The Return Home

The Return Home

Billie Joe’s Journals, book II

Editor: Gardner Rust

For David

Prologue:

Yes, Billie Joe has come home again. Getting off the street turns out to be easier than getting the street off of him. He has to learn to live with rules and schedules again, but that’s the least of his troubles.

Billie Joe's enemies find out he'is being tested for AIDS. The word is out.

The people Billie Joe has avoided, because they'd been found out, turn out to be his only friends. Billie Joe went in search of what it means to be gay. When he returns home he finds out what it's like to be labeled gay at school.

He also learns that there is strength standing together against the hatred.

Chapter 1

When the cab rolled to a stop, I stared up the walkway at the house I'd left in June, not knowing if I'd ever see it again. It wasn't exactly the vision I had of my eventual return. My father was out beside the cab paying the driver as I slid off the seat and onto my feet. It looked quiet but I knew just behind the front door lay the same craziness I'd left months before. I had so wanted to leave it for good or at least until I was an adult and better able to deal with the people that lived inside my house.

I was back and it wasn't the triumphant return I had dreamed it would be. The idea I’d find a gay community and they’d take me in to finish growing up with people like me wasn’t the way it happened, and now I was home no longer knowing what I expected to find. There was no welcoming community where I finished growing up. I had to come home to finish growing up and decided what I wanted to be.

I could have run in the airport, but it was already too late by then. I'd surrendered, acquiesced, raised the white flag and admitted defeat, after finding myself unprepared to spend my life on the street, even in the friendlier territory of San Francisco. It was no place for a kid, and it was no place for me. Home was no bargain, but I would survive here, and that might not have been true on the street where I would need to sell my soul to survive. I was tougher and a little wiser, and that wasn’t bad. I’d need to be tough to finish high school, but I didn’t know how tough at the time.

It was a different kind of safe at home. I would take safety and a steady diet in trade for the same soul I would sell for a meal a few days before. Life was a tradeoff and Billie Joe had come home.

There was a difference now. I knew what went on inside my house was craziness. Before, I'd been made to believe it was I that was crazy. I was no longer the naïve child, unaware of the ways of the world. I'd lived on my own for the first time. Admittedly, my living had been on the ragged edge of self-destruction much of the time, but I had lived in the real world on my terms and by my own resourcefulness. No one had done it for me, though I'd found help when I needed it. No one had held my hand or tucked me in at night, except when I said they could. I'd been down in the dirt living on my own terms, or at least on the terms I had been willing to accept.

If all else failed I could return to the streets. This house and these people would never have the power over me they once had, and that was the victory. I was no longer afraid of my father and when he hit me, I would simply stare into his angry eyes, letting him know there was no fear. My mother would never control me the way she once could. It certainly wouldn't please them that their little boy had grown up tough, but their little boy was home, and they could tell all their friends, "Our little boy is home."

I let my father go first and he held the door open for me, so I’d be the first one into the house.

"Billie Joe. Billie Joe," mother said, saying the words over and over like some mantra she'd practiced for such an occasion as this.

"Hi, mom. How's it hangin’?" I said, brushing past the long awaited hug as though I wasn't aware she wanted to touch me, to finally hold her little boy lost.

I wasn't ready to be touched by this side of the world. I would need to learn to be touched again. My father touched me with the back of his hand, but being struck was far more agreeable to me than being hugged. I did not feel like being hugged, and so Independence Day for one was Memorial Day for others.

I dropped my bag in the center of the living room and did a pirouette, amazed at how my house had shrunk in my absence. I felt bigger and tougher and closed in by the oppressive surroundings.

"What? What did he say to me, dear?" mother said, acting confused by the nature of my greeting.

"Nothing, mom. How are you? Love the hair. My favorite blouse. You look wonderful, mother," I gushed.

"Oh do I? I'm Fine. You look...."

"Older. I am older. It’s a constant struggle with the clock, mom," I said, like it should make a difference.

"I know that. I'm you're mother," she said, unsure of what we were talking about.

"You are. I thought I recognized you. Of course you're my mother. Why do you think I called you, mom, mom?"

We walked through the living room and my mother hugging herself next to my arm, still looking for something I couldn't give her as long as my father stalked us. It was as though I was some sort of traveling salesman he wasn't about to trust alone with his wife. I felt like I was on speed or mescaline. I felt lighter than air.

"Are you hungry, Billie Joe?" she asked.

"No, mom. Not even."

"I fixed your favorites. Tacos and burritos with that special sauce you like so much and there's A&W Root Beer in the fridge. I bought a gallon for you. I know how much you like it. There's your favorite apple-sauce cookies and Twinkies for later on. Dad got some Butterscotch Ice Cream, didn't you, father?"

"Yeah, of course he's hungry," my father said. "He didn't eat on the plane. He hasn't eaten since this morning. He's hungry."

"I said I wasn't hungry, damn it. I'm not hungry. I should know if I'm hungry or not," I said, ranting like he'd dare to question my integrity in front of my own mother.

"Look young man, you'll show your mother some respect. I don't know how you've been living, but here you'll live by our rules."

"Don't raise your voice, dear. He's not hungry, he said. He's tired. He's excited about being home, aren't you, Billie Joe? Let's not yell at each other for one night."

Mother apologized for everyone everywhere as she tried to keep peace in the only world she knew. For today I'd be right on everything I said as far as she was concerned. Tomorrow would be another day. I was tired. I was angry. I knew why I was tired but I didn’t know why I felt like a ticking time bomb. I wanted to just get to my room where I’d be left alone from the constant attention. I’d be able to calm down once I got some rest and decompressed from my months away. I needed to make the best of it and swallow my pride. Billie Joe was home.

"I'll have a taco and then I want to lie down, mother,” I compromised. “I can eat when I get up. Unless you plan to eat it all yourself, mom."

"No, of course I won't. I don't even like tacos. There's plenty even if we invited everyone over. I can make more anyway. I bought plenty of fixings, Billie Joe. You don't need to eat if you don't want. Your father's just tired. You know how grumpy he is when he's tired. Upset. It hasn't been easy on him, you know. Not knowing. You could have let us know, Billie Joe. We are your parents. We love you,” she said.

“I know, mom,” I said, kissing her forehead.

“I'm sorry. I mean we can talk about all of this later on, can't we? You're tired and you want a taco. I'll fix it for you right away."

"I know, mom. I could have, but I didn't, and it's over and I'm home, okay? Let's all have tacos and rejoice. And some Root Beer. Let's all have a frosty mug of Root Beer, mom. You know it's about my most favorite thing in the whole world."

"I think it is, Billie Joe," she said, buying into it.

My father had already started to ignore my presence as he always had. He didn't waste his time calling me down for my attitude. You'd never have known he'd just flown half way across the country to fetch me. He walked past me not looking at me as he went to change his clothes. I ate one taco off the plate that contained a dozen, and I took another to my room along with my Root Beer.

