Well these two guys, teenagers, but big redneck fellows, had come out of that pool hall down the road and were coming toward him. They both had long stringy hair and a rugged weariness. He had long hair once, and it had somehow been meaningful to him. He wondered why they...

One of the guys was huskier than the other, but they both looked mean, not scary, but malicious. It had been about eleven, he remembered, because he had heard the clock in the bell tower chime a few moments before. Not too late, but it was Tuesday, so there weren't a lot of people out, and anyway, he had on a tie because he felt festive. It was that tie with the pineapple pattern that he got in Florida at some outlet mall by the interstate. Not fancy at all, just a fun sort of tie. One of the redneck guys, the skinny one, made some inarticulate comment about the tie as he passed. Bernard didn't quite catch it, but it was clearly intended to antagonize. Bernard had proceeded to walk on by. The drunken redneck, seeing that Bernard had no reaction to the first statement, tried another after he passed. He said, "You ought to listen to Crispy Scab."

This was a reference to a heavy metal band meant to alienate him, but it didn't work. He had a Crispy Scab album, in fact. He had been to shows. Did he seem that old? Or that square? Do people say square anymore? Maybe it was a mistake to respond at all. Definitely it was a mistake to say what he said, "I just saw the Lost Expletives in Atlanta with Crispy Scab, and it was bad as shit."

After all he was only trying to relate to the guy, not make fun of him. He meant to say, "Hey, man, I listen to all sorts of music. That doesn't make me better than you. I'm a musical person. When I was your age, rock music was an important part of my culture too." But the guy turned around and got in his face, in that aggressive redneck position, chest cocked, arms bowed, face distorted in a weird attempt to appear frightening.

"What did you say?" the guy said. "Say it again."

"What do you want?" Bernard said, avoiding the question because he thought it impertinent. "What do you want?" That was when he heard the pop. The guy just punched him. Just right out of the blue, punched him, in the middle of the sidewalk, on Bellview Street, on a Tuesday. He had not been punched since grade school, and then it was a ten year old punch and never unexpected like that. Maybe he should have hit the guy back. He was regretting it again. He was making himself feel worthless again by going over it, fantasizing. He felt exhausted suddenly, so he sat down on a bench. This road, he thought, Bellview Street, is chocked full of benches. Benches and parks. Grass and swings and birdies that sing. He hummed, as he made up a little song about Bellview Street. And always, he thought as he continued to hum, the ever so faint smell of doggydoo.

Joggers jogged by in dangerous trampling hordes, sweat dripping from their designer sweatsuits. Cars were beginning to rush by on their way to work. Work. He would have to call in sick or something. God, what would he tell people? That he was attacked, mugged, that he had gotten in a fight with two rednecks outside a bar. They would wonder if he had called the police. Why didn't he call the police? Only because he thought it was partly his fault. Maybe, just through misunderstanding, he had inadvertently antagonized the guy. He could say he had an accident, but that would be so vague. They would want more details. If only he could be home. But he was daydreaming again.

Definitely it was a mistake to say what he said, "Now that was quite antisocial." What kind of thing is that to say when you've just been punched in the face? The phrase turned around over and over in his head. Sometimes it sounded like a good and noble thing to say, but mostly it sounded corny or wimpy or silly. And then he had turned around and walked off, blocking out the redneck's yelling obscenities at him and trying to coax him to fight. He almost had done it, but he knew it would have been stupid. Supposing he managed to defend himself against the one guy, the other guy was right there to take his place, and what if they double teamed him? Then the guy, still the skinny one, had run up and tackled him from behind. Bernard had heard him coming, and with a move that he guessed he had learned subconsciously from television, he threw the guy against a wall and said, "All right." That was when he lost his temper. He had rolled up his sleeves and loosened the pineapple tie. He put his fists up, and so did the other guy.

