SWEET SADIE

Robert Volkman was a surpassing dolt, even within a family rich in clods and oafs. Held back in school from somewhere in the Pleistocene Epoch, Bobo bore most of the brutish features of his comtemporaries, the neanderthals, except for their noble character and emotional sensitivity. To say that Bobo was subhuman was an insult to cavemen everywhere.

He'd earned his nickname because of his resemblance to Bobo the Gorilla, an ape of some popularity at the time. Unlike the zoo attraction though, our Bobo drew no audience and had no fans. If he had one trick, it was his ability to clear a schoolyard of all children just by lumbering onto the playground.

Kids slow enough to come within Bobo's reach would be mugged and brutalized, stripped of lunch money and dignity with feral efficiency. Fifth Grade at Woodrow Wilson School was the ideal hunting ground for a sociopathic predator like Bobo. And we, his prey, would scuttle about, diving for cover behind trash cans and seeking temporary sanctuary within the proximity of any available teacher.

Free of even the slenderest appetite for education, Bobo would prowl the halls during classes in search of victims. His usual quarry were those unlucky pupils whose misbehavior warranted deportation to the hallways and the peril of Bobo. My penchant for offering unsolicited observations and remarks in the middle of a lesson provoked laughter amongst my classmates, but just seemed to provoke my teacher, Miss Wright. Thus, I routinely spent large portions of every school day exiled to a desk just outside my classroom.

For the most part, this was fine with me. Liberated from droning lectures and tedious drills, I was free to chart my own course of study. Typically, I read; exploring all manner of intriguing mysteries contained within books conspicuously not on the approved reading list. Unfortunately, this academic independence afforded little refuge from Bobo, whose foraging circuit led right past my exposed and vulnerable position in the hall.

Usually a dime was sufficient tribute to persuade Bobo to go hulking away in quest of other students who'd rather pay a bribe than take a beating; but not always. Sometimes the sadistic Bobo preferred to indulge his malevolent nature by punishing his hapless victims. Bobo's repertoire of humiliating exercises was uninspired, but effective. More than a few kids, pushed to their limits, would surrender pride and break down in tears. This, of course, only encouraged the thick lout.

Still, bad as he was, Bobo couldn't be everywhere and school days were filled with lots of distractions; Sadie McCall, for one. She was a tall, inscrutable, black girl. At recess, playing games of tag and dodgeball, no one was better than Sadie. In sprints, Steve Higueret and I were the fastest runners in school...among the boys. But in an open race, Sadie would regularly blow past us with a kind of effortless grace. No one doubted but that we would someday watch her blur across the finish line and win an Olympic Gold Medal. In our small region of the world, Sadie's speed was renowned.

What made Sadie mysterious was her perpetual silence. Even in class, teachers could not pry so much as a, "PRESENT," out of her during roll call. She'd nod to register her attendance and shake her head when called upon to read. Occasionally, teachers would threaten Sadie with discipline so as to elicit some utterance from the girl. In reply, Sadie would smile and accept her penalty with quiet aplomb. Eventually teachers and students alike learned to yield to her taciturn disposition.

I officially met Sadie on a cold February afternoon. The wind outside was howling and threatening to burst through the school's metal doors. With the latches rattling in counterpoint to the banchee roar of frigid air blowing past the imperfect seals, I was at my usual station near locker 107 in the hallway. Already wearing a cardigan sweater over a flannel shirt, I was considering a plan to sneak into the cloakroom and retrieve my jacket. The prospect of inciting Miss Wright to further aggravation with me seemed a small risk when measured against nature's freezing fury. The problem was that the school's furnace fed the classrooms, but not the halls.

It was while plotting this covert mission that my concentration was sidetracked by a remarkable discovery. A desk, identical to my own, had materialized just two classrooms away, and occupying that desk was Sadie McCall. Now it was not surprising for me to entertain shared company along the corridor. At some point in time, almost every young scholar was banished to a seat on the polished floors outside class. But we had a collection of characters who customarily populated this drafty wing of the school. Joe Luhan, Teddy Shaddux and Billy Myers were some of the regulars. Joe had a unique talent. Endowed with an enormous nose and relatively small hands, Joe could bury his index finger up his nasal passage well past his second knuckle. This was a feat of astonishing proportions. His downfall, though, was his habit of forming the recovered booger into a ball and flicking it across the classroom. Even Joe's admirers objected to becoming a target of his mucus.

