How to lose a fight and influence people........

I was 15 years old, and had been placed with a wonderful family in Pascagoula, Mississippi. Ed was a butcher at the local supermarket, and he got me my very first job there as a bag-boy. Let me tell you, there's nothing more exciting to a "welfare" kid then to resemble a "regular" kid and enjoy such wonders as earning your own spending money and getting to know people outside of home and school. I quickly established the mechanics of loading those paper bags just right to fit everything evenly without squishing stuff in the minimum number of bags without making any one to heavy. It rained alot that summer and I would come home with water-swollen feet and a smile on my face. Ed promised me that if I kept up the good work, he would buy me a motorbike and I'd pay him back. My last family hadn't even bothered to get me a bicycle.
Now, by then I was nearing the end of what little growing I was going to accomplish, which to my horror was no where near where it was supposed to be. Most kids my age had long passed me by in the height department. Well, when you find yourself in those circumstances, the best thing you can do is just keep your head down. My only problem was my mouth. It had a mind of it's own. It didn't care if the kid calling me a punk or some other stupid thing was a full foot taller than me. It just answered back. I also wore glasses, which only added to their repertoire of insults. Such was life. My tendency to give back as good as I got in the verbal arena almost insured I was going to force my tormentors to carry it to the next level. So telling them to go fuck themselves was probably not the most brilliant strategy for avoiding conflict, but I just couldn't help it. THEY were bothering ME, not vice versa, so, yea, they could go fuck themselves, dammit!
Well, one guy working at the supermarket decided he didn't like me, and started informing me of that fact shortly after I started working there. I had never once looked at him funny or said anything derogatory to him, but I guess some people feel it is their mission in life to have someone fear them. Problem was, I wasn't fearing him. He'd tell me how ugly I was, or stupid, or short, or some other brilliant observation, and I'd disagree with him. He'd get in my face, I'd stare him back down. He didn't like that. And I didn't care. He was smart enough not to get violent with me while on the job, but he'd quietly threaten me in the parking lot every chance he got. My rolling my eyes at him or just ignoring his threats really got him boiling. It was soon to boil over.
That summer was the first time I'd been allowed to pretty much go where I wished, as long as my foster family knew where I was. I always went where I asked to go, and got back when promised. These people had given me the first respect and trust I had ever experienced, and I wasn't about to let them down. So, this day I was walking into town to a photo shop that carried a certain kind of film I needed for this Agfa camera someone had given me. Well, I'm almost to the store, and had my head down as I walked, when I heard off to my right, "Hey, you little fucker, I'm gonna kick your ass!"
I glanced right, and straight at me was walking my protagonist, his face full of hatred, and he closed the distance before I could even register what was about to happen to me. Now, this was not the first fight I had ever been in. I had done my share of bobbing and weaving, even getting in a few shots, but that was years ago when most of my bullies were not that much bigger than me. This guy was something like five feet seven or eight, and I was barely clearing five period. Well, my fight or flight computer quickly calculated the odds, and the damn thing came up with a fantastic reflex strategy that to this day will go down in my personal history as FUBAR. Ask someone what FUBAR stands for.
Just as his fist slammed into the side of my face, I dropped. Not from the impact, mind you, but from my legs just folding up under me. I went down fairly hard, seeing stars from his blow, and incredible reflex strategy instructed my about to be battered body to just curl up in a ball. Now, I know he might have been able to outrun me, but my smarter self would have gone with that option had my instinct been allowed to run the show. I saw no shame whatsoever in prey animals running like hell from cheetahs, which is what this scenario most closely resembled. But NOOOOO. Here I was on the ground, with this pissed-off bad boy kicking me like a deflated football. Somehow, I managed to cover my vital organs and ribcage, but he pretty much made hamburger out of every other exposed surface. He finally got tired, and probably a bit discouraged at me not fighting back, and just spit on me and stomped off, cursing. I uncovered and looked around thru my one good eye, trying not to cry or scream out from the pain, and looking up I saw what must have been a friend of his leaning against his bike, shaking his head. He looked at me with this rather pained look, and asked. "Why didn't you at least try and fight back? Maybe you wouldn't be so messed up right now?" I didn't have anything to say to him, cause things had happened way to fast and I had no idea why I reacted the way I did. All I knew was I had suffered one hell of a beating, and I just wanted to limp home. "You gonna be OK, kid?" Mouth once again, never learning it's lesson, simply responded...."A little fucking late to be asking that, asshole." I said that as I was walking away, so he either didn't hear me or didn't care. Thank god.
Well, I got home and everybody was shocked to see this messed up, bleeding, black and blue and swollen everywhere kid stumbling into the living room. I explained how I'd been jumped, and by who, trying not to include any details to add to my shame. Ed didn't say anything. He didn't give me that "you little pussy" look I was expected from a father figure. His wife tended my wounds and expressed her outrage. But I went back to work the next day, a bit tenderly, not about to wimp out.
When my shocked coworkers and manager asked me what had happened, I had no problems whatsoever telling them the truth. Their reactions were those of people not surprised, but still angry. Either bully boy hadn't been scheduled to work that day or he was too afraid to come to work, all I know is he didn't have a job anymore, at least at that supermarket. He came in the next day, when I was off, and was surprised to be handed his walking papers. He was also warned never to go near me again if he didn't want to look like a certain beat up little kid. Ed was a quiet man, but more than capable of making his feelings known. Needless to say I never saw this creep again, and kept my job till the welfare people intervened in my new life and screwed it up again.
I'm truly sorry if any man reading this feels I let the gender down. I'm truly sorry that you have this insane idea that the measure of a man is carried in his fists. I will not apologize for standing up for myself when verbally abused, or running when avoidance is the better part of valor. I am alive, in one piece, and that guy ended up in prison, where the measure of a man is how many bitches he has. It could have been worse. I could have had this insane idea that I could get ahold of a gun and shoot those (censored) who assaulted me without provocation, which is happening now in this crazy age of ours. So if you are one of those dads encouraging your sons to be bad-asses, then you truly have my pity. The odds have shifted.