As I opened the door there was a banner at the foot of my bed that read, "Welcome Home Billie Joe." There were balloons like you'd give a kid. Most of them said happy birthday. The biggest, most purple one had the word LOVE written on it, and I thought of Carl and the eight days of love we shared before he flew off to Japan.

I threw myself onto my bed, holding the taco safely up in the air. I was home. It was familiar and I smiled. I tried to ignore their yelling at each other. Nothing ever changed in paradise. My father would be calling me a worthless no good-for-nothing punk and my mother would be saying I was just tired, excited, crazy, foolish, insane, suffering from melancholia, or some malady that might account for the likes of me being born to such a normal couple.

I'd gone three months without people needing to yell to make their point. That's not to say I wasn't assaulted, chased, and nearly arrested. I’d take yelling over that. I'd been home eight minutes and World War III was on. I wondered if they'd been yelling at each other the entire time I was gone.

As I closed my eyes to sleep, I was still on the streets of San Francisco. My body had been taken off the streets but my brain was still there. I couldn't help but see Ty and the boys I’d left behind. I felt like a traitor. I'd gone home when none of them could. I would be warm, well fed, comfortable, and safe when they weren’t. We'd picked through garbage to stay alive, we'd sold our bodies for food, and they were still out there.

How did they get out there? I knew how I came to be on the street, but only Ty told me about being thrown out of his house. I’d both elected to be out there and I’d elected to go home. It seemed wrong for me to be the only one to get a reprieve. Life had never seemed quite so unfair as it did at the moments I awoke that first night back home.

I went downstairs and refilled my glass with A&W. It was cold and I rolled the glass across my face. The house was hot and I felt like I couldn’t breathe. I went back upstairs and lay awake and thought about what was ahead of me. Neither the view forward nor the view back had me doing back flips, until I thought of Carl. I reached into my bag for the bracelet and his picture. He was the reason I had to make it at home until he returned. I would be at the gate waiting for him as I promised. Taking out my pen and a sheet of paper, I began to write. Dear Carl….

I fell asleep wearing the bracelet and holding his picture. The faces of the boys I left behind stayed out of sight.

The days that followed were no less complicated than my first day at home. My mother had become determined to get everything back to the way it was before her "baby" ran away from home. She now referred to it as "going off". When she was angry with me, it became "going off to Lord knows where."

Only the Lord couldn’t have known where I was, or he’d have done something about getting us off the street. There was only one Lord on that street. He was the strongest boy with the most ingenuity. He saw into the shadows and kept you safe in the night, the long terrifying night. He taught you to live them one night at a time.

I spent a lot of time alone in my room. Ralphie was the only real friend I’d had and Ralphie was gone. I realized that was part of why I had to leave home. As long as I had been on the road, I rarely thought about him, but everything in my room and in town was a reminder that my best friend no longer traveled with me.

There were no visits to his house or visits from him to mine. I never realized how my life had been so filled with my best friend until I had to face the fact he would never come over again. At times those first few days, when I had let my guard down, I'd hear someone at the door and I'd leap up thinking it was him. He was always at the door. When I caught myself, I realized it wasn’t him at all. Those were the worst times.

The start of my senior year in high school was inauspicious. A note had come to the house that I needed to report to Mr. Burgess in the vice-principal’s office. I was late starting, but that wasn’t why he requested my visit. I stopped at the big front doors and ran my finger down the list to find my homeroom assignment. It would be with my senior English teacher and I knew her and the location of her room. I ran my finger further down the page to see where Ralphie would have been for homeroom. Mr. Prinkney’s room is in the same hallway as Mrs. Smith’s.

I went to sit in the office, after I told the girl at the counter who I was and why I was there. A couple of the students discussed my presence, giggling behind their hands as they watched me sit. I knew I’d need to accept their reaction to me without temper tantrums. I would be watched for any sign of dysfunction. The anger that raged inside me would need to be held under control. I would be watched and I couldn’t afford to blow up or act like I might.

Mr. Burgess returned to the office after making sure there were no malingerers in the hallways. He waited until he opened the door to his office to signal for me to follow. The two students behind the counter giggled some more. I smiled and winked, which got me an unexpectedly loud titter.

“If you two don’t have something better to do I can assign you to emptying waste baskets for the rest of the morning,” Mr. Burgess snapped after I’d entered his office.

“Sit,” he said, looking at his morning messages that were at the corner of his desk.

“You’ve been home a couple of days. How is that going?”

“Oh, fine,” I said, wasting a really nice smile.

“You gave your folks a bit of a scare, you know, but that’s beside the point. You know school started last week. I’m afraid your electives will need to come from what’s left. Most classes are filled the first week. I do have a list you can look over,” he said, handing me a paper from the top drawer of his desk. “You’ll need to select five. All you need to graduate is English and three additional credits. You already have the required math and science credits to graduate. You can take it home and get back to me on what classes you want.”

“No,” I said. “Psychology I, Drama, Speech, gym, and a study hall if that’s okay.”

“Yes, those will get you the credits you need.”

“How about English Lit? Instead of study hall, put me down for English Literature. I can study at home.”

“That’s very good. I’m surprised you want to take on so much. You do realize drama requires your participation after school when they prepare for the senior play? That can be quite a bit of hard work after school.”

“That’s fine,” I said, wanting to keep myself busy.

“If there’s any trouble come see me. I’m here to help you, Billie Joe. I’m not the enemy. My door is open to you even if you just want to talk.”

“Is that all?” I asked.

“No, it’s not that easy. You need to take an AIDS test before you can attend classes. There are people who would feel a lot easier if they know you aren’t infected with HIV. Your parents have agreed that you would be tested this afternoon. The results will be confidential and it will cover us if someone complains about your return to school.”

“I’ve only missed four days,” I said.

“Oh, it’s not about how many days, it’s about where you were. This will protect you from the gossip. We’re looking for a way to keep everyone happy.

“They’ll give you a preliminary reading of negative or positive for the virus. That’s all I’m asking you for.”

“What if I got it?” I asked, knowing they couldn’t keep me out of school even if I did.

“Let’s hope it comes back negative. There will be a lot less pressure on all of us if you test negative. Regardless, I’ll do what I can to make your senior year as free of complications as possible.”

“Yes, sir,” I agreed.

“I need to ask you about Ralph. I know you two were close. Other teachers are concerned. You aren’t feeling like you might do injury to yourself?”

“No, sir,” I laughed, shaking my head. “I’m not going to off myself.”

“You know you can come to me with anything that is bothering you? I want to know if any students give you trouble. I won’t stand for it. If you feel like you might want to hurt yourself come and talk to me. We’ll sort out whatever is eating at you. I’m here to help, Billie Joe. That’s all I have for you.”

“Yes, sir,” I said. “I can come to school in the morning if I get the test today?”

