I HATED him like I had never hated anyone before. Hate at first sight, like a wolf and a hunted man meeting in a broad field at night, hackles up, eyes ablaze. I flashed my teeth in response, "Hello."

"Hello," he confirmed, with a polyurethane grin. "My name's Ron Smithies, from the Lawrenceville School."

He then ignored me and headed for the girl.

"Hey, Barbara, I've got these tickets to the symphony tonight. Dandy time. Let's go."

"No, I don't think so, Ron; David and I are going to get some ice cream after we move this desk."

"Oh, c'mon, what's more important."

Enter to grow in rage. RAGE The kind of rage that makes you want to bomb banks, smash parking meters and kill important people. Powerful, beautiful rage.

"Why don't you help me up the stairs with this desk, Ron?" I asked tonelessly. "I'll take the top."

And so the weak, scrawny, tweed-clad willow took his bottom end of the desk, and tried to follow my brisk pace up the stairs.

"Hey...slow down, huh?" he pleaded. The wolf was now treading familiar woods, full of scent and semen.

"C'mon, gorilla-face, slow down..."

Barbara laughed.

"Oh wow, your friend here is a real pizzaface, what a hunk..."

He was struggling under the side of the desk in the center of the stair, uttering his own brand of condescension: "apebreath, banana boy, wop, grease ball, pizzabrain, vegetable-peddler;" he was pulling all the plugs on a last ditch performance to maintain grace. And I was unable to respond, my own vicious and maligned thoughts were tripping over each other, filling my mouth with cotton candy, my head with the stuff of insanity.

"God, Barbara, he's strong, but he sure is ugly."