His wicked cackle shook the ground, while a five-year-old me took shelter behind my dad’s leg.  Hoping no one would see the fear in my eyes while behind my makeshift bodyguard.  My dad flabbergasted and angered that anyone would say such a thing to a small child.  How could such a simple task turn into an adulthood bullying incident?

We had walked over to Mr. Martin’s house to retrieve my petite pink bicycle that had long flowing tassels cascading off of the hand grips, a miniature white bell, and two tiny training wheels connected to the rear of the bike.  I had reluctantly parted with my prized possession the night before on account of a huge thunderstorm that left me unable to ride it home.  Earlier that day my friend and I had been cruising down the street on our sophisticated forms of transportation.  During the night, my bike took refuge in my friend’s garage.

After a long night of rain and thunder, sunrise finally came.  However, the morning proved to be more grueling than the night before.  I pestered my dad, asking over and over if we could go reclaim my bike.  He gave in and walked with me down to the Martin’s.  I was skipping and bouncing the whole of the couple of yards between our houses.  The sweet and salty smell of rain hung in the air.  The sky was a rare shade of blue that only seemed to occur in the transition seasons.  The cool air blanketed me as we walked down the street. 
The doorbell was a sweet song of freedom for my bicycle.  I was elated when my bicycle’s keeper answered the door with Monica, my best friend, at his side.  They escorted us to the garage.  I attempted to contain my excitement for fear of it being mistaken as desperation.  Mr. Martin typed in the sequence of numbers that it took to free my bike from its dungeon.  Each short, high-pitched sound echoed in my brain as I stared at the large door.

The grand door slowly creaked open, deliberately making me wait.  The shiny metal of the handlebars came into my line of vision.  Mr. Martin shifted the bicycle so the whole thing was in sight, but did not completely remove it from the garage.  I took a giant step towards my treasure.  Mr. Martin shifted slightly in front of the bicycle with an arbitrary grin on his face.  I glanced up with a mixture of fear and confusion. 

“If it stays at my house overnight that makes it mine,” he chuckled.  “Anything on my property is mine,” he continued.

In that moment, my heart sank to the deepest depths of the sea and my body deflated.  The world at that point in time was as heavy and dark as the thunderstorm of the previous evening.  My beautiful bicycle was a couple feet away from me yet out of my grasp.  I quickly scrambled to safety behind my dad’s legs, avoiding eye contact with the middle aged bully.  I focused on the red and orange leaves that had recently littered the ground with tears welling up in my eyes, forbidding them to escape.  I was not going to let him see me cry, if I did I knew he would have the satisfaction in achieving his goal to see me break.  I tried to focus on the things around me to temporarily hold off the tears and get my bearings, but to no avail, a couple drops of salt water slipped from my grasp and ran down my cheek.  I came to the ugly truth that not all adults can be trusted, even they can be bullies.  I played in my mind various ways to get my bike away from my cruel neighbor.  I considered telling Mrs. Martin about his evil joke, making a break for the bike and running with it, and even if my dad could forcefully take it from him. 

After waiting patiently for Mr. Martin to take the initiative and end the joke, my dad’s low and protective voice broke the silence.  “Just give her the bike,” he instructed.

Another villainous laugh and Mr. Martin replied, “Ok, ok I’m just kidding.”  He picked up the bike and placed it in front of me.

Without saying a word I slinked onto the bike.  I had to awkwardly wait for my dad to give me a starting push.  Halfway down the street I started bawling.  My dad had to carry me the rest of the way home. Both of my parents were disgusted and appalled that anyone would play such an awful joke on a small child.

Mr. Martin’s reign of intimidation still hasn't come to an end.  Every chance his cruel jokes get they terrorize anyone willing to fall for them.  With every prank I become more accustomed to his antics and have learned to ignore his adolescent behavior.