“Yes! I’ll leave your schedule at the counter once I’ve verified the classes you’ve selected are available.”

I left the office feeling optimistic. The classes all seemed fine to me and I wanted to keep myself busy. It would make the time go faster.

I was waiting at the clinic at 1:00 p.m. My doctor's appointment was at 2:00. It was confidential and no one but the principal and vice-principal knew I was testing for the AIDS. My family doctor showed up to supervise the test. He was my father’s friend and everything was hush hush as he stood by and watched the nurse take my blood. She handed him the glass tube of blood and left the room. Dr. Crane marked a six digit number on it and took it with him while I sat in the room alone.

On the street there were no options. AIDS was the price of doing business. It wasn’t so much feared as accepted as the price you’d eventually pay if you were healthy and attractive, or very very young. You couldn’t have any idea what it meant until you were sick with it. You only got tested after you were sick. I thought of Harvey and how sickly he looked. I remembered Walt. He was skin and bone and looked sick, but then, I thought of Ty. He was muscular, handsome, and there was no way to know he had the AIDS if he hadn’t told me.

I realized you couldn’t tell by looks alone. I felt healthy and that was important, but I wasn’t sure I didn’t have it. I was most bothered by the idea of having it, while I stayed with Ty at Walt’s. Walt was a constant reminder of how it could end if you got sick. He made me nervous, because you could see his suffering. I did not want to suffer. I wondered if Ralphie suffered before he killed himself? You can’t always see pain.”

The nurse who’d drawn my blood returned to tell me she needed the room and I was to wait near the nurses’ station and I’d be called with the results of the test. This left me feeling less than protected as the nurse escorted me to a seat in the waiting room.

It was my mother's best friend who busted me. I saw Marina Phelps standing next to the nurses’ station after I sat down.

A few minutes later she had the nurse that drew my blood cornered as she looked at me while talking to her. Mrs. Phelps was a nurse and so being at the nurse’s station wasn’t all that big a surprise. She didn't have anything to say to me, but I knew she'd seen me when she passed the waiting area.

Since she was my mother's best friend, I imagined she knew about my unexplained absence, and my mother would have explained it thoroughly while forgiving me the entire time for putting her through hell. Marina would have been all ears.

My mother forgave everyone all the time. That meant Marina likely knew a lot more than anyone else. My mother had a propensity to talk a lot more than she needed, especially when she was upset, or drinking, or both.

Marina was a busybody. I never liked her any more than I liked most of my parents’ friends. When they called my name a few minutes later, I was directed back to where I found Dr. Crane.

"You are feeling okay?"

"Yes, sir."

"Any swelling? Stinging when you urinate? Any discharge down there?"

"No, sir."

“I think you’re fine. We’ll send the blood out for a complete analysis but all the preliminary signs tell me you are negative. I’ll need to do this test again in two or three months and one more six months from now. These tests are precautionary to make certain. I’ll check in with your dad, when it’s time to test again. I’ve been told to give the result as negative to Mr. Burgess at your school. Is that your understanding?”

“Yes, sir.”

“I’d avoid sexual contact with anyone for the time being. Until we have the complete results back there is some risk.”

“Yes, sir.”

Once again Marina was watching me as I went back through the clinic to leave. I pretended not to notice.

My bike seemed a lot smaller than I remembered, but everything did from my house, to the school, to the town where I lived. I could still get lost riding my bike. Many times I'd found myself peddling along a strange area with no idea of how I got there. It was no different on this day.

My mind was forever racing along from one subject to another. Today I remembered all the kids from San Francisco as I rode home. I remembered our conversations and the days we roamed around looking for something to eat or looking for something other than ourselves we could sell to make money enough to get something really good to eat. I remembered I was suspicious of everyone but the boys I ran around with.

I was several miles beyond my house when I turned around to go home the second time. How many of them had it? Who was still there and where had the rest of them gone. Did any of them remember the awkward kid that seemed so out of place among them? Who was I? Why didn't I belong anywhere?

I missed Ralphie. We always rode our bikes together, but now I road mine alone. I was still angry with him. I didn’t think I still hated him but I wasn’t ready to forgive him for leaving me. My life was more difficult without him.

I had stopped next to a curb and I was just sitting there like a dope as kids passed me laughing and enjoying the nice day around them. I recovered my sense of direction and looked for the easiest way home. I wondered if I could simply ride away from my life? It seemed like I could that day but my brain relearned a partial focus by the time I got home.

I beat my father home by half an hour. We sat together at the dinner table and I asked for each item I wanted politely.

“Please may I have the potatoes?”

My mother smiled remembering her polite little boy from before. I excused myself when I was done and thanked her for a nice dinner. She continued smiling and let herself believe her little boy was home.

That was the night I cried most of the night. The pain came from someplace deep inside me. It was a throbbing aching affair. It wasn’t about testing negative for the AIDS. It wasn’t because I faced a rough road ahead. There was no good reason for the tears. I could have died on those streets but I didn’t cry about it. The streets were hard but fair. You knew what was ahead of you each day. If you got enough to eat it was a good day, a very good day.

I’d never really cried over Ralphie. My anger and hatred over what he’d done protected me from the feelings that came with losing my best friend, but then, my life had been about escaping his memory and all the things that reminded me of him. I dreamed of going to a place where I could be accepted as is. What I’d found was people too fond of a party. I was as invisible to them as I was at home.

I was home and it was time to cry for my friend. Everything I did and every place I went reminded me of him. There was no way I could avoid my feelings, but my anger scared me. I could not let it get out of hand. It was time to cry, not so much for him, as for the void he left me with. I’d deal with the anger at another time. Ralphie was the only person I’d ever confided in about the real me. The one thing I could have told him that might have saved his life, “Ralphie, I’m gay.”

I hadn’t said it and he died not knowing it. He died thinking he was alone. He never told me he was gay for the same reason I never told him I was. The risk was too great. Little had I known the risk of remaining silent was even greater. Ralphie was dead, and I was alone, and I cried.

Chapter 2

School Days

I went to the office and asked for my schedule. It had been placed in Mr. Burgess’ mailbox. They brought back the schedule and a stack of books. The girl behind the counter leaned on her elbows to report,

“You didn’t miss much. I’m in your English Lit class. We talked about some of the books we liked on Tuesday. We were off for the teachers’ meeting Wednesday, and we’re reading passages from our favorite books before we pick one for the class to read.”

“Oh, thank you,” I said, remembering that I was trying to be nice.

“You’re going to need to report to the nurse after homeroom,” she revealed.

“How do you know that?”

“Mr. Burgess hands me the notes he puts in the teacher’s mailboxes. One told the nurse to call you for an evaluation before you go to class.”

“You read all the messages he writes?”

“Just the more interesting ones. It keeps me from falling asleep on the job.”

