Tree Hugger

Some kids spend warm afternoons in the safe confines of a tree house. For one afternoon, at the tender age of nine, I had the luxury of spending mine tied to a tree.

Following a half-day of school, I was walking home, eagerly anticipating my mom’s yummy egg salad when I approached Teddy Thompson’s house. Teddy Thompson was one of the few jocks who—on most days—was actually nice to me. Every now and then, he would invite me over to play. However, the moment someone else spotted us together, he conveniently turned against me. So our friendship was, for lack of a better description, closeted.

When I passed by his house, he stepped out onto the porch and eagerly invited me in. This presented an instant dilemma. Should I delay egg salad sandwich gratification in exchange for a rare opportunity for social interaction? Or stick to my game plan? I decided egg salad could wait. Who knew when I would next be invited to someone’s house to play?

Especially a cool person.

When I arrived at Teddy’s house, three other classmates were already there. And two of those three classmates were among my biggest tormenters: Matt Belcher and David Murphy. And with no sign of parental supervision, the odds were not on my side. But there was no turning back. If I walked out the door, I would probably be subject to more ridicule than if I stayed. Then again, most of it would be behind my back, so maybe that wouldn’t have been such a bad thing. I ultimately decided to stay put and prove I could hang with the in-crowd. Besides, they had pizza.

But first things first. I had to call home and ask for permission.

“May I use your phone?” I asked Teddy.

“Sure.”

“Why, so you can call your mommy?” taunted Belcher.

“Yes. I need to call my mom.”

Teddy showed me to the kitchen phone. As I dialed, I overheard their conversation.

“Why did you invite him over?” said Murphy.

“He’s not that bad,” said Teddy.

“He’s a dork. And the biggest mama’s boy,” said Murphy, really fixated on this whole mommy thing. Who did he think I was, Norman Bates?

“Don’t worry. I got a plan…” I heard Teddy say, before my mom finally picked up.

“Hi. Can I play at Teddy Thompson’s?”

“Teddy Thompson? Sure!” my mom said, probably trying to hide her excitement about the fact that her son was actually invited to someone’s house.

“Okay, thanks. Love you.”

“I love you, too.”

Laughter poured out of the other room as I hung up. When I entered the room, I was greeted with a taunting echo of my own voice. “I love you, Mommy.”

“Guys, stop,” Teddy pleaded.

“Is there any pizza left?” I asked.

“Nope!” boasted Belcher, shoving the last piece into his mouth, proceeding to live up to his name by letting out a loud belch.

I pretended not to let it bother me, despite being so darn hungry. There would always be egg salad.

We headed out into the backyard to play Wiffle ball, or so I was lead to believe. I knew something was amiss when I noticed the rope. My next clue was when my tormentors began to push me toward the giant oak tree looming in the center of the yard.

I did not resist. I knew better.

Teddy stood by, doing nothing to stop it. Clearly, this was the “plan” he was referring to.

Did he lure me to his house with this plan in mind all along? Or was he simply caving into peer pressure? I would have plenty of time to ask myself these questions later. Belcher and Murphy held me in place with my back against the trunk as Teddy grabbed the rope and proceeded to wrap it around my body.

“If you scream, we will kill you,” Belcher threatened.

Meanwhile, Teddy tightened the rope around my ankles. When they were done, Murphy reiterated Belcher’s earlier claim. “If you tell anyone,” Murphy stared me in the eye, “we will hunt you down. And kill you.”

I never told anyone until years later when it was too late to file charges.

Teddy and his merry band of tormentors began to dance around the tree, patting their hands on their mouths in a grotesque imitation of Native Americans.

As I struggled to free myself, the rope began to loosen, but Murphy noticed and this time, tied the rope so tight it dug into my stomach.

But then salvation came in the form of an elderly neighborhood grouch.

“Stop hitting your damn balls into my yard!”

The neighbor proceeded to toss a wiffle ball back over the fence. She either didn’t notice that a boy was tied to a tree, or assumed that boys were just being boys. Or, simply didn’t give a shit. All that mattered was that I’d lost a perfect shot at liberation.

My captors proceeded to play ball as I helplessly watched from my vantage point in centerfield. A steady barrage of wiffle balls were aimed in my general direction. And my limbs were helpless to deflect them.

Fortunately, only two or three actually hit me. One was a welt-producing shot to the center of my forehead. It took every ounce of strength not to scream for mercy, fearful of retribution.

