Mohandas
Who?
By Michael J. Ciaraldi
I
was sitting on the bench waiting for the bus when
I saw a young man come around the corner; he was a scrawny-looking
specimen,
dressed like any other student in jeans and a T-shirt. But his clothing
didn’t
look like it had been oh-so-artfully ripped; it looked more like he had
been on
the losing end of a fight.
I
saw him look over his shoulder and say, “Look,
guys, I don’t want any trouble.”
The
couple who followed him seemed in much better
shape. The tall fellow said, “We told you before –
we don’t want your kind around here.” His short, stocky,
female companion followed up with, “Yeah, what he said.”
The
scrawny kid started to protest. “Hey, I have as
much right as you –”
The
girl shoved him hard. “Shut your face!”
The
tall guy spoke soothingly, “Now, now, Sammie …”
He gently pushed her away. “…there’s no need for things to get
unpleasant.”
Then he grabbed the kid’s arm and started to twist. The kid gasped.
“I’m sure
we can reach an understanding with Jim here.” As he continued to twist,
the kid
moaned in pain. “Do you understand what I’m saying?” He threw the kid
to the
ground. “Come on, Sammie. We’re through here.” He headed back toward
the
corner.
“Sure
thing, Al.” She followed him.
I
took my tote bag in my hand, stood up, walked to
where Jim was struggling to rise, and offered him my other hand. “Here,
let me
help you up.”
Jim
got to his feet and mumbled, “Thanks.” He
started dusting off his clothes, using his hands.
I
reached into my tote bag, took out my whisk broom,
and offered it to him. “Try this.”
He
gave me a shy half grin and accepted it. “Thanks
again.”
Jim
finished cleaning his clothes, then handed the
broom back to me. “Thanks, ma’am. How did you happen to have a broom in
your
bag?”
“Oh,
I try to always carry what I might need. Maria’s
the name.”
“Jim.”
We
solemnly shook hands.
I
gestured toward the bench. “Have a seat.” We did.
I
knew I had to get the conversation started. “So,
why were those bullies picking on you?”
“You
heard them: they said they didn’t want ‘my
kind’ around here.”
“And
what kind is that? No, wait. It doesn’t really
matter, does it?”
Jim
thought for a second. “I guess not. If a bully
wants to pick on someone, he doesn’t really need a reason. Any excuse
will do.”
“How
does it make you feel, when one of these bullies
insults you, or knocks you down?”
“I
feel embarrassed. Ashamed at my weakness. Angry.
Sometimes so angry I think I could kill them.”
It
was time for a little historical perspective. “I
remember something that Mohandas said...”
“Who?”
“Mohandas
Gandhi. You know him better by the
honorific ‘Mahatma,’ which means ‘Great Soul.’ He once said, ‘There are
many
causes that I am prepared to die for, but no causes that I am prepared
to kill
for.’ He lived and died by the principle of non-violence, including
non-violent
resistance to violent aggression.”
Jim
objected. “And where did it get him? I remember from
school that he died a hero, but he still died by violence. You asked me
how I
felt. Well, sometimes I get so mad I think I could kill them for what
they’ve
done to me, and to keep them from doing it again, to me or to someone
else. But
then I do nothing. I feel like a coward for not fighting back.”
“There’s
another thing Gandhi said: ‘Where there is
only a choice between cowardice and violence, I would advise violence.’
I think
he meant that sometimes you need to act, but sometimes doing nothing
requires
the greatest courage of all.”
Jim
seemed lost in thought for a few moments, then
stood up. “Thanks, Maria. You’ve given me a lot to think about.” As he
started
to walk away, Al and Sammie appeared again.
Sammie
might have been pretty except for the smirk
on her face as she asked, “Still here? I guess some people never learn.
Do
they, Al?”
“Yeah,
I think he needs another lesson.”
Al
circled behind Jim, then whipped his arm around
Jim’s throat and got him in a choke hold.