I had to sit in the back of the homeroom class. Most of the seats were already assigned. It was just as well. Before I reported to my speech class I stopped at the nurse’s office so I didn’t need to make my exit in front of everyone.

“Oh, Billie Joe, I was just going to call you out of first period. Are you feeling ill?”

“No, ma’am,” I said. “I heard it through the grapevine that you wanted to see me.”

“Oh, well, yes I do. What did the grapevine have to say about the purpose of the meeting,” she inquired.

“They didn’t say, but I expect it is to make certain I’m not bonkers and likely to go nutso in school or anything, which I’m not if my opinion interests you?”

“Of course it does. While being bonkers would require a professional diagnosis, I want to let you know I’m here if you would like to talk. If you are feeling pressured or merely want to talk I want you to feel free to come to me.”

“Thank you. I’ll keep that in mind,” I said, trying to sound delighted.

“Fine. You have your schedule and your books?”

“Yes, ma’am,” I said, before going off to make my late entrance into speech class.

She seemed content that I wasn’t going to shoot the place up in my spare time. Little did she suspect that it was far more likely I might love the place up.

I stayed to myself and only interacted in class if I was called on. Speech and drama were loosely structured to encouraging the students to participate. Psychology was equally as casual with reading from the text required. I had the same teacher in English and English Lit, which consisted of equal amounts of reading, discussion, and writing. English required the only serious concentration.

I did my impression of the silent man the first few days. Getting myself to focus was the hard part. I was easily distracted, usually by my own thoughts. My fear of being confronted by what I had done last summer hadn’t surfaced and most kids seemed oblivious to my misadventures.

The teachers didn’t treat me any different from other students in their class. Being behind from the start required extra reading to catch up with the class. By the end of the first week I’d caught up. I wasn’t a good student. My grades reflected as much. I was going to do better by spending more time getting my grades up. It would help to pass the time and was far easier than looking for ways to avoid doing the work, which was how I did it before.

I read the book we’d decided to read in English Literature and caught up on all my homework by the first weekend after returning to school. My worries about the return to school seemed unfounded. Any talk about my disappearance hadn’t penetrated any of my classes, although it was a good size school and I was taking quite a mix and match group of subjects that tended toward the more creative minds and less toward the more violent among us.

My parents and I called a truce. Meals were where we met most often. I always complimented my mother’s cooking and I thanked her. I was thankful I no longer needed to rummage through dumpsters for my food.

The weekend went by all too swiftly and being home for ten days erased any casual reflections on my summer. It was late at night when I was haunted by the streets, the fear, and the feeling of being lost and wandering in a wilderness unknown to me.

Monday morning I was in front of my locker when I saw George Phelps coming down the hallway toward me. I’d forgotten about Marina Phelps seeing me at the clinic. Seeing her did upset me at the time, because if she learned anything about the purpose of my visit she would have shared it with George.

As I cradled some books in one arm, I reached into my locker for more. George stopped beside me even as I was trying to ignore him. Placing his hand in the middle of my books, he pushed downward until they fell on the floor.

It had begun.

I was half in and half out of my locker, trying to recover my balance as my books clattered to the floor. My initial reaction was to explode all over his big fat ass, but in my head I saw the face of Mr. Burgess and his warning to me.

One wrong move and I was going to be out of school no matter how pleasant Mr. Burgess sounded. No one had said it, but I knew they were looking for any sign that my presence was going to cause trouble. It made no difference whose fault the trouble was. I was the one being watched.

I focused on keeping my balance and ignoring him. He kicked the leg that was keeping me from falling and I ended up on the floor on top of my books. It was easy to see the hatred on his face. We’d never been friends but we’d never come to blows.

"Faggot," he snarled under his breath as several of his friends laughed and looked back at the scene of me being on the floor.

As George moved along to rejoin them, his goon squad gave him high fives. They kept walking when I failed to jump up to defend my honor. Our parents had been friends all my life, but I never liked George and I avoided him at gatherings when we went as families to socialize at special community events. George was obnoxious yet he’d never been confrontational, but he’d never been in a position to cause me trouble before my excursion.

I was a bit embarrassed as I ended up on my hands and knees while kids had gathered to see the goings on. Someone reached down and picked up a couple of books and someone else offered me a hand up.

Standing and taking the books, I said, “Thanks,” checking to see which books I needed and which went back into my locker.

“You can’t let him get away with that,” a strong confident voice explained.

I looked up and away from my books to find people walking in both directions. I wasn’t able to pick out the owner of the voice. I looked down the hall and back up the hall, but my time on view had passed. It was time to be in homeroom and that’s where I headed. I wondered if the voice had come from inside my head but didn’t know.

I understood I couldn’t let George push me around, but there was a bigger picture involved. If I had to fight George and his buddies, it had to come off school grounds. Avoiding him had always worked, and I would continue avoiding him if it was possible.

Later that week it became obvious it was no longer possible. Gym class was always a break in my day. It came before lunch, which was great timing. On Friday it rained, so we weren’t allowed outside to play touch football or softball. I dressed and reported to the gym with the other three classes that took gym at the same time.

There was something called murder ball that the gym teachers loved to employ on days when we were all inside at the same time. This left the gym crowded and created a target-rich environment. There was something like a rubber ball of the type used in kickball with half the air taken out. This diminishing of the air made the impact or being hit with the ball easy to hear and see. The ball was thrown into the middle of over a hundred kids and the object was to hit someone on the other half of the floor. Once you were hit you sat down on the edge of the gym floor.

This was your basic madhouse with guys on one side of the gym trying to hit guys on the other side of the gym. As guys were hit and sat down, the madhouse became less mad and the sounds of the game consisted of a thud, a loud “Ouch!” from the kid hit and cheers and applause from that side’s already disqualified members.

I mingled in the midst of the mob for the first half of the game, but it became more difficult to stay out of the line of fire. I did not suspect or sense that the game was about to become serious until I heard a loud scream from behind me and there was a sudden sharp pain between my shoulder blades.

The next thing I knew I was lying on my back looking at the ceiling. The odd part of it was the ball was on our side of the floor and I had been hit from behind. I was hit by my own man, I reasoned as I tried to start breathing again. That’s when I heard George’s primal scream.

"He's got AIDS. Fucking faggot has AIDS."

I became aware of someone holding me up by the front of my shorts so only my soar shoulders touched the floor ever so slightly.

“Go ahead and breathe. It’ll only hurt for a little while. Breathe, damn it!”

The first inhalation of air was like sucking down jagged glass. I gulped air for a minute or two before the gym teacher stopped assisting me.

“Go sit down. You’ll be okay.”

“Where the fuck is he?” I growled, trying to get up.

“Cool your tool, youngster. He’s a bit out of your weight class. He’s being taken care of.”

Lunch wasn’t all it could have been. I had a headache and my stomach didn’t have its mind on the food. I made it to my next class without enthusiasm. I’d just gotten settled when the call came.

