STORIES
Jerry Bumpus
CHUMS
He didn't try to escape but turned his back on the school–
yard, that wide, rolling prairie with clumps of brush and, far off, the
brick maze where every morning we found things left the night before
by roving gangs, strange, horrible things which were beyond our
imaginations, though some of us, inspired by the strange needs of
innocence, kept them and speculated on their uses, their meanings,
with results that were invariably exciting, invariably terrifying.
The boys surrounded him, shoved him around, tripped him,
kicked him-he didn't lry to defend himself. He was incredibly thin, a
stick, with a pale narrow face and sharp nose. I don 't know why the
gang had suddenly noticed him, why they singled him out. It's
doubtful that
he
had done anything to provoke them, but the gangs
that roamed the schoolyard and who in later years roamed the streets,
occasionally relurning nights to attack the school building for old
time's sake and perform depravities in the brick maze-these gangs
didn't require provocation. Straightforwardly vicious, they existed in a
slate of obliviousness: everything they did, every gesture, had a bland
gracefulness, a stonelike superiority.
They got him down, took turns kicking him, then they stood him
up and a boy on each side socked him back and forth good and fast-so
fast his face blurred. The gang cheered, and I admit it outdid anything
I had ever seen them do. The way his head twanged back and forth,
faster and fasterl-it was fascinating.
The cheering distracted one of the boys punching him; he broke
lhe rhythm and the victim, propelled by the force of the last punch,
stumbled to the edge of the tight circle, somehow through them . . . and
farther. He was running
I
In disbelief we watched as he ran very slowly, barely lifting his
legs, leaning forward very far as if that might make him go faster, and
his running became a spectacle in itself. Stunned, the gang let him
reach the school building and turn the corner.