But when he looked in the other guy's eyes, he couldn't be violent to him. It was quite antisocial. He looked at the friend. It also was quite unfair. And ridiculous. It was so good vs. evil, Luke against Darth, it disgusted him. He simply could not take part in something that reminded him so much of bad fiction, and so he tried to talk his way out of it again. But that began the part that he really didn't want to think about. That was the part where he really felt like he should have been able to do something, no matter how incredible, to save himself. To be saved by the bell, the god in the machine. To suddenly pull an uzi from his front pocket. To grow wings.

So he had decided for sure that he didn't want to fight this guy, and the guy was still there holding his fists in the air calling Bernard a pussy. What is it about a pineapple tie that could lead to such a situation? The guy had tried to punch him again, Bernard, being more sober and being ready for it this time, avoided it. The redneck fell on the ground in missing his target, and the fatter one that before had only watched and occasionally put in an encouraging word for his companion, pulled out a knife and started swinging it at Bernard. It reminded Bernard of West Side Story, and he almost laughed or started tap dancing, but then he was afraid again. Bernard got sc raped once across the stomach, and then the rednecks forced him into a nearby alley and up against a wall. It had not occurred to him what they might try to do. He noticed a beer bottle on the ground out of the corner of his eye, and he thought that if he could get to it, he might be able to use it against them. But one of them saw him looking at it, and picked it up. The guy said, "Well if your too much of a pussy to fight, maybe you'll like this better." Sirens screamed in the distance. The rednecks got scared and ran away. Bernard staggered off again down Bellview Street. That was the last thing he remembered.

He saw that his stomach had started bleeding again. The scrape was worse than he thought. What is it about a Pineapple tie? He stared at the sky. The rain had stopped, and its shadows dripped silently from leaves onto the sidewalk. Why would a drunken redneck who is into heavy metal music be insulted or threatened by a pineapple tie? Was it too effeminate? Was the redneck's conception of masculinity challenged so greatly by the tie that he set out to destroy its wearer? Bernard looked to the clouds for some mystical answer as the misty wind bathed his chin with the leftovers of the storm. The cool drops trickled down his neck. Two more blocks to go. It's not far. Cheering himself on with an optimistic mantra, you can do it, he pulled himself upright.

Each pulse of his heart felt like a new universe being born, expanding and contracting through his arteries and veins. Outside his earthly vision, matter rotated and bounced in electromagnetic ballet, and this is how he convinced himself to move. Amazing, he thought, how one foot is placed in front of the other, weight is shifted slightly, and suddenly one is mobile. Mobility is key, he thought. Key. He started in the right direction.

Bernard's neighborhood loomed above him in it's historic sobriety. Old houses with stone porches and nice, new foreign cars parked out front. Trees hovered over him in silent company. A large dog barked. The dog chased after him, forcing him to run which was a little painful. A some certain point, the dog seemed to reach the end of an invisible chain, and it turned back around to stand its regular vigil. Finally, Bernard reached his own house.

No mail, he instinctively checked. He felt around in his pocket for his house keys which were buried in there underneath the pineapple tie. Why did he wear a tie, anyway, he thought. He had never felt so much like an old lemon. It hadn't been what he said to the guy at all; it had been the damn tie.

He went immediately to the bathroom to tend to his wounds. He removed his shirt and threw it on the dirty clothes pile in the corner that had overgrown and taken over his little laundry basket. The slash on his stomach stung when he washed it off. He hoped that it would not need stitches. He decided to take a nap and then drive himself to the emergency room. He didn't have the energy to drive just now. He called his office, and told them briefly that he wouldn't be in that day.

A pineapple tie is not a sign of weakness, he told himself. It is a festive tie. That was why he wore it. It was a festive decoration for a festive occasion. He liked wearing ties. It had become part of his look. He walked into the bedroom, safe at last. He pulled down the shade and turned off the light. He took the tie out of his pocket and put it away in its drawer. In the silence, he heard the rhythm of his pulse in tempo with the world beat. He expected at any moment to hear trumpets.