Hot Peas and Butter

By Jon Moray

This story was inspired by a game I used to play with friends when I was a kid and a belt that was a prop for the game. As I recalled this game years into my adult life, I asked my self, what if the kid on the receiving end of the belt was a victim of child abuse, and this piece touches on that notion.

His name was Tory McNee. He was ten years old, as were my buddies and I. His friends called him Tuffy, as he proclaimed, because there was no one he would back down from. I met Tuffy during the school break in 1975. Tuffy was sent over by his parents in Florida to stay with his aunt in Brooklyn for the summer. Tuffy stayed in the same apartment building that I lived, which was part of a twelve building community. The buildings were all twenty stories high. There was a playground in a centralized location and a few ball fields within walking distance. The schoolyard was also nearby and was a familiar haunting ground for the kids to play stickball.

I was an average kid, with average strength, speed, and agility. I hung out with average kids that I played with every day, but it was Tuffy McNee that dominated my memory of that particular summer.  It was a season full of high-ninety temperatures, intermittent traces of rain, and an unrelenting sun beating down, almost melting the asphalt streets.

My friends and I would play a game called “Hot Peas and Butter.” To this day, I don’t know why it was called that name. It was a game you needed guts to play. The central component of the game was a belt, provided by me, as I would sneak it out of my dad’s top-drawer dresser, undetected. The belt featured a wide stainless steel buckle and was made of black heavy-duty leather. A kid felt powerful wielding that intimidating object while playing the game.

The game was similar to “Tag,” as how a player would hide the belt and would then beckon the other players to find it by calling out, “hot peas and butter, come and get your supper.” The kid that hid the belt would let you know whether you were getting hotter or colder to the weapon. Hotter meant closer and colder meant further away. The player that found it would be able to whip the other players until they got back to a designated base, usually the splintered, wood planked bench in the back of my building. It was a game where speed was a valuable asset. There was strategy involved, of course. For instance, if I located the belt and there were other players nearby, I would wait until they were within striking distance before uncovering it and then unleashing my fury on an unlucky victim. Once, on one try, I whipped three kids using that tactic. One ran off crying all the way home. Kids could be cruel, but you knew the rules before you played the game.

My friends and I had a game going in full swing. I chased Tommy, the only player yet to reach base, with the leather weapon, but he made it back unscathed.

Suddenly, A big kid with a dirty tee shirt and torn jeans at the knees stomped over to us and asked us what we were playing. I told him about the game and how to play it, while spinning the belt in a Ferris wheel like motion. That was the first time I came in contact with Tuffy McNee.

“Can I play?” he asked, almost telling us he was playing, judging by his tone. His stature was imposing. He was taller, more muscular, and as we soon learned, a lot faster. None of us had the nerve to say no, so we reluctantly allowed him to play.

“Why don’t you hide the belt?” I gulped audibly, buying time so he couldn’t get a hold of it and use it on one of us. While he was off hiding the leather strap, my friends and I expressed deep regret over our decision.

“Hot peas and butter, come and get your supper,” called Tuffy, as if he were a drill sergeant. We jumped off the bench and darted toward Tuffy and then split off looking around the sand filled playground. Billy was on the right track, as Tuffy relayed he was getting hotter. Tommy bravely neared the area and was almost side by side with Billy, when Tuffy announced, “boiling, you both are boiling.”

Billy and Tommy jockeyed for position but still could not locate the belt. Suddenly, Tommy reached for it between a wedge in two fiberglass climbing structures and yanked it out. Billy momentarily was bait but pirouetted out of the way and only suffered a whack that grazed his shirt, before scurrying back to base.

Since Tommy found the belt, he got to hide it and he was notorious for hiding it in very clever places, like in a tire rim on a car or resting the buckle on a sewer grate with the belt dangling down.

After Tommy summoned us to the search, I closed in on the object near a big oak tree beyond the dumpsters on the side of my building. The only other player near me was Tuffy. The other kids stayed clear and decided to avoid anywhere Tuffy was investigating. I saw the belt lying in the tall sod. I looked over at Tuffy and it didn’t appear he had a clue where the object was.

“Red Hot,” cheered Tommy.

As I crept closer to the object, Tuffy inched closer to me. Tommy’s eyes bulged with anticipation as Tuffy was now by my side and bumping me. I gasped and wiped the sweat from my brow as I reached for the belt. Suddenly, Tuffy elbowed me out of the way and my momentum landed me on the grass. Tuffy picked up the belt and swung hard, as I scrambled back to my feet. The brunt of the impact had me crying out in pain as I stumbled away and transitioned into a full run. I don’t ever recall running so fast, but Tuffy was faster. He whipped me, to my count, eleven times before I dove for the base. I reached the legs of the bench and remained crumpled on the dirt ground for several minutes, recovering from the beating. My friends announced they were all going home for dinner. Tuffy didn’t say a word, just stared down at me stoned-faced before going on his way. I finally got up and hobbled home, trying my best not to look injured to the people walking by.

