The Road to Columbine – A True Story


It was 1959 and I was a junior in high school when I discovered that my stomach muscles were unusually strong. Here’s how I found this out:

Justin, whose locker was a couple down from mine, came into the locker room, grabbed me by the shirt, slammed me up against my locker, and punched me in the stomach.

I don’t think Justin was angry at me when he did that, at least not especially so. He just felt like punching somebody, and there I was.

I had been punched in the gut once or twice before, and a couple other times hit there accidentally. The effect was always the same: it doubled me over in agony, unable to breathe for a moment or two. We called it, “having the wind knocked out of you.”

It was very scary the first time, until I realized I wasn’t going to suffocate, and every time it was painful.

But what happened that day was completely new, and it wasn’t clear who was more shocked by it,  Justin or me.

Me, then.

Somehow I knew what was coming when he grabbed me, and in the split second as he was shoving me against the locker door, managed to tense up my stomach muscles.

When the punch came, his big fist bounced off my hardened belly.

“Jesus Christ,” Justin said. “What’s this?”

He frowned thoughtfully behind his thick glasses, and then, deciding to take a scientific, experimental tack, calmly punched me a second time, harder.

My head and back thumped against the steel door, but his fist again bounced off my belly. My stomach hurt, of course, but I could still breathe, and stand. Justin had not knocked the wind out of me.

He shrugged and turned away. I had, in a limited but important sense, defeated him, at least for the moment.

Who knows how my stomach muscles got so hard? I wasn’t athletic, and had done no sit-ups or other special exercises. But I realized at once that if it could get that hard again, my sore belly could be an important survival tool.

The entrance, in the 1950s

Justin and I were cadets at St. Augustine’s, a Catholic military boarding school in western Kansas. It was 1959. At St. Augustine’s we went to church three times on Sunday, and twice every other day. We wore ROTC uniforms and marched wherever we went outside the building.

Despite all this, I liked it there. Why I liked it is a long story, having mainly to do with being from a large Catholic, military family and wanting to get away from home. St. Augustine’s was also Catholic and military; but it was far away from home, and that was enough for me.

Or at least, it would have been if I could figure out how to keep away from Justin. He was no taller than me, but weighed about twice as much, most of which was muscle. Rough-looking, with pimples and thick glasses, he was well-muscled, and he swaggered. He claimed to be a black belt in karate, and to have been in all kinds of rumbles and fights back home. I could believe this, although I also knew he bragged a lot.

“Be prepared.” How was I going to prepare?

What really surprised me was that he also insisted he was an Eagle Scout. Maybe he was just bragging about that too; but I didn’t doubt it then. I just puzzled over how he had fooled the scout leaders. How did he get them to see him as a person of upright character and all the other nice guy stuff that supposedly goes into achieving that highest scouting rank?

Anyway, Eagle Scout or no, Justin was a bully. More than a bully, really. That year I had begun reading some psychology books, and soon decided he was more like a psychopath, or maybe a sociopath, the kind of person who would kill somebody and never give it a second thought. He talked that way, and treated me and others that way too.

Actually, I didn’t think he might kill me, because he didn’t take me seriously enough. The gut punches were, for him, just fooling around. Even so, except for when I had to be at my locker, I gave him a wide berth, and he mostly ignored me.

My buddy Eddie was a different matter. Eddie’s locker was a couple down from mine, farther away from Justin’s. He and I were buddies for a lot of reasons, but one of the main ones was that we were among the few non-Catholic cadets at St. Augustine’s. This was no big deal for Eddie–he was raised Protestant and never gave it much thought. But it was a big deal for me, especially because it was very new: one reason I had been sent to St. Augustine’s was because there was no Catholic school near where my family lived.

But that year, besides reading psychology, I had also been plowing through some philosophy books, and soon realized I didn’t believe all this Catholic stuff they had taught me since before I started school. I decided I was probably an atheist, or at the least an agnostic.

I wasn’t ashamed of my new lack of faith; in fact, I often debated with other students about God, Jesus, miracles, hell, all that. The arguments were fun, but at the same time, this was very much a minority outlook at St. Augustine’s. So I was anxious to find some comrades: somebody, anybody I could speak plainly with, and Eddie was one of the main ones.

