Gerald was piece of shit of the first order, a bully and sociopath and general candidate for the state pen. He worked his hatred on those smaller and younger and less able to resist.Too bad he ran across me.He gave me some shit at church. At first it wasn't too bad; but I fought back in little ways, infuriating him into acts he knew he couldn't perform in front of witnesses.Oh, yeah, he hated me.One day he really pissed me off. I can't remember the circumstances, but he pinched me and called me a pussy regularly, even in church, and one day I'd just flat fucking had enough.After the services were over, and everyone was milling about in the church foreyard, I sucked up all my courage and walked to where Gerald stood with his parents. His father was Grady, a deacon in the church, and particularly susceptible to scandal.I walked past Gerald, who gave me stink-eye the whole time, and strolled up to his father. I held out a hand, and said, "Mr C___, why do you allow Gerald to abuse people. He then gave me a Cliff's Notes British version of the history of Ireland. It was mostly the little I had heard from my father's family but with a slight skew to the point of view. Given eight hundred years of occupation and strife, I doubted either side in the argument over the island could be counted on to give an ignorant Yank the straight story. Suffice it to say that as far as William was concerned, the quicker we got through Northern Ireland and onto the ferry, the better he would feel.I guess I should have anticipated the tension in William and the other Brits on the bus heading to Northern Ireland from the Republic, but I didn't and it made me nervous. I could easily pick out the Brits and the Americans on the bus. The former were wound tighter than a piano wire and the Americans were bubbly and excited. I tuned those out. The Scots were blasé about things and I guess they did not feel what the English did in Northern Ireland had anything to do with them. Either that or the.
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