The Better Part Of Valor

Last week David wrote a wonderful piece about being maligned by a billionaire. It was amusing, aggravating and educational. It brought back memories and, while the subject matter is a bit more serious than usual, I was inspired to write about it. I subscribe to David’s Substack. You should take a look yourself by typing in your email above. You will enjoy it.

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“Why the hell would anyone pay YOU all that money to shoe a horse all the way out there in Jordan?” our host said as he smiled into his wine glass.

 I had a forkful of steak halfway to my mouth when time and the other three dinner guests froze. The meat dropped from the fork’s tines, landing with a splat in the juice that pooled in the center of my plate. I snatched the white linen napkin from my lap and carefully wiped my mouth never taking my eyes off the man who deliberately insulted me in front of friends and my wife. Out of the corner of my eye I could see Kerry glaring at the head of the table, her face flushed, veins sticking out a little on the side of her neck. That settled it. There was no misunderstanding here. This wealthy, privileged jackass thought he could treat me like garbage publicly and get away with it. Why? It didn’t matter because he was definitely mistaken. I slid my chair back to stand when our host’s wife, looking horrified, jumped up and asked her husband to help her in the kitchen. After they left the screened in porch, I took a deep breath and let it out slowly. Pulling my chair back under the table, I replaced my napkin and sat like a statue staring straight ahead with perfect tunnel vision focusing on the man’s yellow cashmere sweater I could see through the kitchen window. Butch, our friend and fellow guest was sitting next to me. He poured some wine into my glass and handed it to me. I took a gulp or two, still staring.

“So,” said Butch leaning in close so as not to not be heard by anyone but me,” You going to let him get away with that?”

It was like a slap in the face. What did he want me to do? Butch was older than me and had become something of a mentor. Yes, I wanted to grab the host by the shirt collar, punch the grin right off his arrogant face and toss him out of his own party, but Butch wouldn’t encourage that would he? I turned to reply but the look on his face shamed me into silence. He had one eyebrow raised and a sympathetic smile. Sitting just past him was his wife Joan and Kerry, both leaning into the table, looking at me. Joan looked embarrassed. Kerry, still red faced, looked alarmed about what would happen next.

I realized Butch was trying to get my focus off our host, stop and think. He sighed, shrugged his broad shoulders and shook his head “no” slightly. He was right. I needed to just let it go.

“More wine?” he asked.

Completely disarmed I replied, “Why not?” He poured me some and rocked back in his chair.

“Heck of a party, hmmm?” he said to the table. Despite the tension or maybe because of it, we all snickered.

Our host came out of the kitchen with nothing in his hands and an unhappy look on his face. He plopped into his chair like a sulky child which cheered me up.  His wife, a beautiful woman full of charm and grace, must have read him the riot act. Maybe he didn’t understand how close he came to a bad end, but she seemed to. She had a pitcher of ice water from the kitchen and went around the porch table filling water glasses and rapidly talking about what a beautiful evening it was for dinner outside in an attempt to fill the silence. When she got to me, she gave my shoulder a squeeze with her free hand. I assumed it was either a subtle apology for her husband or a thank you for not causing a worse scene. Maybe it was both.

The rest of the evening was fine. Our host pouted and the rest of us chatted over dessert and then gave his wife a hand cleaning up. After some quick goodbyes, Kerry and I drove home and sat silently in the living room watching the late news on television.

“I’m glad you didn’t lose your mind tonight,” Kerry finally said, “Even though he really deserved it.”

“Yeah, in the end he wasn’t worth breaking a knuckle over.” I mumbled.

“Or going to jail over.”

“True enough.”

An hour later we went to bed where Kerry quickly fell asleep. But I couldn’t settle down. I kept playing that scene from the party over and over in my head. I should note that I have always had a temper problem. I’ve succeeded in controlling it for the most part but, there is one thing that is sure to set me off. Bullies. When I meet one, I am instantly transported back in time to grammar school. I relive the fear, hiding from the bullies. Eventually they would find me and trip me, break my glasses, rip up homework, destroy art projects I made for my mother. Sometimes it was just non-stop verbal abuse. It happened on the bus, standing in line for lunch, in the bathroom. I couldn’t let my guard down for an instant, always looking over my shoulder. The last day of a weekend or vacation was always ruined because of worrying about what would happen tomorrow. The bullying continued in high school until I fought back one day my sophomore year.

I got pushed backwards unexpectedly by an old nemesis and smashed the back of my head head on a concrete block wall. Everything went dark for a second then I saw stars. They were yellow and zipped around like little meteors. I rubbed my face and my vision returned. First thing I saw was his smiling, laughing face looming over me. I came up off the ground and split the guy’s lip with a pretty good jab. He went down, not laughing anymore, and I  jumped on him to continue his long over due beating when I got pulled off by a beloved teacher who grabbed me by the shoulders and told me to walk away.

I spent the rest of the day waiting for the speakers to announce that I was wanted in the office, but it never came. You see, I was a “good” kid. I didn’t skip class, never got detention and obeyed the rules so the waiting for retribution was agonizing. The teacher caught up with me at the end of the day just before rehearsal of the musical I was in. He asked about my head, I had a big lump, but told him I was fine. He said he didn’t turn us in. He got the bully’s lip fixed and told him he was lucky. It could have been worse.

“John, do you know why he picked on you?” I shook my head.

“He wants to be like you but can’t be because he is afraid.”

“Afraid of what?” I asked, totally confused. “Why would he want to be like me?”