Eddie was tall, with a handsome face and dark hair which he frequently slicked back with a pocket comb, which was a cool thing to do in those days. And like Justin, he bragged a lot. He bragged about what a Romeo/ladykiller he was. He bragged about being a musician. And he also bragged about being tough, a fighter.

Maybe he was a Romeo; you could never be sure about that at our isolated all-boy’s school; and he was something of a musician, playing the saxophone quite seriously. But as far as being a fighter–well, that was mostly in his head. The fact was that Eddie was rail thin, and when he took off his shirt, there were huge patches of scar tissue all over his skinny chest. He had been severely burned as a child, and skin had been taken for grafts on his face and neck. I think the aftermath of those burns had also kept him physically weak.

Just the same, Eddie talked as if he was a veteran of all sorts of physical combat, in which he had kicked butt left and right. And he often swore he’d beat up anybody who tried to mess with him right here at St. Augustine’s. But the truth was that if it came to a fight, I could probably have beaten him myself, and I was no fighter.

None of this bothered me, because we were buddies; and it didn’t seem to bother most other cadets either, because it was easy to see that Eddie lacked the equipment to back up his bluster.

But everything about Eddie seemed to irritate Justin. I often thought about this. Was it Eddie’s smooth-skinned good looks, at least above his shoulders, that made Justin jealous? Or maybe his bragging just brought out Justin’s meanest streak.

Whatever it was  – I only know what I saw: The more Eddie talked, the more ticked off Justin got. And it didn’t take long to figure out that this meant trouble.


But Justin and his big fists were not all I thought about then. As the year at St. Augustine’s unfolded, I learned many things, and had my share of fun. Much of this was shared with Eddie, because our outsider status increasingly threw us together.

For one thing, while girls were mostly distant figures, they weren’t completely out of reach. In town there was a Girls Catholic High School, where the students all wore identical billowing blue dresses, and as time passed we each developed crushes on one or another of them. I admired a girl named Betty Lou, mostly from afar. Eddie did better. Because St. Augustine’s didn’t have a band, he was allowed to go into town regularly to play in the local high school band. There he found a girl named Marla, and actually managed to have a few dates with her. He swore they also did some serious making out – but I wasn’t so sure about that.

Then there was music. For Christmas my parents sent me a small portable record player, and I managed to get a single earphone connected to it. On it I played some big classical LP records I bought at a local supermarket for ninety-nine cents each. The earphone was tiny, and clipped over one ear. The sound was very tinny. But to me, tinny Mozart in one ear, was better than no Mozart at all.

Eddie’s fave. Not mine.

Eddie put up with my Mozart and Beethoven, but never quit trying to convince me that modern jazz, especially the music of Stan Kenton, was the greatest stuff ever written. I heard him out, but stuck stubbornly to my classical convictions.

By the time the snow melted and the leaves were returning, Eddie and I often took long walks in our limited free time, across the dark plowed fields next to the school grounds to the wooded creek beyond it, talking as always about all sorts of things. We chattered and argued about music, girls, and even religion, because I kept reading new books that raised new problems with various beliefs I had earlier taken for granted.

Before long we also talked about how all this reading was getting me in trouble with the priests who ran the school. They could put up with a few quiet Protestants around, but somebody like me, who had loudly abandoned their Catholic faith, was a real problem.

In fact, we soon heard out that one of the cadets I had argued with had reported me to Father Vincent, the Director of Student Life. I think my unbelieving notions scared him, as if they were a kind of virus and might be catching. And maybe he was right.

In any case, the goal of St. Augustine’s was to turn out good Catholics, not good atheists, and that’s what I was sure I was becoming. So one of these days, I announced, the priests would be coming after me.

Eddie said he’d stand with me when they did, and he was as good as his word.

One Friday afternoon we had to see Father Vincent to get permission to go into town after class. But Fr. Vince (as we called him), turned us down flat. Eddie’s grades, he said, were not good enough.

