I wish I had the nickname Scorpion, Scorpion Lane, to be
exact. I would be called “Scorp” by my friends. I’m older now, and such a
nickname might actually be a little bit of a handicap, but for most of my life
I would have enjoyed such a moniker, or at least I think I would have enjoyed it.
I can see myself at about 24 years-old and I am driving down
the road with my girlfriend, Veronica, who is of course beautiful. As we are
meandering along, she asks me to pull off to a convenient store so she can buy
a soft drink and a few snacks. I turn into a Lawson’s (this was a few years ago,
obviously). She rushes into the store alone while I wait in the car, a ’56 T’bird
convertible. As she comes out of the store a moment later, a small paper bag in one hand, she
is confronted by a couple of nasty-looking guys with greasy hair and unshaven stumble
on their chins. They asked Veronica what she has in the bag but she ignores
them and tries to walk on by. But one of the dudes grabs her by the arm and
turns her around. At that point I get out of the car and step in their
direction.
“Trouble here, Veronica?” I ask.
The thug gripping Veronica’s arm smiles menacingly and mutters,
“We just want to know what’s in the bag, that’s all.”
“Let her go,” I say, coolly. “Let her go and there won’t be
any trouble.”
“Yeah, we’re real scared of you,” one of the men spouts,
mockingly.
“Don’t do anything, Scorpion,” Veronica instructs me. “He’s
about to let me go.”
“Scorpion?” murmurs one of the tough guys with a hint of
concern. “Your name is Scorpion?”
I glare at the guy for five full seconds, then, slowly, my
head begins to nod and I whisper, "Yeah, the name is Scorpion, Scorpion Lane.”
Instantaneous terror fills the widened eyes of the punks. The
vice-like grip holding Veronica’s arm is immediately released. “Sorry Scorpion,”
one of the men mumbles humbly.
As an urchin, “Scorpion Lane” becomes synonymous with boyhood
greatness, if only on Columbus, Ohio’s north side. Feats I never achieved, or
in most cases never even attempted, are credited to me. It is said that I once rode
a bicycle off a cliff, just to feel the wind in my hair. I could throw a
baseball a quarter mile, or so it is told. I could run like a panther. “I’m
almost as strong as Scorpion Lane,” a neighborhood boy might brag, “…almost.”
Even as an adult, the legend of Scorpion Lane would live on, though only in a small geographic area in Columbus. A beautiful woman would recall
to a girlfriend how she once was stuck for an hour in an elevator with Scorpion
Lane. “He wasn’t that handsome, and he sure didn’t seem all that bright, but he
introduced himself as Scorpion Lane, and who would dare say they are Scorpion
Lane except for the real Scorpion Lane?”
The girlfriend would release a heartfelt sigh and then utter,
“I saw Scorpion Lane rescue a puppy, a kitten, and a baby out of a burning
house… well, I did not actually see
it, but I heard about it often enough.”
