I wish I could say that when Benson and his g**g showed up we drew on some previously unknown strength and kicked their Rich Kid asses; that we chased them all the way back to their fancy cars and tucked and rolled seats and kicked in their doors and fenders; although we really would do that later, not to them personally but to guys like them, in those dog days immediately after high school— when Orley had yet to join the Army and I’d yet to lose my mother, and L.A. was just a twinkle in Kevin’s eye.
Instead they caught us completely by surprise, knocking the tent over and rolling us up in it—like a giant snowball—after which they proceeded to kick and punch us mercilessly—before dragging us out by our feet and gloating over us in the sun: Like trolls, I remember thinking. Or Tolkien’s f*