We knew there was more to it; for one thing, my grades were excellent

It was Eddie who lit the fuse: “Was there anything else, Father?” he asked.

“Yes!” Father Vince almost shouted. He turned to face me, eyes blazing, and said they were sick and disgusted about my disloyal debates with other cadets.

“It takes more humility than that to get into heaven, Fager,” he cried, and then preached at me for what felt like an hour.

I stood still, staring back at him the whole time, saying nothing, denying nothing.

This, I realized, was an important moment: confronting the Church which had raised me, and declaring my independence of it, even if only by my silence and a defiant stare. Eddie stood there beside me, echoing my quiet rebellion the whole time.

I could feel his solidarity. It’s not a small thing to stand with a friend who’s being told he’s going to hell, and I was grateful.

But what would happen next? I wanted to know. Soon a rumor circulated that they were planning to expel me from the school. Would they really do that? I still wanted to come back the next year and graduate from St. Augustine’s; I had more independence there than at home, and didn’t want to give that up. I had even ordered a school ring, gold with a red garnet stone.

Would the priests send me packing, and tell my parents their son was a vocal atheist? What would my mother, who was very religious, do to me if they did?

Eddie and I talked about this a lot on our walks. And he had an idea: “Don’t be a chicken about it,” he challenged. “Walk right in there and ask them. You’re not afraid of the priests, are you?”

Well in a way, yes; but in another way, no. So one afternoon I took his advice and went into the office of Father Abelard, the school’s President, and put it to him straight.

Father Abelard smiled kindly at me. “Oh no,” he said reassuringly, “nothing like that has been proposed. We haven’t even talked about such things.”

That made me feel better, and I was happy to go back to my tinny Mozart, and friendly arguments with Eddie about jazz versus classical, how even his Protestant God didn’t exist, and whether he really did make out with his girlfriend in town. We talked, and walked.

As the weeks went on, we also talked a lot about Justin. The current of antagonism between him and Eddie was rising, as surely as the creek after spring rains. The tension level when they were both in the locker room was palpable. What were we going to do about that? What could we do? What could I do?

Justin had tried his belly-busting punches on me a couple more times, probably just to see what would happen. Once he even called over a couple other big guys from a few locker rows away, to take their turns at this abdominal novelty.

All the punches hurt, but none of them could knock the wind out of me; I still can’t imagine why. But I had had enough. After that, the next time Justin grabbed me, I mustered all my courage and pushed him away.

“Stop it!” I shouted. “If you’re gonna beat me up, then go ahead and do it. You know I couldn’t stop you. But otherwise, leave me alone!”

To my surprise, after that he did. At least somewhat. He still threatened me, and bragged about all his fighting, but he mostly kept his hands off. After all, like I said, I wasn’t important enough to beat up seriously.

I wish the same could have been said of Eddie. But it couldn’t. This was as much Eddie’s doing as anyone’s, though. He taunted Justin from his locker, calling out over my head, branding him ugly and stupid, and said he wasn’t afraid, he’d take Justin on anytime.

Eddie made the mistake of baiting him one afternoon as I was coming in, and Justin went for him. They only scuffled for a few seconds, thank god, before some other guys pulled them apart and I pushed Justin back. He could have tossed me aside, but there were others crowding around.

Behind me, Eddie was shouting and cursing: “Put me down, damn it! I’ll clobber him! I’ll kill him! Put me down!”

I turned and saw that one of the basketball players had grabbed Eddie and was holding him about six inches off the floor, his fists and feet flailing the air like angry matchsticks. He was that lightweight. If it had been any other time, I would have burst out laughing, he looked so ridiculous.

But Justin shoved past me, and pointed a thick finger between the shoulders of the other guys between him and Eddie. “I’ll tell you who’ll kill who, you punk” he bellowed.

He pulled his hand back, made a fist, and smashed it loudly into a locker door, shaking the whole row and leaving a dent in the metal. “Like that.” He backed away and stalked out of the locker room.

The basketball player let Eddie down, and the other guys wandered off.

I was shaking. “Eddie,” I whispered, “let’s get out of here.”