“Billie Joe Walker Jr., please report to Mr. Burgess in his office right away.”

I collected my books and headed for the door.

“Mr. Burgess called me out of class,” I announced to the girl at the counter as she looked up from the morning paper to point at his office door.

She pointed at his office without speaking.

When I got inside the door, I saw George sitting in front of the vice-principal’s desk. I dropped my books and went after him. My oath to myself not to give George what he wanted didn’t come to mind. Mr. Burgess, probably expecting trouble, intercepted me at the corner of his desk. George bravely stood up once Mr. Burgess was between us. I ended up sitting in the other chair in front of the desk, after Mr. Burgess dragged it a safe distance from where George sat. I breathed heavily and glared at George.

“Okay, that’s it. Both of you are walking a fine line. Mr. Walker I’m disappointed in you for several reasons. I thought our talk last week made it clear you would come to me if you ran into trouble,” he said, straightening his sports coat and tie.

I looked at George and he was glaring at me. Do I get anything from either of you two that explains your behavior in gym class and now here.”

“He’s got AIDS. He’s a faggot like his dead faggy friend. They were fagging each other.”

“You don’t know your facts very well. Maybe if I give you three days off to think about it, you might have a change of heart,” Mr. Burgess said as he jotted something down on a message slip. “You’re suspended until next Thursday morning. Get out of my sight and don’t try to con your parents. They’ll be receiving a call from me to explain the suspension.”

George grabbed the note from the vice-principal’s hand and acted like he was going after me as he moved past my chair. I started up out of my seat to meet him half way, but he turned toward the door before we could clash.

Mr. Burgess drummed his fingers and shook his head as he looked at me.

“You weren’t going to talk about the AIDS test,” he said, sounding disappointed.

“I didn’t. I’m not a fool. Why would I tell that asshole?”

“Mr. Walker, let’s keep it civil. How does he know if you didn’t tell someone?”

“His mother works at the clinic. She saw me. I saw her talking to the nurse that took my blood. She figured the rest out on her own.”

“It does complicate matters,” he said, drumming his fingers some more.

“Well, I could give you the same treatment I gave Phelps, but the gym teachers agree he came at you from behind and blindsided you. That leaves you in a gym class with a hundred boys any of whom might hold what Phelps said against you. What if I let you transfer to study hall that period? You don’t need that credit.”

“What if I agree to drop gym if you transfer me to an extra class in drama or speech. They’re both interesting in a way I didn’t expect.”

“I’ll speak to the teachers. It’s highly unusual, but under the circumstances, if you assure me you’ll come to me if Phelps causes any more trouble anywhere at any time, I’ll ask both teachers to consider allowing you in the third period class.”

“I can’t avoid George. We go to the same school and he’s gunning for me. I come to you and I’m a marked man. Being a crybaby isn’t my style, Mr. Burgess. I can fight if I need to fight. I can take care of myself,” I explained as he seemed to listen to every word without interrupting me.

“I heard about the incident in the hall. If you had come to me I couldn’t have headed this off. I understand this puts you in a bad situation. My job is to protect you and keep you in school. Anything at school, anything at all, if he looks at you sideways, I want to know about it. Whatever happens off school property is your business. Is that satisfactory? I’ll tell him I’ll expel him the next time and that will probably keep him away from you here, but he’s your typical asshole bully. He’s come at you twice from behind. He doesn’t want a fair fight. I can’t sanction you two fighting, but if it comes to pass off of school property, I’ll turn a blind eye and figure it couldn’t be avoided.”

“Thanks,” I said. “That’s acceptable. I won’t fight him if I can avoid it.”

“There will be pressure put on me if you do fight off campus. I’ll do what I can to deflect it but not fighting is the best idea. Fighting never solves problems.”

“Yes, sir,” I said.

Over the next few days I was asked about my AIDS test. There was only one way anyone knew, and it all went back to Marina Phelps and her son George. While I had no intention of hiding what I was, I also didn't have any intention of facing the entire student body to explain my sexuality or my HIV status. It didn't seem that should be a required part of the curriculum.

It took that entire week for me to consider leaving. I even thought about going out to stay with Earl and go to school just up the street from his house, but I knew that would be worse than listening to the bigots each day. While George was a pain in my ass, I was surprised that no one else found it necessary to harass me. After George made his announcement in gym, I expected to hear from the other bullies in school. This could create more to be afraid of.

Guys were always calling one another faggot and worse. It was possible that the buzz created by George’s attack on me could be seen as pure viciousness, because he hit me from behind, which was seen as dirty pool by most boys. It was possible his verbal attack would be seen the same way. George Phelps was arrogant as well as a bully. He wasn’t going to win any popularity contests. If my adversary was better positioned in school and respected, the damage would have been permanent. It was never good to be called a fag, but if someone was going to hit you with the label, it was better when it came from a fat bozo like George. His only standing came from his followers who weren’t smart enough to have a personality of their own.

By the time George returned to school the memory of what he said would have faded. Getting out of gym was no great loss. It meant I would no longer be there as a reminder of what took place. Gym was probably the most dangerous place for any outcast. I wasn’t giving up much, but I was reducing my exposure to danger, or so it seemed.

Fear was easy to identify. Simply the act of living on the street had certain dangers attached to it, and with them came a cautious fear. While I felt fear about a lot of people knowing too much about me and what I’d done, the level of anger I felt boiling inside me blunted the cautious fear significantly. As unsettling as the fear was to face, the anger worried me more. I didn’t know when it would surface and I couldn’t control it when it did. I worried that I could seriously hurt someone without intending to do it. This was a remnant of the street I hadn’t bargained for.

You learned to live with fear by listening to the signals coming from your own mind. You didn’t so much live with anger as you kept it under control. Once your back is against the wall it’s anger that brings you out fighting.

I wasn’t scared of George. I did fear his words. I didn't know what I was capable of doing if cornered. At times I was barely able to stay in control.

Chapter 3

Simon Betts

Life at home went back to the way it was before I took the summer off. I didn't let the little stuff bother me anymore. If I got into it with my father, I just went to my room. He no longer forced me to listen to his tirades. Whenever we had a run in, he always backed down a lot earlier than previously. Maybe I was getting older and therefore deserved more room. I suspected it had more to do with my leaving home again and his not wanting to deal with my mother blaming him if I did leave again.

I don't know if he considered his outbursts normal or called for, but I didn't. If you really wanted something from someone or if there was a communication problem, you need only sit down and talk about it. My father and I never sat down to talk. He came to yell and complain when something I'd done didn't live up to his standards. I no longer cared about his standards and he knew it. This short circuited his anger when he realized his rants were futile.

Mother went along as always being the peace maker. For her it was about keeping me at home and she’d take my side and ply me with baked goods and desserts when my father was out. It wasn’t that much different from what I grew up with and I tried to do nothing to feed my father’s disapproval rating.

