Bruco is in a wheelchair today. But he used to walk just fine. He had kind of an arrogant stride, like people better get out of his way.   

He once said to me, “I’m gonna break that Irish cocksucker’s arm.”

And, he did. The 14-year- old Bruco punched McMullen out, and stomped the kid’s arm until it snapped like a stick.
That was about twenty years ago. Back then the community must’ve had a “boys will be boys”-type attitude. Because I don’t remember Bruco getting into much trouble.  Maybe someone yelled at him, or he sat in school detention. More likely, everybody winked and thought: what a tough little bastard. The men thought: just like me at that age.  

Bruco’s father was a barrel-chested, scowling kind of guy. In all the years I lived next door, he didn’t say a dozen words to me. He didn’t appear to say much to his son, either, but he beat the boy often. The whippings came, as far as I could tell, when Mr. Bruco thought his son wasn’t being tough enough. I remember in second or third grade, a car ran over Bruco’s dog. Bruco started crying and his father slugged him. I doubt Mr. Bruco minded his son breaking McMullen’s arm.  For that, the old man would’ve been proud.

Bruco was a chip off the old block. Like his dad he had black hair, which Bruco grew thick to his shoulders. He had his father’s powerful body and  swarthy complexion. And like his dad, Bruco wore a mustache (it had appeared, suddenly, around seventh grade).  

        
But their eyes were different. I found that interesting. While the old man’s were small and mean, Bruco had inherited his pretty mother’s eyes. Bruco’s eyes were big, dark and shiny. They damn near glistened.   

The soft eyes were deceptive. Bruco was surely his father’s son, a mean, destructive bully. Inflicting pain excited him, and he’d pound and kick people long after they were helpless. 

By the time Bruco was in 10th grade, he had everybody scared to death. When he couldn’t find enough kids who’d fight him anymore he turned his aggression to athletics. He became an all-county linebacker, roaming the field like an assassin. When he hit someone you heard the explosion from the top row of the bleachers. He also excelled at baseball, playing catcher with a shotgun arm and a strong bat.   

I was two years younger than Bruco. Of course, I worshipped him. He didn’t mind me hanging around. Both of us were the lone kids at home; I was an only child, Bruco had older siblings who’d left. From his point of view, I guess, my presence was convenient, as long as I didn’t get on his nerves. As a jayvee football player myself, I was undersized, but hard-nosed and unafraid. Maybe I had his grudging respect. Evenings after I’d done my homework, I might go to Bruco’s house to watch Sanford and Son or Mannix. I’d tag along when he’d walk to the corner store. A few times my dad drove him home after football practice. I’d sit in the back seat, thrilled that people would see us together, damn near as excited as a girl.

Bruco taught me a few things. One was that the biggest sons of bitches get the sweetest rewards. Bruco was nasty, a tyrant, didn’t give a shit about school. But his life was great.  He pretty much did what he wanted. 

And the cutest girls swarmed to him.  

For me these girls were objects of fantasy but they were like toys for Bruco. After he was finished with one, he’d have an even prettier replacement by sundown. I used to watch him pull these girls into his arms. I saw him hug and kiss them. I imagined he went further. It blew my mind. I wondered how it was possible to experience such joy and still go about your business. 

One girl was considered, by most, our school’s best looking. Her name was Cynthia. She was a cheerleader, a year ahead of me, one year behind Bruco. Cynthia’s hair was blond, long and tousled in the Farrah Fawcett style of the era. She had great violet eyes and her smile brightened entire hallways. Cynthia was taller than most girls, with legs that rose forever before snuggling into short skirts.  

Cynthia hooked up with Bruco early in her junior year, which was Bruco’s senior year. It started in our school’s weight room. I happened to be in there at the time.  

      
I was using the universal gym, trying to build up my upper body. They used to test us to see if we could bench press our own weight. Most guys could; I couldn’t. I weighed 120 and couldn’t even budge that much. It was embarrassing.   

Bruco was in there too, putting me to shame. He weighed about 180, and could throw that much through the ceiling. I’d seen him bench press 300. His body wasn’t one of well-defined muscles. Instead, it was a thick hairy mass that bulged evenly through his chest, shoulders and legs, looking brawny and hard. The threat of power came off him like a smell.   

A third person was in the room. Cynthia. That made two of the school’s leading players, and myself - a worm. Given my rank, and because I was a year younger, I’d never spoken to Cynthia.  She was wearing the girls’ gym outfit – white and blue-striped top, and blue shorts. Her hair was in a ponytail. 

Lying on the bench, I lowered some weight – probably about 80. I puffed air and sat up. Cynthia and Bruco were talking.           
He was discussing Saturday’s football game, which our school, Pine Oak, had won. 

“They tried to put their biggest guy on me,” Bruco said, sitting on one of the stools. Sweat had soaked through most of his t-shirt. He laughed, his big eyes flashing. It was magnetic.      