Bubble gum was Teddy's delinquency of choice. A connoisseur of the sweet and chewy confection, Teddy maintained that Bazooka was demonstrably superior to Dubble Bubble in forming large and sustainable bubbles. And Teddy would know. Inserting two packs of the hard gum into his mouth, Teddy would commence a thorough chomping of the chewy mass before attempting his first small air pocket. Gradually softening the sugary resin, Teddy would go on to create progressively larger trial balloons. After much snapping and blowing, he could produce a giant, pink bubble rivaling the size of his head. The real knack, however, was in neatly deflating the bubble without its exploding into a gooey mess all over his nose and face. At this, Teddy was a master. The irony was that Teddy would rarely be apprehended during his moment of effervescent triumph. Instead, his teacher would be alerted to Teddy's violation by the students' cheers of approval following his consummate performance. I suspect that the evidence of Teddy's singular accomplishment may still be found today; hardened memorials permanently attached to the bottom of his seat attesting forever to Teddy's virtuosity.

Billy's passport to the hallway was authorized on entirely different grounds. Billy liked girls. Fifth Grade culture, though, did not permit romantic liaisons. So Billy was compelled to manifest his interest in the opposite sex via complex and perverse schemes. Trudy Callis, for instance, might have recognized Billy's devotion to her charms when he smeared arts and crafts glue over her desk chair in anticipation of her arrival. Likewise, Stephanie Foster could have discerned Billy's affection for her when he poured half a bottle of India ink into her ponytail. Despite the sincerity of these affectionate overtures, Billy was invariably remanded to the hallway and Bobo's unofficial custody.

My voluble propensities did not stop at the classroom door. So, when I spotted Sadie sitting in the hall, I strode over to welcome her. In true form, Sadie smiled, but said nothing in response and turned back to a math text she was evidently studying. I greeted this as an open invitation to chat. Commenting on the blizzard-like conditions in the hallway, I suggested that we scoot our desks closer together; the better to talk and to draw warmth from one another. For her part, Sadie remained mute, staring intently at her book. Not at all discouraged, I prattled on, offering opinions and thoughts on a whole range of topics. Eventually, Sadie looked up from her studies and fixed me with a deliberate gaze. I must have said something of consequence because, as I looked at her, a tiny tear began to form at the corner of her right eye. Imagining that I had somehow offended her, I began apologizing profusely. In a completely uncharacteristic gesture, I even offered to resume my seat fifty feet away and to remain quiet for the duration of our shared sentence.

It is said that the world waits upon no one. But, God might just have made the smallest exception in this instance. Following a timeless hesitation, Sadie spoke... softly at first. There was a tremulous quality to her voice. I couldn't quite make out her first words, but fearing that she might abandon the effort if I asked her to repeat herself, I exercised all the patience I could muster and waited. A few seconds later, I was rewarded. She said, "Hi. My name is Sadie McCall." Momentarily dumbstruck myself, the best I could manage in reply was to stick out my hand. Sadie clasped it firmly. I had a new friend.

After that, we spoke often. Sadie had a slight stutter and she explained that she'd been teased mercilessly about it; to the point that she'd just ceased speaking altogether. I assured her that I had enough words for both of us. For some reason, Sadie found that amusing. Like friends everywhere, our conversations were a mixture of matters, trivial and serious. Exchanging confidences, I learned that Sadie had trouble reading. It seemed that her mind raced ahead of her ability to process the words on a page. So we practiced. I'd read out loud to her as she followed the printed text. Gradually, Sadie began reading along with me. Little by little, she gained confidence. I'd pause in my reading, briefly at first, then for longer periods of time, allowing Sadie to carry on by herself. In due course, she could deliver whole pages of material without any assistance. We discovered that Sadie had a lovely, velvet voice.

I took pride in introducing my new friend to the rest of the hallway regulars; Teddy, Joe and Billy. Naturally, Billy took a special interest in Sadie. And it was left to me to restrain Billy who, I suspected, would otherwise convey his fondness for Sadie in his inimitable fashion. I happened to know, where Sadie was concerned, that ink and glue were not aphrodisiacs. All in all, this was a happy time. But, as the saying goes, nothing lasts forever. With the same inevitability that insures ants will arrive to ruin a picnic, one morning the hall door opened and Bobo's bulk came trundling toward us.