When they had their fill of playing ball, Murphy approached me and put a bunch of dry leaves under my feet. Belcher removed a pack of matches from his pocket and attempted to set the leaves on fire, which I managed to stomp out. In retaliation, Murphy attempted to set the rope on fire, but I blew out the match.

Twice.

The third time, Belcher put his hand over my mouth to allow Murphy to complete his task. Fortunately, the rope wouldn’t ignite and even more fortunately, lighter fluid never crossed his mind. After several attempts, he gave up, with a half-hearted plea from Teddy to “cut it out.” Belcher and Murphy listened, which prompted Teddy to suggest that they head off to a park “to hit some real baseballs.” I wasn’t included in this plan. The plan for me was to stay tied to the tree, which was certainly better than being set on fire.

A silver lining, as it were.

Left behind, all I could think about was freedom. And egg salad sandwiches. But would I ever see home again? Would I be left here for dead? Would crows peck out my eyeballs? Is this how Jesus felt? What would Jesus do?

To this day, I’m claustrophobic and hate being confined. There is no doubt in my mind that this is where it started.

All I needed was for somebody to pass by and freedom would be mine.

But the only thing that passed by was time.

The bells of a neighborhood church let me keep track of time in 15 minute increments. After an hour, the afternoon sun began to beat down on my face, which caused me to sweat, attracting mosquitoes to my face like moths to light.

And unbeknownst to me, my greatest humiliation was literally just around the corner.

It started out promising enough. Approaching voices. I could taste freedom on my lips. And freedom tasted like egg salad sandwiches.

But freedom has a price. And that price was in the form of the three most popular girls from my class, including Nicki Smith, my biggest crush. Why couldn’t it have been an adult neighbor walking a dog?

As much as I yearned for freedom, I prayed Nicki wouldn’t see me. I would rather spend the night tied to that tree than be seen there by the girl of my dreams. I knew full well that any chance I had with her would be obliterated if she saw me like this. Then again, perhaps she would have felt so bad for me, she would have fell for me on sympathy alone.

Who was I kidding? I wanted to disappear.

If there was one thing I had learned by the tender age of nine, it was that fate could be cruel. And that this was just one of many embarrassments I would endure throughout my lifetime regarding the opposite sex.

As the girls drew nearer, I held my breath. At first, nobody seemed to notice, but as soon as one of the girls pointed a finger, I knew it was over.

“Look!” one of Nicki’s friends said, laughing hysterically.

I bowed my head—the only thing I could do to conceal my identity, even though it was probably already too late. Maybe if I played it cool, they would just assume I wanted to be affixed to the tree.

They continued to laugh and they continued walking, leaving me hanging, even though for one fleeting moment, I am almost certain I saw pity on Nicki’s face. In all likelihood, it was probably a hallucination caused by the sweltering heat and vision obscured by mosquitoes, which were now nesting in my eyebrows.

Despite a missed opportunity for rescue, I tried not to panic. After all, it could have been worse, like that scene in Titanic when they see a ship out in the distance, which doesn’t see them in return. Eventually, either my mother would come looking for me, or Teddy’s parents would come home. Right? My captors would probably set me free before it got to that point to avoid getting in trouble.

The church bells chimed two. Then three. Sometime between three and four, my captors returned. Teddy approached me with a knife. His friends trailed behind. My initial thought was that I was about to be gutted like a fish. But instead, Teddy took the knife and cut the rope, despite pleas from his friends to leave me there even longer.

I was a free man.

“If you tell anybody about this, next time, we will kill you,” Belcher warned one last time. I took heed. Part of me still fears that writing this will somehow lead to retaliation.

I ran home as fast as I could, just in case my tormentors changed their mind. My mother greeted me at the door and suddenly, all was right with the world. I promptly fed my pet Sea-Monkeys, comforted by the thought that—unlike my classmates—they would never let me down.

“Did you have fun?” my mother asked.

I considered telling her the truth, but chose life instead.

“Yeah. Lots,” I said, making every effort to sound convincing.

“So what did you do?” my mother asked, probably relieved that her son was actually invited over to someone’s house to play.

“Played wiffle ball.”

“Did you eat?”

“There was pizza.”

“Are you hungry?”

“Yeah, a little.”

I was starving.

She promptly removed the egg salad out of the fridge, which almost made everything I had endured worth it.

Even now, I wonder if Teddy Thompson ever regretted his role in what transpired that day. Maybe someday, I’ll ask him. But deep down, I already know the answer. Bullies don’t regret what they do. Most of the time, they don’t even remember.

But I’ll never forget.