Henry Simpson

Get Over It

Mrs. Carol called. Steve had been in a scuffle with another boy during lunch. “He’s all right, Mrs. Davis. Nothing to worry about. It’s simply school policy to inform parents when incidents like this happen.”

“Who started the fight?” Leslie asked.

“I don’t have the official answer yet. The Principal’s investigating.”

“Steve doesn’t get into fights.”

“Well, the fact of the matter is that he was in one. Several students witnessed it. A teacher intervened and reported it.” She sounded like a cop.

“Thank you very much, Mrs. Carol.” Leslie slammed the handset down, muttering.

Steve came home from school at his usual time. Leslie was waiting for him in the kitchen, with her usual questions about his school day, which he answered predictably, while scarfing down a tuna on rye with milk, not his favorite. Leslie tried to vary his after-school snacks to provide a healthful overall average weekly mix.

Afterward, when he seemed relaxed, she told him Mrs. Carol had called concerning a “scuffle” with another boy. Steve avoided her eyes, gazed out the window, said it was “no big deal, just, this kid, he wanted my lunch and I refused, he tried to take it, so we had this sort of pulling match, and then he took a shot at me, and what was I supposed to do?”

“The Principal’s investigating, honey. He seems to believe it’s more than no big deal.”

Steve shrugged. “So, are you gonna tell dad? If he finds out, I’m dead.”

“Stay away from that boy, Steve.”

“You bet, mom. That’s a great idea,” and he was gone, down the hallway to his room, too late to hear his mother say, “Are you being sarcastic with your mother?”

When Ted got home, she filled him in on the news of the day, top story Steve’s incident. Ted said it sounded like bullying, was upset, wanted to talk to Steve ASAP. “Cool down first, Ted.” she said. “Talk to him alone, after dinner.”

Ted made it through dinner by letting Leslie ramble on about the neighbors and her shopping. As soon as dinner ended, he told Steve to join him in the patio to have a chat. Steve glanced at his mother as he followed his dad outside. They sat at a picnic table in the cool early evening air.

Ted was protective of Steve, his only child. As a kid, he had been bullied and knew how demeaning it was. Years later, he enlisted in the Air Force to prove himself. Learned basic self-defense, how to use weapons and handle threats, earned non-commissioned officer stripes. Now, he supervised twenty employees in a small tool company. He was a good boss, he thought, but firm, with standards that, if anyone failed to meet them, they were out the door. Everyone in that shop knew the score. They all got along just fine, unless they messed up.

“You know what this is about, don’t you, Steve?” Ted said.

“This kid from school,” Steve began, “he came after me at lunch. Grabbed my sack. He musta thought I’d give it to him. When I didn’t, he shoved me. I shoved him back. You know how that goes. Then we went at it.”

“Anything else?”

“He followed me home from school last week. Hung around the neighborhood. Like, he was waiting for me to come outside. We don’t have classes together. But when I see him, he always gives me this look.”

“What’s his name?”

“Terry Sloan.”

“Does he belong to a gang?”

“He hangs out with some guys.”

“Who won the fight?”

“It wasn’t a fight, dad.”

“Stay away from him.”

“You’re not going to do anything about this, are you?”

“You want me to ignore it?”

“Don’t make a big fuss or anything.”

“Sons don’t give fathers orders, Steve.”

Next morning, Ted called Steve’s Principal and expressed concern over the incident. “I understand you’re investigating it. Have you reached any conclusions yet?”

“No, Mr. Davis,” said the Principal. “I’m still gathering facts.”

“How long do you think that will take?”

“Hard to say. We’re all quite busy.”

“What do you think? Would a week be enough time?”

“No promises, Mr. Davis.”

“Does the Sloan boy have a record of bullying, fighting, any other misbehaviors?”

“Mr. Davis. I cannot discuss his record with anyone except his parents or school personnel involved in his education.”

“Well, then, how would you like to discuss it with the police?” Ted hung up, an empty threat, made him feel better until, minutes later, he regretted it. He felt small, after being talked down to by that overeducated son of a bitch.

A week passed with no word from the Principal. Then, Mrs. Carrol called Leslie again. Reported he had identified the guilty party and taken disciplinary measures, without revealing what they were. Added that Steve was innocent but had behaved inappropriately by defending himself with his fists. He should, instead, have reported his assailant to a teacher or whoever was monitoring students during lunch. “Jesus Christ Almighty!” Ted said when Leslie told him.

