The Tie: A Short Story About Bullying and Power

The Fixation Begins

There was no question about it: he had to have that tie. He justified it to himself by saying that of course he deserved it, since he was the biggest, most powerful, and most important kid in school — and perhaps even in the whole town, or maybe the whole state, probably even the whole world, what the heck. But the reality was simply that he felt special by being able to take things from others.

He certainly didn't feel special at home. It was just he and his mom at home, and an older sister who sometimes dropped by but not often. He didn't plan to be at home himself much longer. But to get away he needed money, or at least a car. And in the meantime, he needed that tie — that tie, because it shone so brightly and looked so blue and sparkly. He couldn't believe that this twerp — this nobody kid — would have the nerve to wear such a tie to school. This kid was practically begging to have it taken off him by someone more special, by him of course. Such was his thinking as he stood in the hallway between bells, leaning against his locker, waiting for the twerp to come out from class. Then he was just going to get in his way, demand the tie, put it on, and parade around school like the grand master he knew he was. Everyone would see that he was wearing that other kid's tie, and they would laugh and marvel at his amazing awesomeness. He would strut and show off — and —

There he was: the twerpy kid. Alec stepped off and got between Bo and his locker. (Bo was the twerpy kid; Alec was the bully, of course.)

"Hand it over, squirt," said Alec, not bothering to beat around the bush.

Bo gulped and saw only Alec's chest in front of his face. He saw Alec's own tie — a thin, puny-looking red one with stains on it that looked as though it hadn't been cleaned since forever. Bo winced at the tie; just looking at it caused his stomach to flop. But why was it suddenly in his face, and why was his path blocked by this large, all-too-solid-looking individual who had just delivered some unclear message to him? Did he say hand it over? Hand what over? What was going on?

He had to look up to see Alec's big, wide, pock-marked face grinning maliciously down at him — past Alec's big, too-long, peach-fuzzed chin, the craters in his cheeks, and the flaring nostrils — to see Alec's watery blue eyes, cold and sinister, communicating all the meaning Bo needed. Words were not Alec's primary mode of expression. If he could say it with his eyes, he would — and did. It was the eyes that penetrated most thoroughly at that moment into Bo's brain. The words still tumbled over like toys in a dryer drum, making noise but no sense — but the eyes burrowed with a hot menace like a branding iron right onto his mind, so fiercely that their heat spread out all over him from brain to boots, instantly.

Bo would have gulped again if he'd been able, but he was too overwhelmed to do anything more than begin shaking. His entire body was melting down completely, and if you had asked him at that moment who he was, where he lived, where he was going, or what color the sky was, he could only have chirped pathetically like a half-crushed bird caught in a mighty eagle's talons. His eyes became unglued in his head and started rolling around — and Alec was no doubt enjoying the spectacle as his prey turned from solid to liquid in a matter of seconds.

But the spectacle did not go unnoticed by others. It was noticed immediately by Mr. Turnip, the history teacher, whose classroom was right in that hall and whose door was right in front of where Alec had chosen to do business with the twerp.

"Mr. Flaugherty. Step into my room, please," came the interruption. Alec didn't move his head or his body — only his eyes turned from the twerp's melting face toward the room from which the words had come. It took him a moment to realize what was happening. He saw the tremendous figure of Mr. Turnip stepping into the doorframe, hands balled into fists and perched on either hip, a thick, cop-like moustache over his big mouth, and thick eyeglasses with tinted lenses that made him look additionally cop-like.

Mr. Flaugherty's malicious grin lost some of its maliciousness and took on a more playful color, amplified by a small "Heh heh" and a patronizing pat on the head of the poor twerp — who somehow managed to disappear down the hall like a fast-moving ooze that would reconstitute itself into solid form once it found safety in its next class.

Alec added a further "Heh" for good measure, then stepped back, turned around, and scowled at the lockers across the hall as though all of hell were flooding his field of vision. He stepped off as though not knowing quite where he was going.

To Mr. Turnip, Alec was a skulking lad who exemplified the classic school bully — someone who needed to be held accountable and then held accountable again, and pressed between two rocks, and so on. Mr. Turnip did not like Alec. Mr. Turnip had never liked Alec. Mr. Turnip wanted to turn Alec into a puddle of goo and spray him down the sewer with a hose from outside.

Alec at Home: Hunger and Emptiness

At home, Alec threw himself onto his mattress. His mother had sold the only computer in the home, so he couldn't get online. The TV on the wall didn't work; a beer bottle had broken the screen. He had no phone for diversion or for calling anyone — not that there was anyone to call. He lay on his back and stared at the ceiling fan over his bed. He stared and stared and stared at it until he imagined he was dead.

