Dealing With Tough Teens(Gordon England) Dealing With Tough Teens

Our four-story condo in Cocoa Beach is normally a quiet place on the Banana River Lagoon for retirees and professional working people. Over the years, renters with a few teenagers had lived here for short times, bringing the expected friends and loud cars, but no real trouble developed. For some reason in a moment of weakness, I accepted an appointment as Building Captain for the 44 units in my building. That did not mean much, except when our fire alarm broke. In that case, our condo had two choices. Move everyone out until we repaired the alarm or go on fire watch. Which made it my duty as Building Captain to go outside every hour and look for a fire in our building. That happened a few times over the years, and I occasionally remembered to check for fires in my building. My other duty was to call the police if trouble occurred around our condo.
I rarely had problems before Marie and her two high school aged sons moved in, but that changed when they arrived. Marie's boys took no time making their condo a hangout for many beer drinking friends. Kids trekked loudly up and down the stairs, partying all night and stumbling out the next morning. On nights Marie worked, loud parties rapidly developed, lasting deep into the night.
Marie's oldest boy was a senior in high school. He looked and acted like a Robert DeNiro bad guy, intimidating people in our building with his rough manner and coarse friends. The younger son, Mark, was a tall sophomore with flaming red hair, broad shoulders, and often shirtless.
After a couple of months, Cocoa Beach police came to know Unit 317 of my building well as I and others called to complain about rambunctious parties and yelling in our parking lot. Typically, their condo emptied by the time police arrived. Soon, at least one boy and girl moved into Marie’s place. There may have been more, but I could not tell with so many teenagers constantly going in and out on what looked to me like drug deals.
I had not seen the older boy for a while, then condo gossip told me he was now doing time. That still left Mark, his buddies, and sleazy girls who strutted through our parking lot as a gang, daring old-timers to say anything to them. Being an old wrestler, I refused to be intimidated. I knew the best way to deal with a bully was to stand up to him and give him respect. When I walked near Mark or his friends, I puffed my chest out, lifted my head, and nodded at them with a straight face as a statement of respect from one strong guy to another, forcing them to nod back.
We soon had a rash of accessories stolen from boats stored in our parking lot. At night I watched Mark and his friends wander around the boats, obviously scoping them out. More call brought police cruisers, but the kids were not caught stealing. I patrolled the boats on random nights to keep them guessing. When they saw me, hard stares followed me as I made my silent walk alone. We had fake video cameras with red lights, movement-activated spotlights, and signs warning of cameras installed around the boats. That put an end to vandalism.
One night I heard a window crash outside, then a boom that sounded like a gun. I ran out my front door in time to see Marie start her car in the parking lot and Mark jump into it as other teens scattered like mice. She sped away with squealing tires, knowing police would arrive soon. I made my call again. When the cops arrived, we looked through the shattered front window at empty rooms. I told them I heard what sounded like a gunshot. I figured a dead body might be inside. They pounded on the door, but no one answered, so they left, saying they would be back later. Turned out the boys were wrestling, and one threw the other out the window. The loud noise was the winner slamming the front door extremely hard as he fled our condos.
After that, the kids and Marie gave me an evil eye when they saw me. I stared back, not flinching. One afternoon, I watched Mark and his buddies making repairs to one of their little Japanese rat racing cars dropped low with wide splayed tires sporting chrome, spoked wheels, a spoiler, and loud stereo. I remembered being young also. I walked by them several times during the day, receiving glares from tight faces as they sweated to change tires and polish spokes. A few times I smelled a strong odor of joints.
When they finished their work as I walked by again, pausing to act like I admired their car. Mark and his three tough looking friends with many tattoos headed to the elevator at the same time I did, forcing our paths to cross. I watched testosterone spread energy among them as they silently strutted toward me, spreading out in a line, ready for trouble. Two boys had dilated eyes from the weed. I knew they would be in slow motion. Mark backed me up on a sidewalk against a building, his eyes dancing with impending violence. I felt like being in high school again, with boys showing off their manhood. He stopped five feet from me. I showed no fear, though fighting was futile and foolish with four to one. At least I would take Mark down by faking a punch and drop-kicking his nuts. I took an opposite approach as Mark stared at me, sweat rolling down his bare torso, arm muscles flexing. He took a drag from his cigarette and flicked it at my feet. I ignored it. If I calmed him down, the others would follow.
I stared him in the eye for ten seconds, then said, "Hey Mark, those sure are good looking rims on your car," feigning admiration.
Totally unexpected, I popped their bubble by not engaging. Confusion showed on his face.
"Uh, thanks."
"What did they cost?"
"$400 each."
Pent-up energy among them melted.
"Are they 13 inchers?"
"Yeah. I had to get special tires to clear the body."
"You took hours to polish those wire spokes. They sure are shiny," I said nodding.
I knew our confrontation had ended, so I moved around them and walked up the stairs, leaving the elevator for Mark.
Even though I received no more evil eyes from the boys after that, I stayed away from them until their landlord kicked them out a few months later.

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