What Goes Around Comes Around, Part l

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Until about a year ago our neighborhood was cursed with a couple of young men who left absolute havoc in their wake; everywhere they went and every chance they got. 

Although I like to think we live in what might be referred to as an upper middle-class neighborhood, “Albert” and “Jimmy” lived on the one street which was, unexplainably, none the better for wear; their house the worst of the lot. 

I understood that these two older teens were first cousins, and that, for whatever reason, they were being raised by an uncle, (if “raised” was the most appropriate term); since for lack of a better characterization, they were nothing less than heathen.

The boys were apparently enrolled in high school, but appropriated some of their spare time in wrecking random destruction on the rest of us, “unsuspecting fools;” (as they might have referred their neighbors).

I had heard tales of the boys’ propensity for violence; not, to be sure, on persons, but on property. However, it was not until I had a brush with one of their dogs that I was provided an entre into the mindset of these kids.

As I peddled past Albert’s and Jimmy’s house one day, a small bulldog came rushing out of the front yard. At this point I made the ill-advised decision to attempt to outrun him. 

(Never. I repeat, never try to outrun, or for that matter, out-peddle a dog. It ain’t gonna happen).

Ultimately, the dog drew alongside me, and then it was a couple of feet ahead of my bike. I realize now that he was just doing what dogs do, and that he possessed no particular agenda. Nonetheless, I made a momentary, but fateful decision to 

… ram my bicycle into the poor creature.

Albert Einstein, (whom one of my high school teachers once observed walking to his office) theorized that, “For every action, there is an equal, but opposite reaction.”

Well, Dr. Einstein, I can assure you your theory is no theory at all. Your thesis is, in fact, as “right as rain.”

Since the moment I slammed into the animal I found myself sailing over the top of my handlebars, and I summarily “hit the deck.” And for all my valiant efforts, breaking my left arm. To this day, I’m unaware of the fate of that little canine. I surmise he toddled off, as unscathed as ever, but that he may have later been picked up by animal control. 

At any rate, I’m convinced that “the boys” got wind of my little escapade, what I did, who I was, and where I lived, and made a pact to do “something about it.”

And on such and such a day my wife and I were at home “going about our own business” when we heard what seemed to be the sound of breaking glass. I rushed out of the side door, and walked quickly towards my old Nissan Sentra. And as I rounded the front bumper, I noticed the driver’s window was blown out, and lay in tiny pieces along the length of the car. And then I noticed a fist-sized rock lying amongst the broken glass. My memory of that day is a bit fuzzy now, whether or not I witnessed the retreating Albert and Jimmy, but I had no doubt who had accomplished the deed. Suddenly, one of the nearby neighbor ladies strode down the street towards me, and left no doubt about the identity of my automobile’s abuser.

“Dr. McDonald, I saw one of those boys throw the rock. It was definitely Jimmy.”

Well, I thanked her, and surmised she would ultimately be called upon as a witness to the crime. Afterwards, and rather than confront the boys or their uncle tete a tete, I called the Polk County Sheriff’s Department, and requested the assistance of a deputy. When he arrived I reported the episode, and provided him the name of “Mrs. Evans.” After departing my presence, “Deputy Mason” drove his cruiser to the end of the street, and knocked on my neighbor’s door.

Ultimately, nothing “came of” my report. I later learned that Mrs. Evans had, apparently, been intimidated, and claimed she wasn’t sure who the boys were; that she could only guess Jimmy and Albert had been involved.

Fast forward.

As I was peddling my bicycle at 9 or 10pm one night, (or was it 3 or 4am) I saw “the boys” intersecting my pathway. One of those goofballs decided to “play chicken,” and set about emulating his poor dog, (re. my earlier illustration).


By William McDonald, PhD. Excerpt from "(Mc)Donald's Daily Diary" Vol. 6. Vol.'s 1-15, Copyright 2015

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