WHOMPER ROOM
To the untrained eye it looked like just another clearing in a patch of woods, but to Canmore’s elementary students, it was known as “the fighting grounds.” Located just one block away from the school, it was a place where scores could be settled away from the prying eyes of teachers. Every fight was a live-action version of the popular children’s toy featuring two robots sparring in a boxing ring, and whenever word got out about an upcoming brawl, we gathered to see whether someone would get their block knocked off.
The undisputed champion of the fighting grounds was Danny Witkowski, though we referred to him as “Whomper”—“Whomper Witkowski”—because he beat the living daylights out of anyone who threatened his title. Danny was a chunky kid with straw-colored hair cut in the style once favored by Knights of the Round Table and hand puppets alike, and his fighting skills were honed from years of sticking up for himself against his three older brothers.
Danny’s reputation was already legendary when, in September 1969, he was placed into my grade-three class after being held back a year. He roamed the schoolyard like a rampaging moose and seeing as I could barely throw a ball—never mind a punch—I afforded him a wide berth. “Get lost, pipsqueak,” Danny would tell me whenever our paths crossed, and, after informing him, as meekly as possible, that I had as much right to be there as he did, he’d announce, “Not anymore, you don’t.”
Unless Danny got kicked out of school, or better yet, moved to another town, I knew there would be no way of avoiding him forever. Call me a dreamer, but when I realized that our current arrangement was unsustainable, I proposed a compromise in the hopes of achieving a peaceful coexistence. Under the terms of our agreement, which came to be known as “the pact,” I was responsible for turning a blind eye to Danny’s boorish behavior, and in return for my feigned ignorance, he’d allow my facial features to remain intact.
The pact definitely had its advantages. Halloween, for instance, became even more enjoyable, and a lot safer, with Danny tagging along. He may have been dressed as a hobo but lurking beneath the happy-go-lucky smile and painted-on stubble, Muhammad Ali was just waiting to be unleashed. “You just messed with the wrong group of trick-or-treaters,” he’d say to any bullies who tried to steal our candy. Off went the tattered overcoat and up went his fists. “I hope you like knuckle sandwiches because that’s what’s on the menu.”
That autumn marked the beginning of a series of fights between Danny and an ornery ball of sinew named Charlie Roberts. Charlie was the toughest kid in our class before Danny arrived, and because he didn’t take kindly to Danny horning in on his territory, Charlie challenged him to a showdown at the fighting grounds.
Later that afternoon, before a large and ruckus crowd, Danny used his heavier girth to full advantage as he made short work of the more agile Charlie, beating him to a bloody pulp. For those of us who had just witnessed such a monumental thrashing, one thing had become abundantly clear: anyone stupid enough to fight Danny Witkowski would get the crap kicked out of them, along with the snot, the piss, and the rest of his bodily fluids as well.
Though Danny had easily lived up to his billing, Charlie immediately challenged him to a rematch. Danny happily obliged, and while Charlie fared slightly better in the second fight, when the dust settled there was still no doubt in anyone’s mind who the victor was. Once again, the message was written all over the welts on Charlie’s battered face: you’d have to be a complete idiot to threaten the Whomper.
Or perhaps the correct word was “insane.” That might have explained Charlie’s state of mind when he goaded Danny into yet another scrap. Buoyed by his most recent effort, Charlie believed he was closing the gap, that the third time would be the charm. The rest of us, on the other hand, just figured that Charlie had taken one too many shots to the head. By now winter had arrived, and a large mound of snow, deposited by the town’s road crew, had accumulated in the corner of the fighting grounds. “Hurry up,” Charlie called out from its summit while waiting for Danny to huff his way to the top. “Move it, lard ass.”
Moments later, after unloading on Charlie and then throwing him to the bottom of the hill, it was Danny’s turn to wait. When Charlie stormed back to the top, Danny rewarded his stubbornness by flinging him around like a rag doll. Down the blood-speckled hill Charlie tumbled again, only this time as he struggled to his feet, a broken forearm dangled at an awkward angle, waving like a white flag.
In the long, drawn-out case of Charlie Roberts versus Danny Witkowski the gavel had finally come thumping down. The victory resounding and the verdict unanimous, the court of Whomper was now adjourned.
***
Danny’s ability to emerge unscathed from confrontations only added to his aura of invincibility, and by the time we were in grade five, I considered him virtually indestructible. Once, while riding our bikes to school together, Danny had his eyes down, zipping up his jacket, when he crashed headfirst through the canopy of a parked pickup truck, and after pulling him out by his feet, I noticed that his face was free of any cuts or scrapes. There wasn’t even any sign of bruising, just the odd splinter of fiberglass stuck in his hair. Like all the kids he fought, the truck wound up getting the short end of the stick.
