Life, the Treasure Map
and something or another.
by Eydís
Life
It would be fair to describe Our Boy as a nervous boy. It would be rather unfair, however, to call him a mommy's boy, especially if you were to shout it at him abusively like his classmates used to do. It would, again, be fair to assume that Our Boy took it personally, maybe even extremely personally, that is to say maybe more so than he ought to have done.
It is true that the boys' assaults were very much personal in the way that they were directed at Our Boy. But it is equally true that if, by some miraculously simple incident of possibility Our Boy lived in another similar town on the other side of the country, meaning that Our Boy just wasn't here, well, some other unfortunate boy would fill Our Boy's shoes. As the simple economic model of supply and demand would teach us, the reason we find so many shouting “mommy's boy” isn't because there are so many mommy's boys, but because there is so much demand for them.
But that is a group thing, you see. To have a common ground for dislike. A symbol of solidarity. Like disliking Hitler, Thatcher or Simon Cowell. All beings of great repute. Not necessarily good repute. But definitely great. And it's not so personal at all, since you can modify the villain according to popular demand. Don't believe me? Just try it.
So. You a good person, then? Not a Nazi, I hope. They do some nasty stuff, you know. Well. Are you? A Nazi? No? Good. Then you're one of us. The good guys.
Now try reading that bit again, only instead of Nazi, put in lawyer. Like this.
So. You a good person, then? Not a lawyer, I hope. They do some nasty stuff, you know. Well. Are you? A lawyer? No? Good. Then you're one of us. The good guys.
What's that? Do you happen to know a nice lawyer? Oh, sorry about that. Just take another definition and exchange. Take your pick. Banker. Murderer. The French. Whatever suits your whim.
So you see, as far as group cohesion goes, it didn't matter one bit whether the symbol of solidarity was Our Boy or one of the other boys, or even the principal. Every good story has a villain and the same goes for a good group. If you take away the villain there is chaos. No means to define the parameters of the group as being “not that”. And people seem to dislike that kind of chaos. But I'm afraid Our Boy didn't really see it this way.
And he didn't live on the other side of the country either. You know, some place with likeminded folks where he would have been accepted for what he was. Where he would have been happy. No. Our Boy lived in Dover, which happens to be a very lovely place, yet every day he had to tolerate the snickering and teasing and other general abuse that comes with the position of being a mommy's boy. That is why Our Boy spent a lot of his time feeling hopeless and nervous.
It should probably be noted here, just so there is no misunderstanding, that bullying is of course by no standard acceptible behaviour. Also, the act of shouting “mommy's boy” after someone and the act of stealing their shoes so that they have to walk home in their socks are clearly different degrees of bullyism. If I were to say, for example, that Bullyboy had stopped Our Boy outside school one day on their way home and held him down by sitting on his chest so that Our Boy could hardly breathe it would definitely colour your opinion of Bullyboy. Just picture it, there Our Boy struggles, sweat forming on his face. Frantic fear in his eyes. A sudden spasm of energy as he tries to push Bullyboy off. Bullyboy's minions scurry by, some trying not to notice in fear of having to participate, others snicker or cheer him on, even the teacher tiptoes by, terrified as he is of Bullyboy's father and maybe even secretly or subconsciously delighted by the sight of Our Boy punished feeling that it serves the boy right for not listening in class. Well, not Our Boy per say, it is very likely that any boy would do in the teacher's case, according to the stereotype. Or maybe the teacher merely feels it isn't his business what happens outside the classroom. And imagine the hopelessness spreading throughout Our Boy's body upon seeing one possible aid after another show up only to ignore his dire necessity and walk by coldheartedly, a paralysing feeling numbing every muscle. This sort of experience would follow any boy well into adulthood. Surfacing almost every time he was in a tight spot, like say in a crowded elevator or in the middle of a deep swimming pool or relaxing in bed on a Sunday morning with his infant child climbing over him and innocently poking his eyes out.
