I'm Lindsay Ferrier, a Nashville writer with a passion for family travel, exploring Tennessee, and raising kids without losing my mind in the process. This is where I share my discoveries, along with occasional deep thoughts, pop culture tangents and a sprinkling of snark. Want to get in touch? Use the CONTACT form at the top of the page.
August 19, 2005
I stumbled across a blog today detailing the daily physical and emotional abuse of a young wife by her husband and couldn’t tear my eyes away. I wanted to go over there with a pack of women and beat the shit out of the dude with vacuum cleaner parts. You might think I’m joking, but I’ve totally done it before…
The year was 1983. I was eight. I lived in a small town on a street that about two dozen kids called home and we were a tight-knit bunch. In the summers, I remember getting up before dawn to meet everyone at the park across the street from my house. We’d spend the day playing all manner of elaborate games and often didn’t return to our homes until dusk. We even had a gang called the Timberwood Tigers. Our youngest member was five and our two oldest were twelve.
Everything would have been perfect if it weren’t for Ricky Billings. Ricky was born to be a bully. Rail thin and red headed with braces and beady eyes, this 14-year-old terrorized us on a daily basis. Toys were broken in half and toddlers pushed to the ground. Bicycles and sleds left outside were stolen and resold for quick cash. Curse words we didn’t even recognize spilled out of his mouth every couple of seconds. And we couldn’t escape him.
“Let me play,” he’d say, emerging from the trees to interrupt our game of four-square. Grabbing the ball, he’d turn and throw it as hard as he could at the smallest kid, who’d immediately burst into tears. Then Ricky would disappear, before any adults had time to show up.
And the adults hated Ricky as much as we did, particularly when the bike they had just bought for Junior was stolen from their front yard. Ricky’s dad was the P.E. teacher at the local high school and he often fielded calls from a Timberwood Tiger’s mom or pop.
“Ricky slapped Skipper across the face this morning. He hasn’t stopped crying since.”
“I know, I know… I can’t find Ricky anywhere… I just don’t know what to do about him. He’s adopted, you know…”
It was clear Mr. Billings had no more control over Ricky than the rest of us. His perpetually worried expression and beaten-down bearing let us know that as bad as it was to have Ricky as a neighbor, having him as a kid was far worse.
But one day, everything changed.
I don’t exactly remember what Ricky had done that day, but you can bet it was bad. Real bad. So bad that the Timberwood Tigers salvaged all potential weaponry from an old metal vacuum cleaner that had been left on the side of the road and went looking for him. It was payback time.
Metal tubing and nozzles and heavy black cord in hand, our gang combed the area until someone spotted Ricky skulking up the street. It was a moment of high drama.
“There he is!” someone cried.
“Get him!”
“Rip him apart!”
“Beat him to a pulp!”
Ricky was no dummy. He took off running. But we had years of frustration and humiliation on our side. It wasn’t long before we cornered him as he attempted to hide behind a neighbor’s garden wall. Charging him from all sides, we screamed and hollered and began beating him with our vacuum cleaner parts. We were only 5 and 6 and 8 and 10 and 12 years old, but Ricky was outnumbered. Within seconds, he’d been knocked off his feet. Curled into a ball, he tried to fend off the blows. Soon, he was crying. Then he was bawling. Then he was begging us to stop.
We finally left him there, snivelling on the ground. Out of breath and exhausted, I knew the feeling of pure retribution that day for the first time in my life. I think we all felt a little guilty about beating him up, because I don’t remember ever really talking about it afterward, except when my brother, who had been gone that day, found out about it and told my mom. He was expecting me to get in trouble, but instead, mom looked at me with a hard gleam in her eye.
“A vacuum cleaner?” she said. “That must have really hurt.” I thought I detected the slightest smirk before she turned away.
Ricky Billings never turned up on our street again. I’ve wondered sometimes what ever happened to him. He’s probably in jail somewhere.
But back to my original point, this bastard of a blogger’s husband had better watch his back, because if I ever find out who he is and where he lives, I might have to call up some old friends… and it won’t be long before he finds out what it feels like to have a Dirt Devil extension wand shoved where the sun don’t shine…
This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.
>Bullies Beware- I’m with you girl- when some one is being picked on by a big bully it takes all i can manage to not just go Ape on them!!(So I better not read her blog- or I’ll be tempted to do a drive by)
>I am with you. let’s go. i think it’s the midwest
>Great memory. For everyone that has ever been bullied, we were right there with you pulling out the “sucker hose” and whacking it across that boy. Take THAT! Maybe that blogger will gain strength from the strong womens voices on a lot of these blogs we read and use that to fight her bully…which sadly is her husband.
>That woman’s blog is heart wrenching. She needs someone to swoop in and save her.
>Hi, I’m down here under the woefully inappropriate spam! I found you through Leh. You are absolutely right, although I think she may have married Ricky.It saddens me to no end why someone would put up with physical and verbal abuse like that. We all deserve better.
>Your tale reminds me of a story from my husband’s childhood. Apparently, the big drooly-lipped boy from next door threw one rock and pushed one girl too many. Jeff says he doesn’t remember much after tearing off his glasses and throwing them to the ground, except that when his mom came to break up the fight, the bully was curled up on the ground with some loose teeth. I know in my heart of hearts violence isn’t the answer, but it’s hard not to cheer for a deserved come-uppance!
>LOL! Reminds me of the scene in “A Christmas Story”- one of the best movies of all time!
>If you ever find the bastard, give me a call. I’m a ballbuster from way, way back and will be glad to help take care of this little twerp of a “man.”