More Bloody Words

Tony wasn’t the biggest boy in class but he soon realized that winning was not about size but action and intent – if you went in first, with enough fury and gestures and with absolute certainty of winning, the fight was yours. And so a fighter he became, with every success proving (yet again) his was the only way.

Peter, a bigger and stronger boy, had a different inclination and tended to win his fights by a hundred yards. Aggression and violence repelled his very being, his stomach churned and his legs took him from the arena before he knew what was happening.

The story of how these two boys came to understand each other’s approach is interesting but that they swapped roles for a time is more intriguing. It probably started when they had to recite poetry in class and Peter chose his favourite poet, Spinafex John, a gentle and philosophic man. One phrase stuck in Tony’s mind and annoyed the hell out of him:

In the quiet waiting-room of your mind,
There’s none to see but your own gentle self.

Why it annoyed him so much he couldn’t tell but, somehow, that type of crap got right up his nose. At lunch time he confronted Peter with it: “What the hell is that sort of stuff supposed to mean? All those words telling you nothing about nuttin’.”

“Well … I liked them,” stammered Peter, anticipating a blow from some direction.

“I didn’t. They’re just a pile of horse-shit, saying nothing,” said Tony, plumping himself down beside Peter. “Why don’t they write about real things? You know, stories about things that really happen.”

“The Waiting Room is a kind of story, a story about what happens in our mind,” said Peter, surreptitiously packing up his lunch and looking for an exit path. “It’s a story that belongs to everyone if you want to look into the depth of the words.”

“‘Depth of the words’, what crap!” asserted Tony. “You don’t ‘look into words’. They tell you things, things that are more bloody useful than your rubbish.”

“Yes, I suppose some words do tell a story”, mused Peter. “But some don’t – they simply open your mind for you to discover your own story.” He wasn’t quite sure what he was saying, this 14 year old boy, but his own words felt comforting. And right, somehow.

“And what the hell’s that all supposed to mean?” demanded Tony. “All this ‘discover your own story’ stuff? You’re as bad as your poet – pretty phrases telling you bull-shit nothing!”

“I guess if you can’t feel the words, if they have no meaning for you, then they don’t,” said Peter, feeling strangely more relaxed as Tony’s tension grew. “If they mean nothing, then let them go – they aren’t for you.”

“What do you mean ‘let them go’! I can’t get the silly buggers out of my head now!” blurted Tony. “Once they’re in there, they fly round like a bloody egg-beater. What’d you have to say them for anyway?”

“Because I liked them,” explained Peter. “And I thought some others might like them too.”

“Well I didn’t and they’re annoying the hell out of me!” said Tony, beating a fist into a palm.

“Well let them go then.”

“I bloody can’t,” exploded Tony, leaping up. “You bloody stuck them in here and you can bloody well get them out!” Peter was stunned to silence and others quickly moved away. This aggressive stance could only mean one outcome. “Well, what are you going to do?” Tony demanded.

“I … well … I’m not sure what I can do,” pleaded Peter. “I don’t know how to take words out of people’s heads.”

“You’d better think of something pretty quick or you’re for it!”

“Perhaps we could …”

“Not we. You!” retorted Tony. “You started this.”

A moment of silence followed, a moment Peter felt was large enough to be filled by his entire life but which may not have been longer than the tick of a clock. In this desperate moment, a knowing filled his entire being and he instantly knew there was an alternative to running, an alternative he hadn’t conceived of before.

“Tony,” he said with a new voice that came from his belly, “I thought you were a fighter. And now you want me to do your fighting for you.” Tony’s upraised hand froze in mid-air and his silence was almost audible.

“You’ll fight anyone, big or small, yet you can’t face a battle with a few little words.”

“What … what are you saying?” asked Tony meekly.

“I’m not sure,” said Peter. “I’m just puzzled how quickly your fighting spirit departs. This poetry must seem to be an immense opponent. Perhaps we can tackle this together.”

“I don’t need any bloody help!”

“Great!” said Peter. “Your fighting spirit is back!”

“But how do I get them out of my head?” asked Tony, slumping down on the seat beside Peter.

“I’m not quite sure,” said Peter. “Perhaps you first need to ask yourself if the words are really for you in some way. If they weren’t they mightn’t bug you so much.”

“Maybe,” mumbled Tony, after a moment’s silence.

“Maybe,” repeated Peter. “Is that a ‘yes’ or a ‘no’?”

“Maybe, maybe not.”

“Let’s just pretend that your maybe is a ‘yes’. If so, why would that be?” asked Peter.

“All this silly ‘peace of mind’ stuff,” said Tony, quietly. “It’s not real … it’s not possible.”

“Spinafex John had it, I have it sometimes, so why not you?”

“You can’t, you just can’t be that happy. Everyone’s worried about something,” said Tony.

“Yes, I get worried about things, but things don’t worry me,” said Peter, a little mystified by his own words.

“More stupid words meaning nuttin’,” said Tony, exasperated. “Can’t you say something helpful?”

Not quite understanding the meaning of his previous words, Peter was, momentarily, stumped for a reply. Then, out of the mist of his knowingness, a string of words appeared: “Any worry I feel comes from inside, not from things or people outside. It’s quite nice, really, for I can control inside things – outside things I can’t.”

“But I only get angry when other people are stupid,” explained Tony.

“Maybe, maybe not.”

“What are you saying?” asked Tony, feeling something stirring inside.

“Maybe your anger is really like mine and comes from inside,” suggested Peter. “Maybe you’re already angry inside and you only feel it when someone else pulls it out …”

Tony was stunned to silence.

Peter wasn’t sure what to say next but wanted to put Tony at ease: “If you know you can start your own anger or worry then you also know you can stop it. Other people are really helpful in showing us what’s really inside and I thank them for that.”

There was a moment’s silence while Tony felt a new sensation slowly rising up inside – a sensation he could only describe as peace. Tears tried to creep out and he squeezed his eyes tightly shut. The tears stayed inside but from the darkness appeared a small yellow light which slowly grew and grew, till most of the blackness was gone. He hadn’t seen this yellow before but it looked quite nice – sort of like the peace feeling he had in his tummy. He kept his eyes closed for a moment longer, while the pressure from his tears died down, and then opened them with a small feeling of regret.

“It’s actually quite nice in there,” he said, a little embarrassed at the words he uttered.

“The light’s always in there,” said Peter. “We just choose to black it out for some reason.”

“Probably fear,” said Tony quickly, surprising himself with his words. Then he wondered how Peter knew what he had seen.

“Probably because it’s what I’ve seen so many times.”

Just then the bell rang and, with a sigh of relief, Tony leapt up to go – he’d had about as much of this soft stuff as he could stand. He did wait, though, for Peter to get up. As they walked back to the classroom, Tony realized his arm was around Peter’s shoulders. He said “thanks”, as a tear escaped from his eye.

“So what are you doing after school?” asked Tony.

“Probably walking home with you,” said Peter, with a smile.

More tears leaked from Tony’s eyes as they walked into the classroom. Everyone wondered how soft Peter could bring the school bully to tears and he became a bit of a hero. For the first time in his life, Tony couldn’t give a damn. And it felt good.

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