So yes. As I said, this sort of incident would definitely colour your opinion of Bullyboy. He didn't do that though. Or, I mean, maybe he did and maybe he didn't. It's not an important part of our story. What is important is that Our Boy told his mother all about how abusive he felt Bullyboy acted towards him. Feeling being the concept to note here. She in turn organised a playdate for Our Boy with Bullyboy, convinced as she was that it would lead to everlasting friendship thus solving everything. Like pressing a magic button. A quick fix. Because, let's face it, we all crave that. That's why industries like the Lottery and Anti-Depressant Manufacturers thrive, in spite of all logic.
And on such a playdate Bullyboy would as a matter of course not alter his behaviour, except for the brief moments when Mrs. Paige, Our Boy's mother, was present. The boys would naturally end up alone in Our Boy's room where Bullyboy would inevitably shake Our Boy's boat in a bottle, his prized possession, a little too roughly. Funnily enough, that was what Mrs. Paige often had to gently ask Our Boy to stop doing, but it was different to watch someone else do the shaking. To Our Boy it felt more severe when Bullyboy did it, although to be fair, an impartial outsider might not observe much of a difference between Our Boy's shaking and Bullyboy's shaking. If anything, it was a perception issue like the Doppler effect, sounding more loud when it's coming at you than when it's going away, just with shaking. The shaking feeling more rough when you are not the shaker.
Maybe Bullyboy did this on purpose. Maybe he revelled in the sight of anguish on Our Boy's face, laughing menacingly out of pride from a mission accomplished. Or maybe he was just as nervous as Our Boy, shaking the boat too roughly because he was tense, laughing nervously because he felt a little ashamed for having sat on Our Boy's chest or for some other mischievous thing he'd done. It's up to you, really, depending on how wicked you require Bullyboy to be. What is unshakable is the avalanche of feelings rushing through Our Boy. He, being an 8 year old boy, wouldn't be able to explain any of them, but be assured he felt them. He felt the intrusion of privacy, watching his foe rummaging through his stuff. His stuff. So he felt the selfishness that haunts every hoarder and the fear of losing that which is rightfully his, as it belongs to his room, his thoughts, his world. And shortly following fear there was anger, for we humans are no different from the wounded tiger fighting for survival, finding that backup supply of energy boozt hidden within our anger. And how could anyone forget the righteousness? No wrath is complete without the might of someone who feels that he is in the right, that he is correcting a horrible injustice. And it is with that righteousness that Our Boy went to his mother to make a complaint.
There she was, elegant and calm as ever. There he bursted forth towards her, not only his face distorted with anger but also his voice, his temper and his sense of reason. You can definitely imagine how that meeting went.
'Mooom! He took my bottleship!' She was, as we've established, of the faith that giving way and being the gracious pushover, turning the other cheek and all that, was the sure fire way to be liked and make friends. Well, it is a way of existing in relative peace. So yes, her reply would have been something along the lines of:
'Come now, dear boy, you'll get it back. Now it is his turn.' and
'Which do you prefer, lending your stuff for a
moment and gain a friend or keeping your stuff without a friend in the world?' It wasn't a very effective way to persuade Our Boy of a change of heart.
And after a bit of whining, Our Boy would go off to sulk. So, it turns out that a playdate is a fickle thing. Like so many things in life, it's not about what you do but the way you do it. If orchestrated beautifully playdates can build fine friendships, whereas an out of sync orchestra only produces more mess. In Our Boy's case, it provided Bullyboy with more ammo. Our Boy wasn't known as mommy's boy until after that playdate, you see. A lot of things changed after that playdate. Mrs. Paige wasn't as content with how Our Boy spent his time, for one thing. That is how it came about that Our Boy grew accustomed to lying at such a young age. Not as a game. Not for fun. Not in malice. It had been out of necessity. You could say it began when his mother approached him with a simple query.
'I notice that you have no one to play with today, dear son. Do you want me to call Bullyboy's mother? You played so nicely with him the other day.'
'There is no need, thank you mom. I'm meeting him at the playground.' This seemed to