Sammie
sneered, “And we’re the ones to teach him.”
She
punched Jim hard in the abdomen, driving the
breath from his body. Jim started to double over from the pain and
shock, but
Al’s choke hold kept him upright.
Sammie
pulled a folding knife from her pocket,
snapped it open, and moved it toward Jim’s face. “Maybe my initials in
your
cheek will help you remember. Too bad we don’t have time to snuff you,
like we
did that homeless guy last week.”
I
got up from the bench, picked up my tote bag, and
approached the group, saying, “Excuse me, young lady.”
Sammie
snarled, “Get lost, you old bag.”
Old
bag? I may look like somebody’s grandmother,
with my graying hair tucked neatly into a bun, but I think ‘old bag’ is
a bit
much. Nevertheless…
“But
this is important. Did you ever see the movie ‘Crocodile’
Dundee?”
Sammie
turned to face me, puzzlement starting to
wash over her face. “Yeah. So what?”
“Remember
the scene where the mugger pulls out a
knife? And Dundee says, ‘That’s not a knife.’ Then Dundee pulls out a
much
bigger one and says, ‘That’s a
knife.’”
“Yeah.
So what?”
“Well,
you see, you have your knife. And this
is mine.” I reached into my tote
bag and pulled out my trusty 1219C2 Knife, Fighting Utility, “Ka-Bar.”
Not as
big as Dundee’s, but it would do. I stabbed it deep into the left side
of
Sammie’s abdomen, slashed across, twisted it and jerked upward, then
pulled it
out. It was the classic seppuku
technique, just not self-administered. Sammie screamed, fell to the
ground,
convulsed, and lay still. Al and Jim looked on in shock.
I
turned my attention to the taller bully. “And you,
young man. Don’t you have something better to do than choking my young
friend
here?”
Al
released his hold on Jim and backed away with his
hands outstretched before him. “Look. Let’s not do anything hasty.”
“Oh,
I never do anything hastily. Jim, move away.
That’s a good boy.”
I
leaned over, wiped my knife on Sammie’s clothing,
then put it back into my tote bag.
“I
won’t be needing this anymore. Now. Al, is it? I
think we really need to discuss your future behavior.”
I
pulled my Colt M1911A1 (in .45 caliber) out of my
tote bag and aimed it at Al. “Do you promise not to bully anyone
anymore?”
Al
gulped, then replied, “Yes, ma’am. I promise. I
surely do.”
I
thought about this for a few seconds, then:
“Considering that your late accomplice has just confessed to murder…I
don’t
believe you.”
I
fired two quick shots into Al’s torso, then one
into his head. I was already putting the gun back into my tote bag as
Al
collapsed to the ground.
I
turned to Jim. “That’s called the ‘Mozambique
Drill’ – a quick double-tap
to
the torso, then a shot to the head to destroy the brain or the brain
stem.
Remember it, Jim.”
Jim
looked at me in horror. “You killed them! What
about all your talk about Gandhi?”
“We
used to have a saying back when I was in the
Marines: ‘There’s a fine line between being peace-loving and being a
damn
fool.’ In this case I had the choice of letting them injure you, maybe
even
scar you for life, or doing what I could to stop them from doing it to
you or
to someone else in the future.”
I
turned to leave, then paused. “Well, good day,
Jim. Oh, pick up those shell casings and dispose of them properly,
would you?
Brass is recyclable, you know.”
As
I walked away, I thought, I’ll need to clean
that knife more thoroughly when I get home. Maybe I
should get one of the “Next Generation” Ka-Bars – the stainless steel
doesn’t
hold an edge as well, but it’s much more corrosion-resistant than the
carbon
steel used in the original…
Michael
J. Ciaraldi teaches Computer
Science and Robotics Engineering, and runs the Playwrights Workshop, at WPI. His writing has
appeared
in Alfred
Hitchcock Mystery Magazine.
Copyright
©
2018
Michael
J.
Ciaraldi.
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