Personal Narrative

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I caused Greg to break his hand without any remorse at the time. Greg was a high school acquaintance who tended to bully me. He was significantly taller, stronger and more athletic; therefore physically bullying me wasn’t much effort for him. When I heard he was coming to work at the warehouse, I wasn’t particularly happy about it. The warehouse contained boxes from multiple suppliers. Some were really thick and some were really thin. They all contained books, though some were heavy text books while others were light weight paper backs. All workers with experience knew which boxes were heavy, which had thick soft cardboard as a box, and which were encased in thin cardboard. I waited until Greg stopped by with his working partner for …show more content…

Greg was to be big man on campus, drive a cool muscle car, be captain of the football team and have teenage girls throwing themselves at him. John owned an auto body repair and paint company. He provided Greg with the cool muscle car that was painted with racing stripes and ran better than when it rolled new off the factory line eight years earlier. The car was the only aspect that met John’s expectations for Greg. Greg joined the football team, yet he didn’t have the skills or talent to be successful. He started the steroids in hope that more muscles would overcome his lack of quickness and skill. Greg was awkward around girls and he made them nervous. He would be really quiet around them and then almost erupt in a burst of words and arm gestures. The steroids gave him a manic energy at times that just seemed to explode out of him. I asked of my friends, Carol, why she never accepted his offers to dinner and a movie. She said, “Soft spoken and nice Greg is a good guy. But there’s something underneath that scares me. Like a mean, angry, Greg trying to get out. And I don’t want to be alone with him if that Greg gets loose.” If I’d known about the steroids and the pressure John put on his son, then maybe I’d have …show more content…

After school started, I carpooled to work with Allen since our class schedule ended at the same time. Western Supermarket was the primary grocery store in our community, so it wasn’t a surprise that our work clothes were stored in matching grocery bags. Each day we’d arrive at warehouse, clock in, and go change into our work clothes. The locker room we used was ancient, covered with grime and crude graffiti. On top of the locker room was a storage space where no one had ventured in decades. Muncher convinced Allen to throw my bag of clothes up on top of the locker room. This would make me climb up the ladder to face down our speculation of mutant rats and possibly more dead bodies and thereby balance the ledger for many of my petty pranks. It didn’t take much convincing before Allen agreed. He went to the locker room, grabbed the bag with my name on it and proceeded to throw it toward the gloomy top. Because his first attempt fell short, he chose to windmill his arm and let the bag go at the apex. Unfortunately the top of the bag had come open so as the grocery bag arced into the air heading toward the top of the locker room, clothes began to spray out. A t-shirt went in one direction while a sock spun the other way. As the t-shirt floated back down to land in the grime and grease, Allen said, “That looks just like…. Hey! That is MY t-shirt! Hey! Those are my clothes!” I had

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Personal Narrative