Artecca swaggered into Ray's Pizza Parlor carrying his reputation on the same sturdy shoulders he had a large chip on. The crowd of young people parted for Artecca. Though he was short, he was mean, very quick, and at 18, fearless.

When Artecca got into fights, he wore heavy-duty black leather motorcycle boots. He beat the hell out of guys twice his size by kicking them in the groin, and then stomping on their heads when they fell down in agony. We called it 'doing a Fred Astaire on his skull' after the actor who danced and sang in movie musicals in the 1940's and 50's.

Artecca sided up to the front counter of Ray's, where Jimmy Plat and I were standing. Artecca elbowed Jimmy Plat over. Jimmy bumped into my arm, causing me to spill Coke on my new white shirt. Jimmy moved away quickly, leaving me face-to-face with Artecca. Angry, and without thinking, I pushed Artecca into the wall.

"Hey, take it outside!" Ray put down the pizza he was making, and picked up the baseball bat he kept under the cash register.

"Yeah, let's go outside!" Artecca walked out and waited for me in the parking lot.

I remained at the counter, cooling down, fear replacing anger. My friends emptied out of Ray's and formed an open circle around Artecca.

"Well, aren't you going out there?" Ray put down the bat.

"Yeah." I moved slowly out the door.

I walked into circle and then it closed up around us. I assumed a boxing stance a few feet from Artecca, and waited. He studied me, and then my friends.

"I ain't fighting you tonight, not with all your friends here." Artecca put down his hands

"Okay," I agreed

A reprieve.

"We'll meet back here Friday night. Eight o'clock."

"Okay," I agreed again.

It was Tuesday. I could pack a lifetime into my three remaining days on this earth.

Artecca shoved Jimmy Plat aside and left the circle. I watched him walk away, noticing for the first time he was wearing sneakers, and not his legendary boots.

I pounded the punching bag in our garage during the three agonizing days that followed, shadowboxing with a short, mean guy wearing motorcycle boots.

Friday night came soon enough. My friends arrived early and sat around Ray's parking lot drinking illegally bought beer. Inside, Ray was selling pizza as fast as he could make it. The consensus was my head was destined to be a dance platform.

At eight o'clock, Artecca did not appear. I jumped around, shaking loose my muscles while I waited.

Eight thirty, still no Artecca. I sparred with Jimmy Platt, my fear replaced by adrenaline. I was ready. Let me at him.

Nine o'clock, and still Artecca did not show. My friends declared a forfeit and dubbed me 'the guy who made Artecca punk out'. It was serious status for a 17 year old.

Two weeks later, on another Friday night, I went to a school dance. My parents made me bring along my brother, Keith, who was 2 years younger than me. It was a pain having him around, and I ignored him after we arrived, dancing and having a good time with my friends.

Then Baumann showed up. Baumann was 19, six-foot tall, heavy-muscled, and beligerent. He never lost a fight, and he got into many. He walked up and tapped my shoulder.

"Someone wants to see you outside," he said.

I nodded and followed. My friends got in line behind us. Baumann stopped, went to the front of the line, and slapped the first guy, Ritchie.

"Get lost," Baumann warned.

Ritchie mumbled an apology, turned around, and went back to the dance. The rest of my friends followed him. My brother remained behind me.

"What do you want?" Baumann grabbed my kid brother's shirt.

"I'm his brother," Keith stated.

Baumann shrugged, allowing the one small spectator.

I was not surprised to see Artecca waiting outside in the shadows wearing his legendary heavy-duty black-leather motorcycle boots. Baumann was Artecca's best friend.

I got into a fighting stance and waited. Artecca circled around, studying me, keeping a safe distance. I pivoted, watching his every move. Artecca suddenly lunged forward, and threw a punch to my head. I reached up to block the punch.

It was a feint! While I was distracted protecting myself up high, Artecca dove for my legs, tackling me around the knees. Surprised, and caught off-balance, I fell backward, with Artecca on top of me. I heard something crack in my ankle as I went down.

I was four inches taller, and 25 pounds heavier than Artecca. Never did I think he would try to wrestle with me. I assumed his best tactic was to use his speed, dance around, inflict damage, and then scoot away. Instead, he did the unthinkable, and got lucky.

I muscled Artecca off of me and reversed positions. Now I was on top, using my weight to pin him to the ground. I held his arms down with my hands.

"Let's call it a draw." I offered as my ankle came alive with pain.

"No way!" Artecca countered. "Let me up and let's go again."

"I can't let you up. I think I broke my ankle."

"Then I win!" Artecca surmised.

"No way!" I countered.

We were dead-locked. I was sitting on top of Artecca, holding his arms down, offering a draw while Artecca was lying on the ground, refusing the draw, demanding we stand up again, which I declined.

Baumann got bored and began to pull me off Artecca. My kid bother jumped on Baumann, and Baumann with a laugh, swatted him away.

"What's the story here, Artecca?" I asked. "Are you fighting me, or are you and Baumann fighting me, two against one?"

"Leave us alone, Baumann!" Artecca ordered Baumann. Artecca was not without honor.

"Yeah, Baumann!" I agreed.

"I want to kick his ass by myself!" Artecca added.

"Yeah! Let him kick my ass by himself!" I agreed again.

Baumann complied and Artecca and I remained deadlocked. Finally, I put my knees on Artecca's arms, freeing up my hands, and then I took my thumbs and put them in Artecca's eyes. I felt his eyeballs move out of their sockets.

"Is it a draw?" I offered once again.

"YEAH, IT'S A DRAW!" Artecca screamed out in pain.

"Did you hear that Baumann?" I asked. Baumann nodded.

My brother helped me stand up because I could not put any weight on my right ankle. I put my arm around his shoulder and we hobbled away. We walked the seven blocks home together, my arm around by kid brother, hopping on my one good leg.

