I used to believe that people weren’t deliberately cruel; that everyone was struggling along as best they could to play the hand they were dealt. Then I met Joseph Fieldings. Joseph, Not Joe! I had seen him around town a few times and had been told that Joseph was best avoided. He was on parole for nearly killing a man in a bar fight and the smart money said he’d soon be going back to prison.

His brother Steve was one of my co-workers in the English department at George Patton High School. Steve made no bones about being an alcoholic. Not a mean one like his brother, just apt to party away every cent he had on payday. His wife Suzy laid down the law. He could have the bottle or her and the girls. He attends a meeting before work every day and always makes himself available when students are looking for help with substance issues.

Every year the English department puts together a team to enter the booster club's four player scramble golf tournament. Several years ago we were siting around waiting for the steak dinner and our prizes (third place, thanks mostly to May Bronkowski who coached both the boys and girls golf teams as well as teaching freshman composition). Joseph came up to our table with a tray containing two shots of tequila, a couple of lime slices and a salt shaker. He set the salt, a lime slice and one of the shots down in front of Steve.

“Third Place. Gotta celebrate; so bottoms up, Bro.”

I don’t think I’ve ever met an artist who could have done justice to Steve’s expression at that moment. He was simultaneously disgusted and angry while fighting to restrain himself from grasping the liquor and pouring it down. The rest of us were just shocked. It had to the coldest, meanest act I had ever witnessed. Steve was OK being around alcohol but this was taking it to another level. I took the decision away from him when I reached over and tossed down the shot, not bothering with lime or salt. Joseph glared at me but stalked away. Thinking the matter had ended, we went back to second guessing our the putt that cost us a tie for first.

“This is Steve’s” Joseph snarled as he put another shot in front of his brother.” Not yours.” At that point I had a pretty good idea what the guy he had beaten up had been looking at.

“Yes, it’s Steve’s and he can do what he wants with it. Steve, would you like to give me that shot?”

“Yes”

I swallowed that shot the same way as the first one. I really don’t like tequila but I didn’t think asking for bourbon instead would work. I got a long glare before Joseph once again stomped off. We went up to get our dinner then and had just started doing more eating than talking when Joseph returned. He slammed another shot on the table in front of Steve but I don’t think he even realized how much he spilled. He was staring right at me.

“You, keep your hands off of this”

Realizing that this time he wasn’t going to walk away, I got to my feet as I tossed down my third shot to go with the IPA I’d had on the course and the two I’d had here in the picnic area. If I’d been sober I might have realized I could just have dumped that one. I thought of that while I was hung over the next day. Steve and Harp, our fourth player, were up with me while May was stepping between us with a canister of mace extended. It looked like we were about to make gossip for the next dozen tournaments when Ike Johnson appeared. Ike is the football teams biggest booster, both in funds and size. He got his engineering degree from State on a football scholarship and told me once that he got his first pair of cleats when a booster saw him practicing barefoot for traction when his mother couldn’t buy the shoes that month.

“Hey, Joseph, we need your opinion on extending the roof over the concession stands. Do you think it would block the view of too many seats? “

If you weren’t standing as close as I was you would never have realized that Joseph was being forced to walk away by the arm around his shoulder and a huge black hand clamped on his arm.

After dinner and the awarding of the prizes along with a speech from the booster’s president things began breaking up. All of that beer and tequila made it’s presence known to my bladder.. There was no way I could make it home without a pit stop. Fortunately, the line for the men’s room was long and growing. I had a good reason for not going in there. Instead I headed for the porta-john located between the fourth tee and the sixteenth green. By the time I got there I was in desperate straights. Jerking the door closed behind me I dropped my golf slacks and panties, hitting the sticky seat just in time. I’d just had time to wonder if maybe just this once I shouldn’t have stood up when the door opened. In my haste I hadn’t locked it. Joseph stepped forward with his hand already pulling down his fly when he saw me. Saw my panties.

“You’re queer”

“No, I’m a woman, but there is no way a known trans-woman can be a school teacher in this district. My mother’s dementia is getting worse so I can’t leave. Please don’t tell anyone.”

I was sure that was a waste of breath but it was the only hope I had.

“So your a fuckin’ pansy!”

Then he zipped up his pants and left.

I used to see him around once in a while before he went back to prison. Everyone said it was best to avoid him and I know they were right. But I’m still teaching at George Patton.