The Importance of Being Ernest

He was approximately twenty-five years old, stood about six foot two, and threatened to provide me with a thorough pummeling over the hand of my girlfriend. I had to stand my ground and defend the honor of my woman.

That was the worst recess in third grade...ever.

Ernest, who was in my third-grade class, terrorized my friends and me every day that year. He spoke with a deep voice that sounded like a cross between Johnny Cash and Bea Arthur. When he smiled, which was only when he was threatening to kill you, he resembled Lee Marvin in “The Man Who Shot Liberty Valance.” Whatever he decided of yours that he wanted, he demanded. On this day, he decided that he had designs on my girlfriend, Rhonda *her real name. I couldn’t think of a good pseudonym.

I doubt Rhonda ever knew about this.  Heck, I’m not sure she even knew she was my girlfriend in third grade.  

“Tomorrow, I’m going to introduce you to the Lord,” he growled at lunchtime over a plate of pizza, corn, and chocolate milk. The Lord and I had actually already been introduced in Sunday School, but I wasn’t about to smart off to Ernest. He didn't seem to be the type that enjoyed sarcasm.

After lunch, my teacher asked to see me in the hall. Rarely was that ever a good thing. “I have a favor to ask of you,” she said. “You love to read, and I’d like for you to help Ernest. He is having some trouble keeping up with the class.”

Come again?

“I’ll put the two of you together this afternoon and give you a few things to work on”, she continued, not noticing that I had sweat beginning to bead on my forehead.  “I’m sure he will appreciate it.”

Yes, I thought, homicidal maniacs usually enjoy a good tutoring lesson before they commit their murders. Wonderful idea. I’ll be sure to leave a note for the authorities letting them know that you should be charged as an accomplice.

High noon-ish came and our teacher took us to a spot in the library to work. She walked out the door, totally ignoring that Ernest was already cracking his knuckles and grinning like he had already chosen my burial plot. Then, it was just the two of us.

“I think I’m gonna go ahead and whip you today”, he snarled.  “I don’t wanna wait.”

I don’t know what snapped inside of me, but something did. I wasn’t scared any longer - just tired of hearing his threats and watching him bully other kids as well. I realized, from all his bluster, I had never actually seen him fight anyone.

“Ernest, why are you so mean?” I yelled. “I’m not gonna fight you. You’re just so stupid!” At that point, I was hoping my parents had taken out a good life insurance policy on me. I expected Ernest to describe in gory detail how he was going to tear me apart, kidnap Rhonda, and tie her to railroad tracks like a silent movie villain. Only I wouldn’t be around to save her.

Instead, there was silence.  When I looked over, Ernest was staring at the floor.  Finally, he said “Yeah, I am stupid.  That’s what my dad says.”  Then, he started to cry.  I didn't know those eyes did anything but glower.  But there they were, leaking water.

Talk about awkward.  I went from being bullied to becoming the bully in one sentence.  Nice job, dude.

After a long pause, I finally spoke. "You’re not stupid, Ernest. You just don’t read as fast as the rest of us." Slowly, I showed him how to string simple words together. We only spent about an hour that afternoon, but he agreed to let me live. In fact, he never bothered me again. My teacher only put us together a couple of other times that year, but he learned how to recognize and pronounce words like "preponderance."

“What’s that word mean?”, he asked.

“It’s kind of like a lot of stuff”, I answered.

“You mean, like I was going to beat a preponderance of crap out of you?”, he chuckled.

Yeah, kinda like that.

When the school year ended, I was still alive.  Rhonda was still my pretend girlfriend.  I never saw Ernest again.  I don’t know whatever happened to him, where he wound up, or how he spent the rest of his youth.

I sure hope it involved a preponderance of books.