He must have dozed off, because when he came to he found that three hours had passed and he was hungry. He went outside and sat on the front steps, as he had just as much luck finding food there as he did by rummaging through the pantry or the refrigerator. Indeed, he often had more luck on the front steps — he might be able to smell one of his neighbors grilling outside down the street. If so, he could make his way in that direction, lean on the fence, make small talk — and, if that didn't work, he could say something like, "Man, those dogs sure do smell good!" and wait for the hint to land. That usually worked. The trouble was getting there before the neighbor took the food off the grill and went back inside. He sniffed at the air. Nothing.

His belly rumbled. He decided just to take a walk anyway, for the heck of it.

Up and down he walked. But nothing. Nobody grilling. Nobody out at all. Only the stars, one by one beginning to make their presence known in the sky as the sun dipped out of view. Up and down and up and down he walked some more. Then he sat back down again on his front steps — and wept — and didn't know why.

The kind of food insecurity and emotional neglect Alec experiences at home is documented as a significant risk factor in the development of aggressive behavior in adolescents, lending the story a dimension of social realism beneath its darkly comic surface.

A Day of Escalating Cruelty

The next day, Alec got to school in a foul mood. He wasted no time in beating up the first boy who crossed his path and gave him occasion to vent his spleen. Alec pushed the boy into the bathroom. He usually would get in trouble for something like that — suspended most definitely — but he was careful not to leave any visible marks this time. He pinched and twisted and rubbed raw parts of his victim's body in ways that would make you cringe if told in more detail. Let's just say that even his victim was so embarrassed by the whole thing that he never spoke a word of it to anyone for the rest of his life. Alec left the bathroom with something like satisfaction on his shoulders — for a moment at least — but in truth he did not feel any better.

He sat in homeroom, glum-faced. He stared dully at the others in his classroom, legs splayed out, blocking the walking path. "Move your big dumb feet, Alec!" cried a girl who did not give two figs about Alec's pretensions. "Move your big dumb feet, Sherry!" Alec cried back, mocking her. "I hate you and wish you'd drop dead!" Sherry snarled over her shoulder before taking her seat in a row further away. "You know you want this, baby!" Alec responded, rubbing his hand over his chest as though it meant something. Poor Mrs. Williams sat at her desk in front of the class, beside herself over what to do. She did not know how to handle this new generation of students — so poorly behaved! She was looking forward to retirement, and in the meantime tried her damnedest to ignore all proceedings.

But next class was history. Alec hated history. He hated it because it didn't seem to have anything to do with him. He hated it because it was dull and doomed to repeat itself, as far as he could tell. He hated it most of all because he hated Mr. Turnip — and he hated Mr. Turnip because, as far as he could tell, Mr. Turnip hated him. Not that it would have mattered much to Alec if Mr. Turnip had loved him — so he told himself — but it certainly did not move him to want to learn about the Founding Fathers when the learning was directed by that man.

Alec tried to get through Mr. Turnip's class by squeezing his insides like a clenched fist for as long as he could. Sometimes the effort was so intense that he would snap the pencil in his hands. That happened now, when Mr. Turnip said, "Okay, class, take out a sheet of paper — time for a quiz." Snap went the pencil, and Alec had to tap the student in the desk in front of him on the shoulder and ask for a new one. The student handed one back without looking at Alec or turning around.

Predictably, Alec bombed the quiz, and might just as well have not bothered requesting a new pencil or wasting a sheet of paper. But if he just sat there doing nothing while the rest of the class took the quiz, he knew that Mr. Turnip would send him to the vice principal's office, and he had no desire to see the vice principal on this day.

His next class did not go any better. Neither did the one after that. But between period three and period four, he saw the twerp with the bright blue shiny tie again — and laughed with malicious delight. He was drawn to it like a dragon is said to be drawn to gold. But the bell rang and students hurried off to class. He thought he saw the twerp glance nervously up in his direction before disappearing into a room down the hall. Alec gritted his teeth, growled, and balled his hands into fists — and now he was late for class because, as he had been standing there staring after Bo, a girl had walked by whom he began taunting. She taunted him back, and their exchange ate up the entire time allowed for changing classes, so Alec received a detention slip upon arriving to fourth period. He sat shaking at his desk, arms folded in front of him, trying not to move a muscle until the lunch bell rang. He waited until everyone else had left, then got up slowly and sullenly and headed for the lunch room.

He meant to cut in line — he was still hungry and hadn't eaten since the day before — but Mr. Turnip was standing right there, and his hateful eyes landed on Alec like a dump truck, forcing Alec to take the last spot in the line. Alec vented somewhat by pushing the kid in front of him and spreading a degree of misery — but by the time he got to where food should have been, it was all gone. It was Sloppy Joe day, and lunch lady Harriet was filling trays with empty buns and ketchup packets.

Alec took his tray and sat down alone at a table in the middle of the cafeteria. He chatted up the janitor for a moment, complaining loudly about the food; the janitor shook his head and said things like, "I know it!" — but then Alec fell silent and brooded.