We headed down the hall and out the door, going as far as we were allowed, to the plowed field, toward the creek. As we walked, watching out for muddy spots, a couple of things became clear to me: one was that Justin wasn’t kidding. He would want his revenge on Eddie, and it would be a bloody one. Another was that when the time came, I had to stand with him, just as he had stood with me in my face-off with Father Vince.

But how could I do that so it made a difference? Justin could flatten Eddie with one fist and me with the other; and where would that leave either of us?

Still feeling shaky, I spotted something in the grass by the creek. It was a length of two by four lumber, about two and a half feet long. It was damp from lying out there in the dew and rain, and that made it heavy. A notch had been cut out of one end, giving my hand a good grip on it, and it swung with a real heft to it.

I whacked it against a tree a few times. The blows were solid, tearing big gashes in the tree’s bark, and making my palm and fingers hurt. But I didn’t drop it. In fact, with each blow I felt stronger and swung harder, and harder at the tree.

And like an electric shock, an idea came to me.

This two by four was not just a piece of wood. It was an equalizer. Looking down at it, I stopped shaking. It could solve our problem with Justin: In my mind’s eye I could see how it would go down, as clearly as if it was actually happening:

I would walk into the locker room, and find Justin attacking Eddie. Really beating him up, smashing that smooth face he hated so much, or maybe choking him. Eddie would be gasping and bleeding, maybe flailing around, maybe unconscious.

As usual, Justin would hardly notice me, walking over to open my locker as if I was utterly oblivious to what was going on a few feet away.

But then I’d turn around, step quietly behind Justin and raise the two by four high over my head–maybe holding it with both hands.

There would be only one chance, I figured. One blow. One heavy stroke across the back of Justin’s skull, swinging with all the concentrated force of a year’s accumulated rage. I could almost feel the bone give way under the board, the way the tree bark had split and flown off in ragged, sappy chunks.

I turned from this vision to Eddie, there by the creek, and told him very calmly what I planned to do. He believed me too, even though he still thought he could take care of himself.

With that settled, all we had to do was smuggle this weapon into the building. He went ahead of me, to signal from the hall doorway when the coast was clear.

The two by four was too long to fit under my shirt, but its weathered color was close to the khaki of my uniform, so I just walked quickly down the mostly deserted hall, swinging it in time with my right leg. In a couple of long moments, it was in my locker, covered by an old uniform shirt.


After that it was only a matter of waiting and watching. Each time I came into the locker room and saw Justin, the palms of my hands began to tingle, as if they were ready to close around the hidden lumber. But I felt calm about it, and kept up my usual careful deference toward him, and I don’t think he ever suspected a thing.

At this point, it would be satisfying to say things worked out as I expected, that my knotty pine equalizer made the difference, saved the day in a final, maybe fatal confrontation. And there were days when I felt that moment was coming close.

But it never happened. The year ended in anticlimax: Justin’s folks came and got him a day or two early, or Eddie’s parents came to get him; I don’t remember which anymore.

Either way, that ultimate, climactic showdown was headed off more or less accidentally, by disinterested forces beyond our control. Or maybe it was the grace of that God I didn’t believe in.

George Washington brought the shocking news, and blew my cover.

Anyway, a few weeks later, back with my family, there was a showdown of a different sort. My mother called me to the kitchen table, where she dropped a stamped envelope in front of me.

I opened it. Inside was a letter, from Father Abelard. It said that because of my vocal unbelief, I would not be allowed to return to St. Augustine’s the next year. Having me around was too hazardous to the other cadets’ spiritual welfare.

“Well?” Mother asked grimly. “What about this?”

I looked at the letter again, then at her, and took a deep breath. Finally I said, “It’s true.”

She didn’t give up, of course. But that battle was lost; I was done with the Catholic church.

A few weeks later, a small package came in the mail. In it was my St. Augustine’s school ring.

At first I thought I should send it back. But looking at the red and gold, I began to wonder about many things connected with the year at St. Augustine’s, things I still wonder about:

What ever happened to Eddie, or Justin, neither of whom I ever saw again? Would my belly muscles still stand up to one of his punches; it’s been a long time. Did the priests go through our lockers that summer and find my two by four? If so, what did they make of it?

