Denny had
always been petite. He was our version
of Mickey Rooney or Michael J. Fox: the
bright, wiry, energetic, and sometimes wild kid who stopped growing long before
the rest of us did. I recalled him as
fearless, reckless, and sometimes just plain nuts.
One day, as
kids, a group of us were walking through a mom-and-pop shopping section of our
neighborhood, maybe coming back from a movie.
As we passed the outside display of a florist shop, Denny suddenly picked
up a potted plant and threw it through the storefront’s glass window, sending soil
and shards of glass flying. We all took
off as if fired from a cannon. As I
said, he was sometimes nutty.
When I
entered the restaurant and set eyes on Denny, I stifled a reaction of
shock. Though facially he hadn’t changed
much in 40 years, he was completely bald.
I immediately surmised his hairlessness was not a grooming choice. He was, he told me, being treated with
chemotherapy for cancer. It appeared to
me he wasn’t doing well. Again,
unfortunately, I was right. In a year or
so he was dead.
Probably owing
to the mixed emotions of the moment, the conversation we had that day over
lunch is today a blur in my mind. But I do
vividly remember one revelation, concerning his outsized rowdiness. He confessed to me that, because he was
small, he intentionally cultivated the image of dangerous craziness, the reputation
as being one liable to do anything at any moment. This had been his defense against bullying. And it worked. Denny was never picked on or pushed
around. You don’t mess with a psycho.
But Denny
had been a good kid really, and a good friend ... mostly. It was sad to hear him divulge he felt
he needed to conceal his good nature behind frightening, if not criminal,
behavior – all to avoid being victimized by bullies.
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