So a few months later, when Danny decided to show off by walking along the top of a metal guardrail, I didn’t think anything of it. This was in early March, and though we had seen the worst of that year’s winter, its snowy remnants still lined the streets. “I bet I can go from one end of this thing to the other without falling off,” he told me.
As Danny struggled to find his balance, I announced, “Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls, children of all ages, please direct your attention toward the center ring where Whomper the elephant will now attempt to walk the tightrope.” Then I sang the circus theme song: “Doot-doot doodle oodle oot doot do-do. Doot-doot doodle oodle oot doot do-do.”
Danny spread his arms wide, like the wings of an airplane, and slowly began inching his way along the steel railing. “Shhh,” he said, his eyes focused on his feet. “I’m trying to concentrate.”
“Doot doodle oot-oot. Doot-doodle oot-oot. Doodle-oodle-oodle-oodle-oodle-oodle doot-doot.”
“I thought I told you to stop?”
“Careful, Whomper. Easy does it. Whomper wobbles, but he won’t fall down.”
“Cut it out. I’m warning you—”
But by then it was too late, and I launched into a parody of the Beatles “Get Back” that I’d been working on for some time:
Whomper was a man who thought he’d try to diet
But he knew it couldn’t last
Whomper’s grumbling stomach wouldn’t stay quiet
He had to feed it quick and fast
“I mean it. Shut your face before I shut it for you.”
“Oh, relax,” I told him. “Listen to the chorus.”
Get back, get back
Get back to the refrigerator
Get back, get back
Get back to the refrigerator
Get back, Whomper
“Ha ha. Very funny. But you won’t be laughing when I shove my fist down your throat.”
Throwing caution to the wind, I finished with a flurry:
Oooo. Ow!
Get back, Whomper
Your mommy’s waiting for you
Wearing her high-heel shoes
And her hot-pink hot pants
Get back home, Whomper
“SHUT UUU—” Danny slipped and landed hard, his head skidding across the icy, gravel-dusted pavement, and when he rolled over, there was blood oozing from the side of his face. “You’re going to pay for this,” he groaned.
I sped off and didn’t stop running until I reached my classroom. I was in 5A, directly across the hall from Danny’s 5B, and when I arrived, frantic and out of breath, I announced to my teacher, Mrs. Galbraith, that I wasn’t feeling well. “I think I’m…coming down…with something,” I panted. “Can I skip…recess?”
Mrs. Galbraith put her hand on my sweaty forehead. “Goodness, now that you mention it, you are looking a little peaked this morning. It might be a good idea to stay inside for the rest of the day too.”
Having temporarily secured my safety, the only thing I had left to worry about was what to do when school was let out. After working through a number of different scenarios in my head, all of which ended tragically, I figured my best chance for survival lay simply in making a beeline straight for home. Once there, I would retreat to my bedroom, where I’d hide out for as long as possible—the rest of my life, if necessary. Were I to die, I wanted it to be from natural causes, preferably peacefully in my sleep, and not from being viciously attacked by a vengeful Danny Witkowski.
The bell sounded and Mrs. Galbraith’s last-second reminder to bring some yarn for tomorrow’s Art class faded into the background as I raced past her and down the hallway. On leaving the schoolyard, I kept a slow but steady pace until I rounded a stand of trees leading to the skating rink. It was then that Danny appeared, standing in the middle of the sidewalk, his meaty hands clenched into fists that, in their size and chiseled profile, resembled sledgehammers. At the sight of me, he cracked his knuckles and then flexed his fingers, running them through the air them as if he were readying to play the piano. “Well, well, well,” he said. “Look who it is. I was wondering when you’d show up.”
Too tired to make another run for it, I held up my hands in defeat. “How’d you get here so fast?” I asked.
“I spent the morning in the nurse’s office and then skipped school this afternoon when I couldn’t find you at lunch.” He pointed to his face. “See what you did to me?”
Danny’s left eye was bloated and plum-colored, and a rectangular bandage covered his scraped cheekbone. “That’s not my fault,” I argued. “You did that to yourself when you fell off the guardrail.”
“Yeah, but none of this would have happened if you’d just kept your trap shut.”
It was, of course, a pretty lame excuse, a cliché, really, but still, I was mildly impressed, flattered even, that he’d taken the time to offer me some credit. Had I not returned my attention to Danny’s scuffed face, and been so busy admiring my handiwork, I might have had time to protect myself, but as it was, Danny punched me square in the nose and followed it up with another in the mouth. Before he could reload for a third strike, though, my knees buckled and I crumpled to the ground, biting my tongue upon impact. “That’s what you get for breaking the pact,” Danny said, scowling down at me.