I also wonder, if that final crisis had come, what would have happened after I swung that two by four? Or, more recently, what if the weapon hidden in my locker hadn’t been a two by four, but an AR-15, or the 1959 equivalent? Would this story be written from a prison cell? Would it be written at all?

These are questions to which there can be no answers. But there are three things I do know.

The first is that I meant what I said to Eddie about what I would do with that piece of wood. I can still see myself swinging it in the locker room, almost as if it really happened.

The second thing is that as I looked at the red and gold band and wondered all this, the ring took on an entirely different, and much more important set of meanings than it had had when I ordered it.

I put it on, and have been wearing it ever since, for  over 50 years.

The third thing–but this came later–is that I’m not an atheist anymore.

Copyright (c) by Chuck Fager. All rights reserved.

NOTE: This is a true story; all the names have been changed except mine, Stan Kenton, Mozart, Beethoven & Kansas.

9 thoughts on “The Road to Columbine – A True Story”

  1. Wow! What a story!
    There must be something about boys’ schools, & military schools that brings out the worst in a few of the students as well as the best – so much machismo, male pride.
    Shows why Hamilton accepted a duel even though his own son had been killed in a duel. Men like dogs, trying to best each other and be the Big Dog. But it also shows loyalty, standing up for a comrade. Other ways of standing beside our friends must be taught and celebrated. Apparently none of these boys thought of complaining to the teachers!!

    1. Absolutely not, Maida. Ask any English public school student: You. Do. Not. Complain. To. The. Teachers.

      Yes, good story! Very well-written and engaging. And revealing, as it was meant to be.

      1. When I was a student-teacher in Braintree, Mass., my mentoring teacher made an important point to the students (and to me) that students should report problems to her or to any teacher. It was a seventh grade jr. high class, mostly 12 and 13 year old boys and girls, and one of the boys was harassing one of the girls by kicking at her desk, pulling her braids, whispering names, etc. She did report it, and the teacher moved the boy to another desk where he could not bother this girl. The value in the school was that students should help the teachers by calling attention to problems – and the teachers should help the students with problems. Thus students would remind teachers if there was a cold draft from a window, or if a student was sick, or if there was a bully bullying. The value of the school was: Not to support the “code of silence” which called people “tattle-tales” if they reported a problem, but to work for cooperation between students and teachers. This was in the late 1950s, over 50 years ago. I appreciated this senior teacher’s values which were the school’s values!

        1. Maida & Beverly — sounds like “Thee was favored” in your 1950s school, Maida. Would they were all like that! At the school I called St. Augustine’s in this story, we had what was called an “honor code,” which us newbies were required to memorize & recite on command, which bound us to tell the priests about anything that was out of line. I obediently memorized & recited it. But then I made the rookie mistake of acting on it when I saw some upper classmen bullying younger cadets. Oh, brother, did I get a Concentrated course in the real peer-based code, which was just as Beverly described it, when I took a wrong turn in the long hallway and a squad of upper classmen were waiting for me— ah! But that, we’ll, that is another story. . . .

          1. If that had happened at any school me and my brothers attended, my parents would have been at the school principal’s office the next day, remonstrating, and demonstrating the power of parents.(My father was a judge and my mother an active feminist.) Actually it did happen in away – some big boys (those held back and overage for their classes) threatened smaller boys in the rest room with knives, threatening to cut off their male parts – my brother told my mother, she was down at school the next day and the principal did not want to be caught in a law suit. Sadly, the principal himself in a different conflict was beaten up by the relatives of a boy who was disciplined! Ah so, nothing is easy!

  2. Thanks for sharing your story.

    Perhaps your being in an all male school is why the “peer enforcement” worked? It reminds me of the prison settings where the guards have less influence than the inmates on how they interact with each other.

    Perhaps this school prepared you for Quakers and how we do not have an “authority” to protect us from other Quakers bullying us?

    I’d be interested if you noticed any similarities between your experience in Catholic settings and Quaker ones.

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