I will never forget his answer.

“You are the lead in a big musical production. You have talent. People like you. Lots of people like you, including adults. You, sir are popular and I bet you don’t even realize it. Your friend is none of those things. He could be, but he is afraid. Bullies are always afraid. They are ashamed of being afraid and terrified that others will find out the truth about them.”

The teacher was looking under my hair at the lump while he talked.

“I’ve got some ice packs backstage, come on.” He led me down the hallway to the stage door then back stage to the makeup room where he pulled some ice packs from a refrigerator and had me sit down, looking in the giant wall mirrors. He stood behind me while talking to my reflection.

“This may not make sense, but bullies end up hating the people they want to emulate. When they can’t be like them they end up trying to bully them. When that doesn’t work they find other people they can control through violence and fear. Their victims learn the only way to keep from being beat up is to praise the bully and do his bidding. So, the bully gets what he wants, to be a big deal. Understand?”

“Yeah, actually that makes perfect sense.”

“Good. Your lump didn’t kill too many brain cells.” He laughed and gave me an ice pack. “Your friend there will not bother you again because you stood up to him. But I cannot stress this enough. John, violence is not a good thing. I know it feels good to pop a bully in the mouth, but it’s a last resort and should only used in defense of yourself or someone else. I let it go this time because I saw you defending yourself, but I won’t in the future. Deal?”

“Deal.”

I hadn’t thought about that episode or that great teacher in a long time, but his words still rang true. Our host that night was a bully but he was no ordinary bully. He was a bully with a lot of money. Money is power. That power allowed him to behave in anyway he wanted without meaningful consequences. I had seen him treat his employees badly and wondered why they put up with it. They must be getting something out of it, but what? Was it just because he paid them and gave them a place to live on the ranch? I thought that was the answer but then there was the time I saw his foreman verbally bully employees and the owner at a local store. I suddenly understood that bullying flows downhill. The foreman loudly threatened that if they didn’t give him a discount, his boss would no longer use their services and the ranch bought a lot of merchandise. The store owners’ desire for our host’s money overwhelmed any desire to be treated decently so they acquiesced to the bully.  That rewarded the foreman’s behavior, made him feel like a big deal and viola’, it’s school all over again. What do you think the odds are that other people get bullied by the employees and owner at that store? Don’t take the bet. I saw that too.

Normally, I would quit the man, but I had a problem. I really enjoyed his wife and her horse needed special attention from a shoer that knew what he was doing. Neither of them deserved to be ignored by me. I finally decided to swallow my pride and continue working for the idiot at least until his wife’s horse was retired. I finally closed my eyes and slept.

We got a frantic phone call a month later from our host’s wife. Her husband’s horse had gotten tangled up in barbed wire and was bleeding badly. We grabbed a homemade horse first aid kit and the kids. Driving as fast as possible to their ranch, Kerry wondered why they were calling us. Shouldn’t they call the vet? It was a good point, but I figured we would get answers when we got there.

Upon arriving the first thing Kerry did was fix the horse’s halter, it was put on backwards, while I checked out our patient. I could see the horse was pretty cut up but it wasn’t too serious. Our host told us the vet was dealing with another emergency but would come as soon as possible. His face was one of sheer panic and I wasn’t sure why. Then I saw the cause of his panic. A small vein had been severed on one front leg and a thin stream, the size of a toothpick, was sprinkling blood on the ground. Kerry handed Michael the lead rope to hold the horse then had Jack squat down and put his finger on it to stop the blood while she pulled some dressing material out from our first aid bag.

“Is that an artery?” stammered our host.

“Nope, just a vein.” replied our grammar school aged child. “An artery would spurt. Right Mom?” Kerry smiled at him and dressed the wound just as the vet drove in. He teased us about doing his job without a license while going over his patient. One cut needed sutures and he asked Jack to assist which pleased the boy to no end. We talked about sports and the weather with the vet as he did his work, which is normal conversation in a non-emergency situation. I noticed our host wasn’t participating and in fact was standing all by himself ten feet away. He had that sulky look on his face again. He wasn’t a big deal or the star of the show. An eleven-year-old was a bigger deal than him and braver as well. He was scared by the blood and not knowing what to do. Worst of all, he knew that we knew it.

The vet finished up and was giving our host instructions for wound care when we gathered up our things and got the heck out of there.

That fall our host called me and said his foreman would be trimming the horses all winter to save the ranch some money so they wouldn’t need me. Besides, the foreman was a cowboy and knew how to shoe horses. It wasn’t an overt insult but he definitely wanted me to know how little he thought of my expertise and profession. I could picture him smiling on the other end of the phone.

“Sure, I understand.” I said cheerfully. “He should just shoe them in the spring then as well because I’m going to have to backfill my schedule from my wait list so I won’t have any appointments available for you. Thanks for calling and if I don’t see you have a Happy Thanksgiving!” and hung up while he was still arguing with me. I bet he wasn’t smiling anymore.

“Who was that? Kerry asked.

“Our friend down the road. I fired him.” I explained what was said.

“He is such a jerk. Save money on trimming? How many homes does he own?” Kerry sputtered to a stop and took a deep breath. “I am so happy you let him go.”

“This reminds me.” I pulled out a receipt book out of my desk that I used for shoeing customers.

“Reminds you of what?” my darling wife asked as she started to wash dishes.

“I never billed him for you, Jack and Michael practicing veterinary medicine without a license.”

A wet sponge whacked me right in the back of the head but lucky for me it didn’t leave a lump.