Blood and snot smeared my hands as I covered my face. “I’m sorry,” I moaned, sobbing. “I’m so sorry.”
“Don’t be such a crybaby. What are you, some kind of sissy or something?” Danny bent over and began slapping my cheeks, the way a cat might playfully bat an injured mouse around before killing it. “You know, for someone with such a big mouth, you sure are a lousy fighter.”
“It’s because I’m a pacifist.”
“You’re not a pacifist. You’re a pussy. The pussiest pussy I’ve ever met.”
“Well, from the looks of things, this pussy’s mouth has done something that nobody’s fists have ever been able to do.”
Danny set his face in an expression of deep deliberation. “You know what?” he eventually said, lifting me to my feet. “You’re right. But you’ve still got a lot to learn about fighting, so how about you get cleaned up and then I’ll teach you a few things?”
***
I was washing my face in Danny’s kitchen sink when his mother returned home from work. Though Danny had more than a few enemies, she certainly wasn’t one of them. Mrs. Witkowski was a staunch Polish-Catholic, and as such, she viewed her son as a saint. She would have none of Danny’s allegedly marred reputation and unapologetically laid into anyone who accused him of causing trouble. “Oh yoi, yoi! Why you talk to me?” she’d ask those who dared to either phone or knock on her door. “You no know my Daniel. My Daniel, he no do that. My Daniel, he good boy.”
Give them hell, Mrs. Whomper, I’d think as she continued to go off on some hapless parent, her shrill voice trembling with outrage. He’s good, all right, your son. Good for nothing, that is.
Mrs. Witkowski had barely slipped off her shoes when she caught a glimpse of her son’s injured face. “Yoiky!” she cried. “Who fight you? Who beat up my Daniel?”
Her eyes then wandered across the room to where I was dabbing my face dry with a blood-stained dish towel. “You?” she said, dumbfounded. “You hurt my Daniel?” but before I could answer, Danny jumped in, saying, “Nobody beat me up, Mom. I fell off a guardrail on the way to school this morning.”
“Then why MeeGrat bleeding?” She thrust her finger accusingly at me. “You laugh at my Daniel? You call my poor Daniel names?”
“Danny didn’t hit me,” I announced. “Somebody else did. He’s just been helping me get cleaned up, that’s all.”
Mrs. Witkowski raised one hand to her cheek and put the other over her heart. “Ah, my Daniel,” she sighed. “You such a good boy.” Then she drew Danny close, cradling his head, and he flashed me a look of relief. Whoa, it seemed to say. I owe you big-time for this.
I returned his gaze with an expression that meant, You’re damn right you do. Now we’re even with the Pact. “Catch you later,” I told him as I waved goodbye. “Thanks again for everything.”
And with his head still buried in his mom’s bosom as she tousled his hair, Danny mumbled, “No problem, buddy. See you tomorrow.”
“Wait, MeeGrat,” Mrs. Witkowski called out. “You no stay? I make you grilled cheese sandwich.”
I shook my head and told her thanks anyway, but she wasn’t about to take no for an answer. “With Velveeta,” she said, upping her offer. “And Polskie Orgórki.”
Again I turned her down, adding that I’d already been more than enough trouble as it was.
“Is no trouble.” She released Danny from her grasp and pulled out a box of frozen treats from the freezer. “Here,” she said. “You take Popsicle, then. Orange one, like your hair. Is like Band-Aid, Popsicle, it make everything better.”
The cold air stung my raw nose and upper lip as I stepped outside, painfully reminding me that, though I had come away with a Popsicle, everything was not better. Hearing Danny refer to me as “buddy” was an encouraging sign, but in no way did I believe that things were suddenly back to normal between us. And while I also appreciated his offer to teach me the basics of self-defense, I wasn’t interested in learning a skill that might lead to a recurrence of what I was currently experiencing. Rather, I’d take my chances and stick with pacifism over pugilism.
What I was interested in, though, was not having to run for my life every time I pissed someone off. “If you can’t beat them, join them”: that had always been my motto, especially in regard to Danny, but I now wondered if it was really that simple. Friendship, as I was slowly discovering, involved a fair amount of give and take, and ever since we’d entered into the Pact, it seemed as if I’d been doing most, if not all, of the latter.
But what, I continued to wonder, did I have to give Danny, other than a hard time? Acceptance? Perhaps. The occasional benefit of the doubt? Hmmmm. Well, I suppose. Trust and respect? OK, settle down. Now you’re just getting carried away. Or, what if all Danny really wanted from me was a chance? I could do that, I figured. Besides, what did I have to lose? If today was any indication of what the future held, I had a feeling that me and my big, fat, pacifist mouth were going to need all the help that I could get my pussy-hands on.
After/Thought Literary 