That night in the bathroom, after heeding to my mom’s demands to brush my teeth, I took off my tee shirt and surveyed my wounds in the mirror. Three were prominently visible, almost parallel to each other traveling from my left shoulder to my ribs on my right side. I slept on my left side and awoke sore the next morning.

The next day, after lunch, I left my apartment to run a shopping errand for my mom. I entered the elevator on the eighteenth floor. The elevator went down and stopped on the seventh floor, where Tuffy and his aunt boarded.

“You playing the game today?” Tuffy demanded. I don’t even think he knew my name.

“I don’t know,” I said, in a little over a mumble and shuddered.

“I can’t play anyway. I am going downtown.”

A burst of relief engulfed me as the elevator door opened on the lobby floor. I worried I would have to face Tuffy the rest of the summer and let him in on any game.

I returned home after my errand and phoned Tommy.

“Hi Tommy, Tuffy is going downtown with his aunt, do you want to come out and play?”

“Yes, I can be downstairs in 10 minutes. What do you want to do?” he said, sounding as relieved as I was.

“Since the bully can’t play, why don’t we play Hot Peas and Butter?”

“What about what happened yesterday? Haven’t you had enough?”

“I guess I am a glutton for punishment,” I said, knowing my friends could not come close to the battering barrage Tuffy could muster. I was the best player of the bunch and I hardly ever got marked up playing the game with my pals.

“Okay, I’ll call for Billy and Mike, and meet you in on the bench.”

“Sounds good, Tommy. I’ll get Marvin and Dave.”

Within twenty minutes we were all huddled around the bench. I again, successfully took my dad’s belt and handed it off to Mike to hide it. When Mike was out of sight, Tuffy emerged from my building and said his aunt’s plans changed after meeting up with an old friend.

“What are you guy’s doing?” he asked.

“Oh, uh, nothing. Just hanging out,” I stuttered.

“Hot peas and butter, come and get your supper,” Mike sang, off in the distance.

“Just hanging out, huh? I’m in on this game,” Tuffy huffed.

We left the bench apprehensively and headed toward Mike. I again led the way and got hot signals by the green trash dumpsters. Tuffy’s shadow shaded me as he neared. I located the belt in a loop of one of the dumpsters that was used for lifting. I was boiling close while battling an elevated heartbeat, but Mike surprisingly stayed mum. Tuffy was now by my side but unaware of where the belt was. I backed away from the dumpsters and began to look in the shrubbery about twenty feet away. Tuffy stayed close but then began looking by the tree behind the dumpster enclosure. I then made my move and tiptoed toward the strap. I grabbed the belt, which now felt like gold in my hands.

I ran around the dumpster and swung the leather at Tuffy’s hunched over frame, but he instinctively spun around and avoided the impact. I grabbed at him and tore his tee shirt as he began running. Tuffy headed in the opposite direction of the base, because I was the barrier between. I chased him to another building, weaving in and out of support pillars in the breezeways and surprisingly keeping up with him. None of the other kids, including Mike, knew where we were. Unfamiliar to his surroundings, Tuffy ran between pillars that led to a dead end. Tuffy was now trapped as I drew near. I slapped the belt against the concrete pavement for an intimidating effect, but I shivered inside as I feared he might grab the belt and use it against me. Just as I was expecting a surge, Tuffy suddenly covered up, protecting his head while exposing his back to me. Surprised, but eager for revenge, I slapped the belt once more on the ground and then went into attack mode. Just as I was about to swing, I noticed numerous scarred marks on Tuffy’s back. Tuffy began whimpering, as I studied the abuse he had suffered. Instead of the monster of the boy he made himself out to be, he now looked like a helpless child pleading for mercy. The belt no longer felt powerful. I released my grip on it as if it was germ infested. I touched Tuffy on the shoulder and turned him around.

“Run back to base, Tuffy. I won’t whip you.”

Tuffy sniffed humbly and nodded. He ran back away from the base and toward home.

I picked up the belt, rolled it up into a ball, and headed back to my friends. As I got to base, my friends inquired as to what had happened between Tuffy and me. I told them Tuffy heard his aunt calling him from her apartment window and had to go home.

I went back home and carefully replaced my dad’s belt in his dresser drawer. I no longer had the desire to play “Hot Peas and Butter” and when later asked by my friends why, I told them my dad caught me with his belt and after explaining the game, he ordered me not to play again. We spent the rest of the summer playing baseball and basketball. As for Tuffy, he played ball with us several times and then was sent back to Florida, never heard from again.