It was easiest to retire to my room at the first possible opportunity and leave them to fight it out. This gave me more time to spend on my studies to keep my grades up. I wouldn’t expect to find any happiness until school was behind me. I was in survival mode and expected no assistance.

The day after I was ambushed in gym class I got two notes. One note said I should report to drama class instead of gym class. How fortuitous was that. My life was drama and it made me laugh although the students around me saw nothing funny. The second note said that I was to report to Mr. Lindsey in his office third period. Mr. Lindsey being my former gym teacher, I didn’t like the sound of it. I smelled a lecture coming about standing up like a man. ‘Go out and buy yourself a forty-five and blow the assholes brains out, Walker.’

Ah, nice plan, but I was a lover and not a blower-out of brains. I didn’t know what it meant but I knew I should see him before I ended up bringing my drama to the drama class when he came to ask why the hell I hadn’t reported to him as ordered.

His door was open when I got there.

“Shut the door and sit down,” Mr. Lindsey said, looking at some papers.

I sat waiting for his attention.

“You’re withdrawing from gym?” he asked, not wasting any time.

“The VP’s idea,” I said.

“I’m sorry to hear that, Walker. You know that you can’t let him beat you down without responding. You’re handing Phelps a victory even if he did get suspended. That kind always sees victory in the fact you didn’t retaliate. He’ll see your withdrawing in that light.”

“I don’t care about him,” I said. “Mr. Burgess asked me to drop gym class and that’s what I did. He’s the only one between me and being expelled.”

I leaned back in the chair and separated the blinds that covered the windows. It gave me a view of the floor of the gym.

“That’s how you guys know whenever we’re screwing around? Neat.”

“Walker, I want you to know that if you continue to have trouble with Phelps, I want to know about it. I’d have been able to convince him to think twice before he went after someone in my class again, but with you leaving it will make it a bit more difficult. He’ll see it as a win. He’ll see it as having you on the run. I can’t protect you if you aren’t here.”

“Why would you want to protect me? The halls are a lonely place.”

“There are certain things in this world that need changing. One of them is guys like Phelps going after guys like you.”

“Guys like me?” I repeated with a question.

“There is right and there is wrong. Phelps is wrong and anything that encourages him is wrong. When guys like me see a guy like him, we wait for a chance to make them right. You aren’t alone in life, son. I want you to remember that if you have any more trouble. My door is always open to you if you want to talk or if you have a problem. That’s it. Go on to whatever class you have to replace this one. Here’s a note to give to your teacher.”

“Drama,” I said as I stood up.

“Something creative? That’s probably better for you than gym anyway”

“We don’t all sing show tunes,” I said for an exit line, sensing he meant no harm..

“Some of us do,” Mr. Lindsey said, smiling as I looked back in reaction to the comment.

It wasn’t what I expected and what he’d said might have meant something and might have meant nothing. There was no way for me to know, except now I had two teachers who expected me to come to them with my problems. It wasn’t likely, but the knowledge made my life easier. I wasn’t completely alone.

Some of the kids in my third period drama class were in my speech class. I handed Mr. Elliott the note from Mr. Lindsey. He tossed it on his desk and never looked at it. He went on with what he was saying when I entered.

His discussion was on what senior play we’d decide to perform. There were a number of selections that every senior class considered high drama. I would work back stage and do whatever labor was required to get the scenery up and running. The bell rang and I was ready for lunch.

“Mr. Walker, might I have a word with you?”

I stopped in the middle of my charge for the door and sat down in front of his desk.

“Mr. Walker, I’m bending over backwards so you can slip out of gym class. Don’t be late again or you’ll have a study hall in place of a second dose of drama. Now, you are taking two spots up in my class. That means I will expect twice the work. When everyone else is ready to leave for home, you’ll still owe me time. That means I don’t want any complaints if I need something done and you’re the guy who has to give me extra time to complete a project. Are we on the same page?”

“Yes, sir, not a problem. My parents might want an explanation, but you won’t get any complaints from me. I’m looking forward to it,” I said, stretching the truth a bit.

“You ever done any acting?” he asked.

“No, sir, I’ll do better backstage.”

“So you aren’t giving me some kind of snow job?”

“No, sir.”

“Okay, just so we understand one another. Be on time tomorrow.”

“Yes, sir,” I said, making my getaway.

I didn’t sense Mr. Elliot was a bad guy, although if he asked, why drama, the answer would have failed me. I had little interest in stage shows and standing out in a crowd, but there was something fascinating about creating a different world in the middle of this one.

There were more elements than I could conceive but the idea of escaping real life, even for a few hours a day, seemed pleasant to me. I had nothing against most people I encountered, but I felt close to no one. My ability to trust people as I once had was muted. Perhaps if I was around some people I developed some kind of relationship with, it would give me people to trust on some level.

Mr. Burgess, Mr. Lindsey, and Mr. Elliot were all trying to be nice to me, but I didn’t trust them with anything. I could talk to them about my feelings or fears. They were men I could be around without feeling pressured, but that wasn’t trust. To most of my teachers I was a face in a seat in a room. They did what they did and I did what was expected of me.

When Mr. Burgess gave me the list of available classes, drama and speech jumped off the page. I knew nothing about either, but when stacked up against the other options, these offered some modest amount of freedom. I had a desire to speak well and to be able to work with and around other people, while being part of team that was trying to accomplish something meaningful.

I got the results of my AIDS test back the day I changed classes. There were no signs of any STDs. I took the results up to my room and tucked it into my sock drawer. It was better than I could have expected, but I thought about Walt and Ty. I dialed their number and spread out on my bed.

“Hey, Billie Joe,” I said, as soon as Walt answered. “How you doing?”

“About the same, Billie Joe. How are you?”

“Fine. I miss my freedom but I eat regular now. How’s Ty?”

“You ask him,” he said and I could hear Ty’s voice in the background.

“What’s up good looking,” he said.

“I was just thinking about you. I’m negative. Just got my test results.”

“That’s great, Billie Joe. I’m so glad for you. I was worried about you.”

“Not much to worry about. I’m living the good life.”

We talked for about five minutes and then said goodbye. San Francisco seemed so far away after a few weeks at home. But I could still remember Ty and the rest of the boys as if it was yesterday. It was hard to believe I might never see any of them again. I really didn’t miss the street or the constant search for food and comfort, but the memories I did have made me determined to stick it out at home until graduation.

The next day in drama class, Simon Betts came in and sat beside me. We were back discussing which play we wanted to perform as the senior play. Simon kept staring at me, but I ignored him. The same names kept coming up. I Do, I Do, Death of a Salesman, and Inherit the Wind.

There were cries that these plays had been done to death and we should consider something new and exciting. Then there was the reality that we were in high school and something new and exciting might not get the approval of the administration.

Then Margie Lanett stood to say, “Inherit the Wind tells a story about a teacher who dared to teach evolution in the nineteen twenties in Tennessee. The play is about the trial.”