By any fair reckoning, Bobo was a behemoth. The fact that he was also a thug and a bully was not lost on anyone. Even so, there was not much that I or any of my classmates could do about him. Bobo was just an ugly fact of life. I started digging around in my pockets for the requisite bribe. But all I could fish out of my pants was a comb, a note from my mother reminding me to clean my room before supper, a bent baseball card, a small piece of thread that I'd yanked from my belt loop and a half-sucked lifesaver. As he approached, I prepared myself for imminent injury.

Bobo was as predictable as fog in the Bay Area. He grabbed me roughly by my shirt collar and began reciting his usual litany of threats: he'd pound my face into mush, tear my throat out and feed it back to me, stick his foot so far up my alimentary canal that I'd choke on it, etc., etc.

Joe, bless his heart, offered to loan me a dime. But Bobo was in one of his particularly malicious moods. He was not inclined to accept a pay off...at least not for just a dime; a quarter maybe. Lacking a quarter, I silently petitioned God for deliverance and steeled myself for pain.

While I was calculating the odds of my going home with a fat lip, a black eye, a bloody nose or all three, God answered. He sent an angel. In a voice that contained not a single stutter or quaver, Sadie directed Bobo, in no uncertain terms, to take his dirty hands off me! I think Bobo was more stunned by that uncompromising command than if he'd been hit in the head with an original thought. Probably out of shock, Bobo released his grip on my shirt and turned to glower at Sadie. She promptly took advantage of Bobo's confusion and, stepping forward, placed her hand on my shoulder, easing me out of the big goon's reach. All the while Sadie kept her unflinching eyes locked on Bobo whose befuddlement was so profound one might almost have felt sorry for him...almost.

No one, absolutely no one ever challenged Bobo; certainly not a girl! And yet, there she was, staring him down. It must have been utterly beyond Bobo's simpleminded ability to grasp. Thoroughly nonplussed and with spittle shooting out of his mouth, an enraged Bobo began to advance on Sadie....

What happened next is captured forever in the minds of the hallway regulars. I have replayed the images a hundred thousand times in slow-motion...

Sputtering something incomprehensible, Bobo hauled back his fist preparatory to landing a pulverizing punch on Sadie's face. But before the big ox could even cock his arm, Sadie drove a smashing blow right into his kisser. In front of four transfixed witnesses, Bobo flew backwards against the lockers, collapsing in a heap.

I'd seen a few schoolyard fights; mostly pushing and shoving; a few desultory swipes at the air. But, outside of the professional boxing ring, I'd never seen anything like this. I think it was Teddy who recovered first. And it was he who spoke for everyone when he exclaimed: "HOLY SHIT!"

The explosion of tortured metal as Bobo collided with the lockers must have resounded throughout the entire wing because, within seconds, students and teachers began pouring out of the classrooms and spilling into the hall. The shocked crowd encircled the supine Bobo. For the briefest of moments there was total silence. Then the shouts went up, rapidly evolving into a collective cheer! The ogre was down and by all appearances...out.

It was ecstasy....

The pandemonium broke out when the onlookers realized that it was Sadie who had put an end to Bobo's reign of terror. The fact that she had done so with a single, mighty wallop was the stuff of myth and legend. Tales of her dragon slaying exploit grew only more extravagant during Bobo's subsequent absence. And when the humbled Troll did return, Sadie's fame was not diminished. Bobo's jaw, having been dislocated, was wired shut. It was beyond poetic. It was celestial justice and the newly emboldened student body took full advantage of Bobo's palpable disgrace. Taunted by second graders, the once intimidating and now helpless Bobo inspired only derision and laughter. A few weeks later, Bobo left forever.

Homes in that era were often outfitted with a backyard incinerator. The smell of burning refuse was not uncommon on a weekend afternoon. It seems that Bobo was playing with paint thinner near a burning incinerator. The resulting explosion generated a subsequent request for flowers to be sent to his family. Only two students from Woodrow Wilson attended Bobo's funeral service...Sadie McCall and me.

It's been nearly fifty years since Bobo's demise and I still reflect on the momentous events of that long ago time. Sadie's dad, it turns out, had been a light heavyweight contender. He'd also been a man ahead of his time. Believing that his daughter should be able to defend herself, he'd taught her how to throw a punch. In turn, Sadie taught me the basics of a hook, jab, uppercut and cross. I lost touch with Sadie in the years that followed. But I never forgot her quiet strength of character. A.J. Liebling, one of the great reporters of all time, described boxing as "The Sweet Science." He must have had Sadie McCall in mind.

Rick