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In Praise Of Sun In Sagittarius

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It was a typical noon hour for me in Junior High, that Wednesday, with all of us packed into the lunch room when the scuffle broke out.

My friend Isaac was getting shoved around by Trevor. Isaac was kind of skinny and nerdy and not particularly athletic and happened to be of, shall we say, not the most fashionable of ethnic groups at the time. Trevor, on the other hand, was a standard issue big-boned white boy bully.

The fight — it wasn’t much of a fight really, just Isaac doing his best to deflect some punches — didn’t go on for long before the Principal showed up to break it up. It’s funny: I can’t remember his last name, but to this day I remember his first name was Greg. At that age and in that time, knowing The Principal’s first name felt like it had a certain power.

Greg broke the fight up, but then he started ragging on Isaac as if it was his fault. Even if you hadn’t seen what happened, anyone who knew Trevor could have told you that wasn’t the case.

I was never the type to get into trouble in Junior High. I was too subtle for that. But in that moment, something in me snapped. Something had to be done. Injustice was unfolding before my eyes and everyone just seemed to be willing to let it go.

Greg was wearing his usual suit jacket, mustard yellow with a large black grid pattern on it. It was the seventies after all, but even by those standards, it was damned ugly. His back was turned to me as he continued to berate Isaac unfairly.

Without further thought or hesitation, I knew that something had to be done and that I was the guy to do it. I reached out for my remaining half a sandwich, a diagonally cut peanut butter and jelly to be exact. I found myself holding it, then leaning back and throwing it with all my force at Greg’s back.

And that’s when The Miracle happened.

Somehow the force of the throw plus the spin plus air resistance all added up to that half a sandwich, that arrowhead of retribution, separating in midair shortly before it hit Greg’s back. With the precision of a multibillion-dollar weapons system, The peanut butter side of the sandwich hit that god-awful ugly yellow and black suit jacket at about where Greg’s right shoulder blade was. It bounced off leaving a stain.

The jelly side of the sandwich splatted onto his left shoulder blade, and it stayed there.

And as he turned around to see who had thrown something at him, a banana hit him in the side of the head. And then a pudding cup splashed his shirt and tie. About a dozen other students, obviously as sick and tired of his day drinking ass as I was, joined in. It didn’t stop until we ran out of food.

Greg was forced to withdraw to his office and the bottle of Scotch that was undoubtedly in the top drawer. Sure, we all got detention, but it was so worth it.

I left school that day hungrier than usual, but I didn’t mind at all. Nothing on Earth tastes better than Justice.