The next day at the doctor's office the x-rays showed I tore the ligaments in my ankle, but there was no broken bone. A broken ankle would have been better. The bone could be reset, a hard cast put on, and I could amble around on crutches. With torn ligaments, the only treatment was spending the next six weeks at home, staying off my swollen and painful ankle as much as possible, while I slowly healed.

Jimmy Plat visited me during the first week of prison time at my house. By the end of the second week, he stopped coming by. The rest of my friends I didn't see at all.

Since I could not attend classes for an extended period of time, I needed to be tutored. Every day after school, for two hours, one of my teachers came over and helped me with the week's classwork. This proved interesting, because I got to see my teachers as real people when they were in my house, on my territory.

My English teacher was a prissy, affected woman whom even my parents disliked being around. My science teacher was a sad alcoholic who smelled of cheap whiskey. My math teacher, who looked like a vampire, copped this phony act and pretended to be concerned about me in front of my parents.

My Spanish teacher, Mr. Giordano, was different. He was younger than the others, about 25, and once out of the classroom, he joked around and acted like a human being. I looked forward to his tutoring sessions, and the nights when he stayed afterwards and had coffee and doughnuts with us. After the fourth week, he got out his dance shoes.

"What a waste!" he mumbled to himself as we closed our Spanish books.

"Excuse me?" I asked.

"I was just thinking, if you spent more time on schoolwork, you'd be one of my smartest students."

"Yeah, sure, Mr. G. Lecture time is over." I wasn't interested.

"Why do you hang around with the people you do, Zalman? They're troublemakers, going nowhere with their lives."

"Yeah, but they're more fun to be with than the geeks in your class, Mr. G."

He looked at me and asked, softly:

"When was the last time you saw these charming friends of yours, Zalman?"

"Can we get off of this, huh, Mr. G?"

Two weeks later, I was back at school, using a cane to get around. I didn't go out on school nights because Ray's Pizza Parlor was too far to walk on my still damaged, but slowly healing ankle. I didn't see my friends, either, other than to nod to each other in the halls. Having no better alternative, I began doing my homework. It was remarkable how much better I did in school when I did my homework.

During the last week of school, there was an awards assembly. I sat in the back of the auditorium with my friends. Our high school principal was the announcer.

"The science award goes to Elliot Lester, who won second prize in the National Westinghouse Science Fair competition," the Principal announced.

The audience clapped while we catcalled, "Nerd!" from the back. Elliot Lester was red-faced when he went up and got his trophy, much to our pleasure.

"The math award goes to Betty Daniels, who scored a perfect 800 on her Math S.A.T.'s".

"No life!" we called out. Betty turned around and scowled, as we laughed, during her walk to the podium. She got her trophy and left the stage.

"And the Spanish award goes to-"

The Principal looked down and did a double-take.

I will always remember the applause, and my shock, when my name was called out. My friends were ecstatic that "one of us" got honored. I looked over at Mr. Giordano, and he smiled.

Five years later, on yet another Friday night, I drove home to visit my family. When I pulled into the local gas station, a short stocky guy walked over to the pump. He wore blue coveralls with a Exxon patch on the chest pocket. His name was embroidered above it.

"Fill it up?" he asked.

I rolled down the window. "Yeah."

He turned on the pump, grabbed the nozzle, and removed my gas cap. He turned to me. "What are you doing with yourself, Velvel?"

I got out of the car. "Nothin' much. Just finished college."

"You working?"

"I start a new job on Monday."

"What're you doin'?"

"Working on computers."

"Yeah, I heard you was smart. Didn't you win some kind of award or something in high school?" When the pump clicked off, he withdrew the nozzle, and replaced the gas cap. "You want me to check under the hood?" he asked. "I got to ask. The boss gets mad unless I ask everyone."

"Nah, it's all right."

"Well, take it easy. Good luck in the new job, Velvel."

He offered his hand.

"Good luck to you, Artecca."

I shook his hand. There was no animosity.

I stopped several times over the next few years at that gas station. I looked forward to seeing Artecca. His meanness was gone, replaced by a hard-working, helpful attitude. He told me of his dream of owning his own gas station one day. He worked 60 hours a week, lived on the straight 40, and put the 20 hours of overtime in the bank.

One day I pulled in and was told Artecca no longer worked there. The attendant looked puzzled when I put both thumbs up and said, "All right!" out loud.

Twenty-five years later and the wheel has turned. My son is 17, the same age I was, back in the days of hanging out at Ray's Pizza Parlor.

"Where're you going?" I asked on a Friday night, noticing he was dressed up.

"The school dance." He was annoyed at the intrusion into his private life.

"Sorry, not tonight."

"Dad!"

"There was trouble the last time, and the police were called."

"But that was then, and this is now. Everyone is going, Dad!"

"You're not."

"Why not?"

"Because I want things to cool down before you go back there."

"Things have cooled down. Nothing bad will happen this time."

"I know nothing bad will happen to you because you won't be there."

He responded by walking away and slamming his bedroom door.

I waited, and then I knocked. Permission was not granted to enter. After the appropriate amount of time, I entered, uninvited.

"I realize your friends are very important to you now," I started out.

He was motionless on his bed, staring up at the ceiling.

"In 25 years, these friends will only be a pleasant memory," I continued.

Still no movement.

"I'm not letting you go because I love you and I don't want you getting hurt."

I might as well have been talking in tongues.

"It's harder to say no than to say yes."

Now it was Cliche Time, too.

"Did I ever tell you about the time Artecca tried to do a Fred Astaire on my skull at one of our school dances?"

Life stirred!

"He tried to do what?" my son asked.

He tried to hide it, but I know he forgave me for being his father ... after he heard this story.

THE END