“We all know what the play’s about, Margie. It’s ancient history. Let’s do something contemporary,” Paul Wilson said with gusto.

“There was a similar case just argued in Pennsylvania. The difference was they argued that creationism, now intelligent design, should be taught alongside Darwin’s theory of evolution. The argument was they are both theories and deserve equal treatment. How contemporary can it get?”

Inherit the Wind won easily.

“An excellent choice,” Mr. Elliot agreed. “I’d have never put those two cases together myself but it does shine a new light on the Scopes trial.”

“It’s a really good play. The others are simply simple,” Simon said to me.

“Oh,” I said, glancing at him then glancing away.

The problem with Simon Betts is everyone knew he was gay. While I might be gay, I didn’t advertise it. Simon had these deep blue eyes, a delicate pale complexion and lips that made most girls jealous. Simon was on the exact opposite side of the spectrum from George Phelps. I wanted to be somewhere in the middle. Most people might think I was gay, but I didn’t give them anything to go on. Simon didn’t see it that way.

“You him?” he asked.

"Him who?" I said.

"Billie Joe Walker. You’re him. A little older looking perhaps, but you’re him."

"You left off the Jr," I said. "I'm a junior. Billie Joe Walker is my father. I’m not my father."

"Sorry, Junior. You got it or not?" he asked as though he expected me to answer.

"What?"

"You know what? Do you have it?"

"Fuck you. Who the hell are you?" I asked in my most indignant voice.

"Simon Betts. I don’t care one way or the other. I heard you been tested. Damn, I haven't even been kissed yet.”

I knew who he was. That was a good reason to avoid him. Everyone knew Simon and associating with him created certain perceptions. Simon and I might be in the same boat, but we were paddling in different directions. He was always paddling against the current, while I went with it. I felt sorry for him but he’d done fine without my help. I didn’t like going it alone but ending up like Simon, seen as a sissy-boy, wasn’t possible for me. Simon wasn’t able to hide being gay and I had no intention of fighting that battle if avoidable.

The other problem with Simon was the girls who mostly adored him and especially his clothes. He was a lot more at home in the middle of a bunch of girls than he was with boys. It seemed smart to leave well enough alone.

If people wanted to talk there was nothing I could do about it, but I wouldn’t give them anything to verify their suspicions. I had more in common with Simon than anyone else, but I didn’t want to fight my way through my senior year by keeping company with him. Simon was poison and avoiding him was easy even if it felt wrong. I wasn’t his protector. We’d never been friends. Why should I worry about him?

Once again, being gay had me doing things to keep it secret. This was why I left home, and now I was doing things to hide the fact. Getting through my last year of high school depended on me keeping a low profile. It wouldn’t be easy.

“I mean, I know I shouldn't ask right out, but there is no polite way to inquire. Hi, I’m Simon Betts. I love peach pie. Do you have AIDS? It doesn’t work for me. How about you?”

“I can’t imagine why?” I said, trying to ignore him. But I’d already lost track of the class.

“If I don't talk to you about it, I don't talk to anyone. I figure you aren't winning any popularity contests with Phelps spreading rumors all over school about you.”

“George Phelps doesn’t know what he’s talking about and neither do you.”

“Have it your own way. I’m as good as it gets as far as companionship is concerned. Don’t expect a lot of people to be knocking your door down to get to know you.”

“I’ll be fine. Thank you for your concern,” I said.

“I know you must be discussing the play, gentlemen. I can stop the class and allow you to have the floor if you like,” Mr. Elliot offered, before continuing.

"You really aren't out to win any popularity contests," Simon said. “I don’t care where you’ve been or what you’ve done. I’ll still talk to you.”

"I don't know how I’ve survived without you. Why should I tell you about my private life?" I said dismissively.

"Maybe because you’ve always maintained a low profile. Maybe because your best friend killed himself and left a note. Maybe because there aren’t many of us. A couple admit to it. We can either talk to each other or keep our mouth’s shut. You look like you can carry on a conversation if you put your mind to it."

“Looks are deceiving.”

“You two like to share with the rest of the class? You come late and now you disrupt our discussion. If you don’t want to contribute please be quiet enough to allow me to conduct class.”

I glared at Simon and he shrugged and smiled before saying, “Sorry about Ralphie. He was okay.”

It was no secret that Ralphie and I were best friends. Where you saw one of us you’d see the other. I was mostly alone now. I didn’t attempt to interact with anyone. Friendship had proven to be painful. I’d been down a long dark road after Ralphie died, and I hadn’t come all the way back yet. I didn’t need to complicate my life with Simon.

Simon Betts was a target in elementary school. He was pretty and dressed in brightly colored clothes. The other boys teased him unmercifully, jealous about his uninhibited nature. Ralphie and I had never interceded on his behalf. We were both concerned by the way he was treated but not enough to stick our necks out. It was elementary school where conformity was king and blending in was mandatory, except for Simon Betts who had the admiration of all the girls.

I looked at Simon Betts. He looked harmless. He wasn't very big. He looked at me through lazy blue eyes and studied my face with his chin resting on the backs of his hands which he’d placed on top of the books he’d placed on top of the desk.

"Are you always this pleasant or is it my lucky day? Is it true what they say about him?"

"What's that?" I asked.

“He was gay. That’s what I heard. If I’d known he was I would have talked to him. I didn’t know and most guys don’t want me talking to them for fear of what will be said about them. I know what lonely is, Billie Joe Walker Jr. I’m just saying you aren’t alone if you don’t want to be.”

“Why would you talk to him?” I asked, realizing I was his best friend and I had never talked to him about something that might have saved his life.

"So we don't feel so alone. I mean we get lonely and it hurts. There isn’t anyone to talk to about it. I would have told him he could talk to me.”

“We talked all the time,” I objected, denying he could have done something I couldn’t do.

“You didn’t talk about what he needed to talk about. If you don’t talk about it to someone you can end up like Ralphie. That’s all I’m saying to you. If you need to talk I’m a good listener.”

“Thanks,” I said, not appreciating the offer and not liking to be told it was my fault he was dead.

“I'm not into doing a solo here. You can respond in complete sentences if you like. It won’t confuse me."

"How long you been gay?" I asked, realizing I was opening up the conversation, but I couldn’t be a total jerk.

"How long? How do I know? All my freaking life is how long. How long? What you want, a number? I got up one morning when I was seven and I decided I might like being ostracized and humiliated for the rest of my life to make life interesting. How long? I am. There is no how long or how. I simply am. It’s not a matter of nomenclature. It’s biological reality.”

“How were you so sure at such an early age? I never thought about it at that age.”

“I liked playing with girls, but I wanted to look at boys.”

“That’s weird.”

“I’m not saying it’s the same for everyone. That’s how I knew.”

“It’s weird because I never thought about it.”

