitch. Say it!”
    â€œâ€¦ Graaahhhkkk!”
    â€œC’mon, say it! You son of a bitch.” Farkas gives him two more degrees of twist and brings his knee smartly into contact with the tailbone of the sufferer.
    â€œI said SAY it!”
    The victim, looking piteously at the ring of silent, scornful watchers, including, no doubt, his ex-girlfriend, finally squeaked out: “I’m a chicken bastard.”
    â€œSay it again, louder.”
    â€œI’M A CHICKEN BASTARD.” With that, Farkas hurled the pain-wracked body violently into the stickers. “Gimme a cigarette, Dill.”
    And the two of them would go skulking off toward the poolroom. He gave this refresher course about everysix months, to all of us. We figure he kept a list and checked us off when our time came.
    It was Friday. I knew that today would be the day. Somehow you know those things. It had rained all night, a hard, driving, Midwestern drenching downpour. Now, as I toyed with my Wheaties, I could feel the edge of danger mounting within me.
    â€œWill you listen to me? I’m talking to you.”
    â€œAh … what?”
    â€œWhen I’m talking to you, I want you to listen. You sit there like you’ve got potatoes in your ears!”
    My mother always had a thing about my not listening; also dragging my feet. That drove her crazy. She always yelled that I didn’t walk straight, either.
    â€œHow many times have I told you not to slump like that while you’re eating? It isn’t good for your stomach.”
    I scrunched around in my chair, pretending I was listening to her.
    â€œYou’d better be home early this afternoon, because you’ve got to go to the store. I don’t want to have to tell you again.”
    â€œYeah, yeah.”
    â€œHow many times have I told you not to say ‘Yeah’?”
    â€œâ€¦ Yeah.”
    This went on for about three hours or so, until I finally got out of the house, with Wolf stuck down deep in my hip pocket, with two other, lesser, tops in my front right-side pocket. I was loaded for bear.
    It looked like rain as I walked through the alleys, over the fences, through the vacant lots on my way to theplayground, kicking sheets of water up from muddy puddles, skipping bottle caps into new lakes as I moved toward the battlefield. A few other kids drifted in the same direction from the next block. The trees dripped warm water under the low, gray, ragged clouds. Off to the north, toward Lake Michigan, even though it was full daytime, the steel mills glowed dark red against the low-hanging overcast.
    At last on the playground, I began my carefully