 
“But he was a fat slob,” Bruco said. “Way too slow for me. Our idea was, I’d criss-cross with Morales.  So every time they had a pass play, one of us was in the backfield. We fucked ‘em up good. Pardon my French.”

Pine Oak had won the game like 30-0. Bruco had scored not one, but two touchdowns after forcing fumbles and picking up the ball. Sweet Jesus.

Cynthia laughed in appreciation. She talked about a new routine the cheerleading squad was working on.   

She was sitting at a leg-pressing station. Her knees were bent in front of her chest. The bottoms of her feet were up against two pedals connected by cables to weights. 

She finished her story and Bruco said, “Mark, you wanna grab me a towel.”

I took one of the clean folded towels nearby. Instead of tossing it to Bruco, I walked it over. For no better reason than to get a closer look at Cynthia. It damn sure wasn’t to show myself off. Bruco wiped his face and neck, which were gleaming. His chest and arm muscles shifted as he worked. I looked at Cynthia and nodded.  

She responded with something short of a smile but her teeth showed, white and healthy. It was nice. I sat on a stool in front of a power-lifting station, designed to exercise your shoulders. I watched Cynthia’s feet press against the pedals. The pedals moved, lifting a block of weights. Cynthia exhaled audibly. Her legs straightened, their taut muscles straining. 
Cynthia’s legs shone through the room, looking chiseled. I stared, awestruck, like I was watching The Creation.  

   
Bruco was studying her, too. We both fell in love at that moment. But only one of us counted. “Good,” Bruco said. “That’s good. You got strong legs for a girl.”

      
She drew her knees back, lowering the weight with a satisfied smile.

                                                                                                      ---

​

That same year, I was interested in a girl who was in some of my classes. Her name was Rhonda. I thought she was sort of a Cynthia “lite”. She wasn’t as tall, nor was she flawless. Her chin was a little broad, her nose slightly flat. But Rhonda’s blond hair had the same windblown look as Cynthia’s, and their skin had the same healthy glow.  

 
One day Rhonda wore a short black skirt. It didn’t even reach mid-thigh, which was exciting enough. But there was more. Running just above the hem was series of small holes. They ran all around the skirt. Through those holes you could see flesh. It put shivers through my body. 

When I wasn’t fantasizing about Cynthia on the leg-pressing machine, I pictured Rhonda in that skirt. Since Rhonda and I were often in the same classrooms, it wasn’t hard to find an excuse to talk with her. She was civil, but her eyes were distant. She wasn’t interested. 

Meanwhile, Cynthia and Bruco became inseparable. In the hallways you could see them embracing. Their kisses were wet and loud.  When Cynthia looked up into Bruco’s face, she had a flushed look like she was dreaming of magical things.  

   
One evening I wandered over to Bruco’s house. It was a Love Boat  night, which was sort of a regular thing for us. I never understood why Bruco watched, since he lived it. But he seemed to enjoy making obscene cracks about the women. As for me, well, I figured maybe I could pick up a few pointers.    

  
The sky was already dark, and the moon was behind me. I crossed my yard, entered his, and approached the Brucos’ back door. 

Our houses were split-levels, where the bottom floor windows are even with the ground. Bruco’s room was on the bottom floor; and before I reached the door some movement inside caught my eye. I crept over to a hedge, crouched behind it, and looked into Bruco’s room. A floor lamp shone next to a desk, giving me enough light to see. 

Cynthia and Bruco were naked on his bed. She was on her back, Bruco hulking above her, jammed between her legs. 
His upper body looked dark and full. Her skin shone. They kissed for a long time, then Bruco arched his back. Cynthia arched her back. I watched Bruco drive forward, forcing Cynthia to slide backward. Her legs were wrapped around his waist. I saw her breasts, large and bright. Bruco squeezed them. They kissed some more, arched their backs again. Cynthia’s hair was fanned out wildly. 

It took my breath away. I’d never seen anything like this. My heart pounded in my head. My skin got hot and sweaty. It was like I had a fever.  

          
Finally, Bruco and Cynthia slowed down. Their bodies lingered together. I pulled myself away, crawling backwards, panting with excitement. 

I felt weird, and my house was the last place I wanted to be. How could I go home after that? But I had nowhere else. The moon burned in my eyes as I hurried through the dark, across the grass. I went into my room and got in bed. 

When I closed my eyes I saw Bruco and Cynthia going at it, like you keep seeing highway lines after a long drive. 

                                                                                                      ---

​

Later that school year, Bruco was starring for the baseball team. I’d been cut from jayvee baseball, so I went out for track. They didn’t cut their roster; they took anybody. I hung on as a nonentity. I still went regularly to the weight room, still trying to budge 120.  

   
Bruco called me one Friday evening and asked me over. It was still daylight, getting gloomy, as I crossed my backyard. The spring sun was pale yellow, shining from behind a house across the way, looking cold. 

Bruco opened his back door when I knocked. He wore a muscle shirt and shorts. His hair was tied in a ponytail; his mustache was full. He had a couple of days’ growth of beard.  

