I was Chased out of Town
CONFESSIONS OF AN EGGHEAD.
My mother, eager to get me off her hands, convinced the authorities my January 1st birthday not prevent me from starting school a year earlier. Despite being the youngest, I was a good student — but sports were a challenge. Not only was I the smallest, but the skinniest. I managed to gain some attention by sucking in my stomach, revealing every rib in my body. “Look at Hancox! Look at The Skeleton!” That was one of my nicknames. The other was egghead.
It was tough being a schoolboy in Moose Jaw, Saskatchewan during the 1950s — especially if you were artsy like me, or Bob Brownridge, my friend across the street on Grafton Ave. We took piano lessons while other kids played hockey. Though it was a prairie city of 35,000 people, Moose Jaw was basically still a frontier town — and if you were born male, you’d better learn to fight. The educational phenomenon known as the ‘Cult of Ignorance’ was at its height, and judging from the big kids waiting to chase us after school, poindexters like Bob and I were fair game. If you were a skeleton egghead, you learned to run. My Uncle, Geoff Lockwood, played soccer for Manchester, then joined the Navy in WW 2. I didn’t inherit his talent, but seemed to get his legs and could make fast getaways. In touch football, my skinniness also meant I could turn sideways and elude almost anyone.
The chase home after school was sometimes a bike-a-thon up and down the back alleys — the secret network all kids knew — and Bob and I hid or otherwise escaped before they got us. That’s because we’d usually have a head start; Doug Davies, one of the toughest kids at King George, would tip us off. He had failed a year and was the biggest in our grade five. Being smart alecks ourselves, we were a receptive audience for his classroom antics, and he rewarded us by declaring himself our protector.
Truth is, we often asked for trouble, and Doug Davies wasn’t always around. St. Louis College was at the corner of Grafton, and in the morning Bob and I would pass by the older boys on the way to school. It was winter, and there was some frozen dog doo-doo on the sidewalk. Inspired by the shit-disturbing notoriety of Doug Davies, I threw it at a College student when he passed. The fecal projectile lodged in his coat, and this time I couldn’t get away. The pummelling didn’t last long, because my fetal position on the sidewalk was so tight, and my parka so dense, his kicks had no effect.
One of the tough kids who wanted to beat me up was Ross Lasby. I said something to piss him off, and the chase was on. I made it home safely — or so I thought. My grandmother from England was looking after us while Mom and Dad were away. Nana Lockwood didn’t know my friends from my enemies, so when Ross Lasby knocked on the side door she let him in. “He’s down the basement,” she helpfully announced. There was a scuffle, something smashed on the floor, and I threw water at him. This enraged Lasby even more. He chased me back up the basement stairs, and — to my Nana’s horror — out of my own house.
Up Grafton we ran, then turned right, heading east along Saskatchewan Avenue. When we got to Main Street, we turned in the direction of the Trans-Canada bypass. My nemesis was still behind, locked on like a laser, intent on killing me. Past the Exhibition Grounds the chase went, down Main and under the CNR trestle. By the time we reached the golf course, Lasby was slowing, yet still trudging on like a marathon runner. Because I kept gaining on him, and he finally gave up his manic pursuit. I looked around. Ross Lasby had chased me right out of town.
I had to make sure the coast was clear before returning, and by then my grandmother was beside herself. When my parents got home Nana told Mom about the ruckus, and she sentenced my father to dispatch me with his belt. But his heart wasn’t in it, and after a few whacks Dad stopped the show. It eventually took old Mr. Heaps, the Principal himself, to teach me with the dreaded strap — in the hallway, where the other kids could hear it. I’d rather have held my hands in a wasp’s nest. There was no running this time.
© May 2022 by Richard Hancox
