through the Avon cosmetics and sundries that she stockpiled in the house. She was supposed to sell these Avon products door-to-door in the neighborhood and at swanky Avon parties that she shamed friends and relatives into attending, but my mother didn’t like to bother people, and so the Avon products had taken over our house and our basement was filled with boxes of foundation eyeliner and birdhouses and perfume (I got regularnighttime erections just thinking about the case of “Nights of Romance” perfume underneath my bed.) “Who did this to you? Was it that boy, Pete Drecker?” She waved a pair of Avon candlesticks at me. “I’m going to march down there and talk to his mother.”
“No,” I said. “I just fell down.”
But she wouldn’t buy it, and finally I had to admit that it was in fact Eli Boyle who had done this to me.
Ben slapped his forehead. “Jesus meet the neighbors!”
Even Mom was changed by this bit of news. “Huh,” she said. “The boy with the…” She gestured around her face as if we were talking about the Elephant Man.
“Yeah,” I said, staring at the ground.
“Oh,” she said, and looked down at the candlesticks in her hands. The idea of waving candlesticks at the mother of such a boy was less interesting and my mother just sort of shrugged and half turned back toward the kitchen, suddenly faced with a problem potentially worse than her son being beaten up by a bully: her son being beaten up by an Eli Boyle. “You…um…you should talk to your father about defending yourself, Clark,” she said. “And you shouldn’t get into fights.”
Staring at my bloodied face, Ben shook his head. “I’ll say.”
6 | MUHAMMAD ELI DISAPPEARED
M uhammad Eli disappeared from the bus stop the very next day. I guess his mom began driving him to school, but however he got there he was in class when I arrived, sitting in his desk, open-pit nose mining. The nickname—Muhammad Eli—was Ben’s idea and I have to say that I was happy that it didn’t catch on. In fact, I was shocked that day to hear that I’d actually kicked Eli’s ass. Even the people who’d witnessed my beating bought into Pete Decker’s fiction and suddenly I understood the power of propaganda. At the bus stop guys clapped me on the back and told me they’d heard it was a great fight.
“That asshole’s lucky he ran away,” said one of Pete’s thugs. “Clark was about to kick his ass.”
“About to?” Pete asked. “My boy whipped his ass.”
At recess, Dana Brett strode up to me in her suede boots and miniskirt and told me matter-of-factly that I was a bully. I didn’t know what to say: cop to being a bully (which I wasn’t), or admit that a spaz like Eli had actually beaten me up? At lunch I watched Eli work the edges of the playground, the way he always did, picking his way along the chain-link fence. I wanted to apologize. I really did. But how do you apologize to someone who has, in fact, beaten you up?
Eli wasn’t on the bus that afternoon either. I sat staring out the window, the sun high and bright, washing the blue from the sky.
“Clark the Hammer,” Pete Decker said. “Big Bad Clark Mason.”
The next morning Eli still didn’t show at our stop, and Pete and his gang took this as proof that—despite what they’d seen—I actually inflicted great damage upon my opponent. I slumped past Eli’s empty seat behind the bus driver and sat near the back. When Woodbridge got on the bus he stopped at my seat, stuck out his lower lip, and nodded slowly, approvingly, as if checking out the latest model of bully.
“I heard you beat that fat, greasy-haired faggot’s ass,” he said. “Queer probably transferred to another school.”
“Fuckin’ retard fag queer,” Pete muttered.
“Yeah,” Woodbridge said. “Fuckin’ fag.”
At school, I looked for opportunities to make eye contact with Eli, a shrug that might communicate that we were both victims in this, that we had both come out
“No,” I said. “I just fell down.”
But she wouldn’t buy it, and finally I had to admit that it was in fact Eli Boyle who had done this to me.
Ben slapped his forehead. “Jesus meet the neighbors!”
Even Mom was changed by this bit of news. “Huh,” she said. “The boy with the…” She gestured around her face as if we were talking about the Elephant Man.
“Yeah,” I said, staring at the ground.
“Oh,” she said, and looked down at the candlesticks in her hands. The idea of waving candlesticks at the mother of such a boy was less interesting and my mother just sort of shrugged and half turned back toward the kitchen, suddenly faced with a problem potentially worse than her son being beaten up by a bully: her son being beaten up by an Eli Boyle. “You…um…you should talk to your father about defending yourself, Clark,” she said. “And you shouldn’t get into fights.”
Staring at my bloodied face, Ben shook his head. “I’ll say.”
6 | MUHAMMAD ELI DISAPPEARED
M uhammad Eli disappeared from the bus stop the very next day. I guess his mom began driving him to school, but however he got there he was in class when I arrived, sitting in his desk, open-pit nose mining. The nickname—Muhammad Eli—was Ben’s idea and I have to say that I was happy that it didn’t catch on. In fact, I was shocked that day to hear that I’d actually kicked Eli’s ass. Even the people who’d witnessed my beating bought into Pete Decker’s fiction and suddenly I understood the power of propaganda. At the bus stop guys clapped me on the back and told me they’d heard it was a great fight.
“That asshole’s lucky he ran away,” said one of Pete’s thugs. “Clark was about to kick his ass.”
“About to?” Pete asked. “My boy whipped his ass.”
At recess, Dana Brett strode up to me in her suede boots and miniskirt and told me matter-of-factly that I was a bully. I didn’t know what to say: cop to being a bully (which I wasn’t), or admit that a spaz like Eli had actually beaten me up? At lunch I watched Eli work the edges of the playground, the way he always did, picking his way along the chain-link fence. I wanted to apologize. I really did. But how do you apologize to someone who has, in fact, beaten you up?
Eli wasn’t on the bus that afternoon either. I sat staring out the window, the sun high and bright, washing the blue from the sky.
“Clark the Hammer,” Pete Decker said. “Big Bad Clark Mason.”
The next morning Eli still didn’t show at our stop, and Pete and his gang took this as proof that—despite what they’d seen—I actually inflicted great damage upon my opponent. I slumped past Eli’s empty seat behind the bus driver and sat near the back. When Woodbridge got on the bus he stopped at my seat, stuck out his lower lip, and nodded slowly, approvingly, as if checking out the latest model of bully.
“I heard you beat that fat, greasy-haired faggot’s ass,” he said. “Queer probably transferred to another school.”
“Fuckin’ retard fag queer,” Pete muttered.
“Yeah,” Woodbridge said. “Fuckin’ fag.”
At school, I looked for opportunities to make eye contact with Eli, a shrug that might communicate that we were both victims in this, that we had both come out
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