“Get your ass in here,” he said. “I got a surprise.”

Last time I heard those words, he had a new deer rifle to show me, a Remington 700 I think it was. He’d handed it to me like it was a baby. I didn’t know shit about guns and smiled politely. So, Bruco telling me he had a surprise didn’t necessarily mean much. Maybe he’d bought a new catcher’s mitt and wanted my opinion. He was hoping for a baseball scholarship to the local community college.  

 
I followed him down a half-flight of stairs, through a living room with a long, bright red sofa and a framed painting of Jesus.

“Your parents home?” I asked.

Bruco snorted. “You fuckin’ kidding?”

I shrugged. What did I know?

I followed Bruco into his room. Rhonda, of all people, lay on the bed. Her head was propped up on a pillow. She was naked. Astonished, I stopped in my tracks.  

Bruco turned back toward me, extended an arm. 

“C’mon, dude.” He grinned, and electricity was in his eyes. He grabbed my elbow, pulled me forward.   

I was aroused, and my mouth was dry. I stared at the girl on the bed.  Rhonda's body was perfect. Flat stomach, swelled breasts and hips. Smooth legs.  

 
But her eyes were slits. She had a lopsided smile.

It didn’t look right. Genius that I am, I figured that much out. It threw a panic in me. I yelled. “Whatsa matter with ‘er?”  

  
“Nothin’. Shit, Mark, where you been?   She’s fine, she’s gonna be fine. She won’t remember a thing.” Bruco laughed. “You been bitchin’ to me forever about this chick. Now we’ll see if you got the balls.”

His remark about balls hit a nerve. As intended.  God have mercy on me. I stepped closer. Rhonda did look good. Seemed to be breathing fine, and all. 

“Whadjya do?” I whispered.

“Somethin’ in her drink.” 

Give the evil bastard his due. Some 20 years before this shit hit the news – so-called date rape drugs, Roofies, whatever – Bruco knew all about them. He was ahead of his time. He got more pussy than any 10 guys. He didn’t need to do this. He wanted to. It was fun. Who was gonna stop him?

Bruco walked round to the other side of the bed, looking at Rhonda like she wasn’t human. He knelt on the floor, put his hands next to her body. “Kids today. What’s the world comin’ to?” He leaned close to Rhonda's breast, and inhaled. 
“Ahhhhhhh,” he hissed. “That is fine.”

A bolt of fire zapped my crotch. 

“Hello,” Rhonda said. Her mouth twitched. “Is somebody there? Somebody there?” Her voice was tired, mellow. 

Frankly, it didn’t matter what she said. She could’ve pleaded for her dignity or her life. It didn’t matter.  

  
I sat on the edge of the bed and started taking off my shoes. I remember moving slowly, as if to postpone the pleasure. I heard Bruco laughing. I wasn’t myself. I stood and unfastened my pants. I stared at Rhonda’s flesh. I could taste it. 

                                                                                                  ---

​

Cynthia and Bruco stayed together for a while. There were rumors he was hitting her. Who could doubt them? They broke up just as he was starting at the community college, which had given him the scholarship.

Bruco’s college career didn’t last long. Rhonda must have remembered what had happened in his bedroom, and been able to talk. 

Her last name was McMullen; she was a cousin of the kid whose arm Bruco had busted years ago. You couldn’t exactly blame the family for not trusting the authorities to take care of it. Rhonda had an older brother, a couple of older cousins. They must’ve had friends. It would take more than three normal guys to fuck Bruco up. 

It happened a couple of weeks into the new school year. The way I heard it, they grabbed him as he left a bar. They took him to the woods. Broke both his legs. Rammed a bottle up his ass. Shattered his teeth. 

He was found the next morning, in a dumpster, in shock.   

I spent the next few weeks waiting my turn. One morning, I couldn’t get out of bed. Sheer terror had drilled a hole in my stomach. I’d developed a bleeding ulcer. 

The McMullens never did come after me. It wasn’t till I was about finished my senior year, still looking over my shoulder, that I began to think I might survive. But with most of my energy absorbed by being afraid, I had little motivation left for anything else. No doubt my life changed irrevocably. Maybe that was the McMullens’ plan, to let a weak fish like me just twist on the hook. If so, God bless ‘em. All these years later, I can barely stand to see my own face in a mirror.   

                                                                                                     ---

 

I remember the last time I saw Bruco. It was soon after he left the hospital. It was a mid-morning, the sky was full of white clouds and glare.  Someone, I can’t remember who, was pushing Bruco’s wheelchair down his driveway.  Bruco was twisted and gaunt, his head shaved. His face was so drawn it was unrecognizable. Except for his eyes. His big, lovely eyes. His eyes hadn’t changed. 

​

They stared out of the wreckage, uncomprehending and sad, full of the sky’s light. When they blinked it would’ve broken your heart, even as you knew he deserved everything he got. 

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                                                                                              THE END
 

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