A few days later, on a Friday, Steve did not come home from school on time, and Leslie got concerned. She sat in the living room, expecting to see him riding home on his bike as he did every school day. Eventually, she spotted him late, a block away, on foot. The closer he got, the more bedraggled he appeared, as if he’d been out in the sun, walking a great distance, hauling his backpack. She opened the front door for him. “Where’s your bike, honey?”

“Brian borrowed it,” Steve said.

On Monday, Steve asked his mother if she could give him a ride to school. She offered to drop him off at Brian’s house. He could pick up his bike there and ride it to school. “Never mind,” Steve said. “I can walk.” He grabbed his backpack, and was about to leave, when Leslie told him to wait. She explained the situation to Ted and her suspicion that Steve was lying about the disposition of his bike.

Ted offered to drop Steve off on his way to work. They got into Ted’s pickup and were on their way. “Where’s your bike?” Ted asked.

After a long silence, “It disappeared, dad.”

“Like magic?”

“I parked it in Brian’s driveway. Went inside with Brian. When I came back out, it was gone. Me and Brian walked the neighborhood, looking for it, no luck.”

“Someone stole it?”

“I guess.”

“Terry Sloan?”

“He said he got some bad shit because you called the Principal on him.”

After dropping Steve off, Ted stopped at a Police substation to file a theft report on Steve’s bike. He talked to a clerk and answered questions about the bike’s physical description, value, color, age, condition, theft location, and so forth. The clerk discouraged hope of recovery, lectured Ted about locks, importance of teaching kids not to be careless with personal property, and other bromides.

“I have a suspect,” Ted said. “He’s been harassing my son at school.”

“Be sure to contact the school administrators and file a complaint with them.”

“I know all that,” Ted said. “I don’t need a lecture.”

“If you’d taught your son about physical security, you wouldn’t be here over a lost bicycle. We have more serious crimes to solve.”

Ted composed a photo flyer describing Steve’s missing bike, with family phone number. He and Steve walked door-to-door in Brian’s neighborhood, handing out flyers and posting them on phone poles. Leslie received calls. Two seemed relevant. An anonymous woman reported seeing a man riding a boy’s bicycle on the main thoroughfare near a local park. Also, One of Brian’s neighbors noticed a man in his forties loading a red BMX bike into the back of an old Chevy pickup. Ted called the neighbor and got the name of a landscaping company stenciled on the pickup, and then he Googled the company and got their number.

Ted called the number. A man’s recorded voice answered, “Ray’s Landscaping and Hauling,” and requested the caller to leave a message. Ted Googled the company again and copied down their address.

Next afternoon, Ted and Steve were driving to the address. It was in a working-class neighborhood of apartments and old homes on tiny lots. A block from the address, Steve spotted Terry Sloan riding his BMX bike along the sidewalk. “That’s my bike!” he exclaimed. Ted slowed, following Terry to his house; its front door and windows were covered with bars. A faded green Chevy pickup was parked beside the house. Ted pulled to the curb and parked in front. Terry glanced at them and rode past, around a corner, and disappeared. “What now, dad?” Steve said.

“Let’s meet his dad.”

“I’d rather wait here.”

“This ain’t a choice type deal, Steve. This is real life.”

On the porch. The steel door was closed, but the door inside was wide open. Ted pushed the doorbell. Nothing happened. He banged on the steel door, yelling, “Ray! Ray! Ray!”

A man in a work shirt and faded blue jeans came to the door. “I’m Ray. What you want?”

“I’m Ted Davis. This is my son Steve. Your son Terry has Steve’s bike. We’re here to get it back.”

Ray nodded. “You call my boy thief?”

Terry rode up to the porch on Steve’s bike.

Ted pointed at the bike. “That’s the bike. A witness saw you put it into your Chevy pickup.”

Ray shook his head. “No. I found it in the park.”

“That’s theft. You can go to jail for that. Six months in the slammer.”

Ray pulled out a roll of currency. “Twenty-five, fifty, how much you want?”

“Not for sale.”

Ray came outside, grabbed Terry’s arm, slapped him across the face. Ted noticed bruises on the boy’s face and arms.

“Hey,” Ted said. “Don’t hit your kid.”

Ray glared at Ted. “He’s my boy. I do what I like.”

“I’ll report you to Child Protective Services.”

Ray released Terry. “Take your god damn bike.”

Steve loaded the bike into the pickup.

Driving home, Steve sat silently, looking straight ahead. After a while, he turned to his dad. “That was awesome, dad.” After a long silence, “I feel bad about what happened.”

“You’ll get over it.”

Henry Simpson is the author of novels, short stories, and technical works, e.g., Amazon fiction. He studied engineering and did graduate work in English and Psychology at UC Santa Barbara. He lives in Monterey, California.