“So sue me for blossoming early. You don't remember me, do you? From elementary school I mean? You were strange then too.”

“I was strange? Give me a break.”

“I never figured you for gay. Ralphie neither, but he left that note. I think it’s easier to admit it than to hide it. For some people hiding it makes their lives miserable and they do what Ralphie did."

"I remember you. You still act funny. Why are you so casual about it?" I asked.

"Not. I just know who I am. You want I should pretend not to be me and then spend the next twenty years on a psychiatric couch trying to straighten it all out? You must excuse the imagery.”

“Gentlemen, I would like both of you to read for the Scopes’ role. It’s not a big roll but it is essential to the play. Maybe that will get you talking to us instead of each other.”

“Why do they call it the Scopes’ trial if Scopes isn’t a central character,” I asked, not wanting to face the reason he wanted Simon and me to read for the part.

“The trial, the setting of the play, is about the two lawyers arguing creationism vs. evolution. Scopes himself was a peripheral character. The two lawyers realized they would take center stage at a time when the teaching of evolution was against the law. Once it gained notoriety, it was no longer about Scopes. It was science vs. the Holy Bible.”

“Oh,” I said as the bell rang.

I intended to beat Simon out of class and make my way to the cafeteria, but he wasn’t easy to lose. I decided to get the interview over with and end it today rather than have him hanging around me. He stood behind me in line as we moved past the food selections of the day.

I paid for my food and headed for the empty tables in the far left corner of the lunchroom. By the time I moved my milk and implements off the tray Simon was sitting across from me.

“So why are you so interested in my story?”

“I don’t know anyone with the testicles to do what you’ve done. You've been pointed out to me any number of times in the past couple of weeks. People assume we know each other. I remembered you and Ralphie were the only two boys who didn’t pick on me in elementary school. I was always grateful for that.”

“Not much point. You caught enough hell,” I said. “We should have done more.”

“You’re crazy. Nothing you could have done would have made any difference, except maybe to make your lives miserable.”

“We didn’t know anything about anything.”

“Some of the girls think we’re friends. The guys think we’re bonking each other.”

“They what?”

“You’ve got to get inside their heads. They think we’re doing it because they know they’d be doing it every chance they got if they were gay. I know, it doesn’t make any sense but what does with teenage boys?”

“It’s a little different on the street. When you’re trying to survive it erases all the lines between who and what you are,” I said thoughtfully, knowing it was something I knew all about.

“I figure I can always use one more friend, since I don't have any. Doesn’t seem like you’re going to have many offers once the rumors finish making the rounds at school."

"How is it everyone knows me?" I said.

"Talk," Simon said. “George Phelps isn’t much, but he has a way of spreading his venom about the people he decides to hate.”

"What kind of talk is he spreading?" I asked.

"You've been tested for AIDS. That’s a deal killer when it comes to making friends. The rest is left to the imagination of the boys he associates with.”

“What’s to talk about. I had to have the test to get back in school. It don’t mean nothing.”

“Oh, Billie Joe. Your best friend offs himself because he’s gay. You run off and when you come back you’re tested for AIDS. It doesn’t take much to figure out why?”

“What the hell is it to him or any of his buddies? I don’t care what they think.”

"What's it like?"

"What?"

"AIDS. Testing. You must be scared. I'm scared talking about it."

"Stop talking about it. I tested negative. Not that it is anyone's business. It made the school happy. My parents agreed to it and I didn’t resist."

"You're going to be okay?" he asked with sympathetic concern.

"I've got to get tested up to six months. After that I'm clean. Any time until then I might test positive. Nothing I can do about it now."

"You did something so you could get it?"

"No, it was a virgin birth type thingy. You know, like with J.C. Yeah! I did some stupid stuff. Drugs. Alcohol. Sex. All the biggies. Not my intellectual period. Not that I've had one yet."

"Wow! What was it like?"

"I don't remember most of it. Lots of grunting and groaning. I sweat a lot. Mostly I was high, hungry, and scared. Touching someone, holding them close helps fight the fear. I remember that much.”

“Yes, I’d think it would.”

“I was scared a lot. This is a piece of cake compared to the street. Don't get on the street if you don't have to. It's dangerous out there."

"I would never be able to live on the street. What were you scared of?"

"I don't know. I was scared I’d die. I was scared I wouldn’t die. I didn't know what was going to happen to me. I was out there and there was no one to protect me. I didn't think I'd live through it. Kids younger than me didn’t live through it. It’s a scary place to be."

"Why didn't you come home?"

"I don't know, Simon. I don't have the answers. I'm a stupid kid. How do I know? I didn't, and then I did. It’s easier to keep doing what you know than to change it."

"Then why did you come home?"

"I knew if I didn't, I'd die. Seemed like reason enough. I was out of control totally, but I knew it and some good people helped pull me back from self destructing. Once I realized I could go home, I went home. Because I spent all my time trying get enough to eat and stay safe, I never thought about going home. I went looking for something that didn’t exist. Once I realized that, I was ready to go home."

“What did you go looking for?” Simon asked, leaning closer.

I looked around to make certain Simon’s ears were the only ears to hear the answer.

“I thought I could find a gay community. There is none. It’s a myth. I expected people who know what it is like growing up gay might want to help me. All they wanted was to find a good party with young, hot available guys.”

"How'd you know that?"

“I was in San Francisco, Simon. There is no place to go once you’re on the street. It’s not much different than here. Everyone is too busy to see you or to care about why you are on the street.”

“You got guts, Billie Joe. I can tell you that much,” Simon said with an admiration for my quest.

“That’s the entire story,” I said.

"If you need to talk you can talk to me. I'm a good listener and I don’t betray a confidence. I'll try to ignore your mouth."

"I don't have much to say. I'm putting in time until I graduate. Then I’m gone for good."

It was the following week near my locker, when I saw James Combs pushing Simon. He was calling him faggot and he just kept shoving him backwards while ten kids stood there watching. I felt it as it came over me. I knew why. Simon had offered me friendship now that I was the outcast. I couldn’t stay out of it no matter how easy it would have been to walk away.

James was from the George Phelps school of manners. Fighting was never my first response to bullying, because usually bullies picked on smaller kids and those least likely to respond. I wasn’t big but I was street smartened. My three years of Karate came to mind. Ralphie and I were kids and attended classes for self defense. Nothing came to mind as I considered the prospect that James could take offense at my interruption. It wasn’t a well thought out plan.

Simon held his books tightly to his body and didn’t respond, backing up to keep an arm’s length between him and his adversary. It ran through my mind that he should drop all but the biggest book and deliver it to the side of his tormentor’s head, but he didn’t. I knew I had to take Simon’s side because of all the times I’d remained mute as some other bully targeted him for punishment. I wasn’t able to keep my distance any longer.

I had it in mind to go over and politely suggest he stop pushing Simon around. It was an uncomplicated plan for a simple minded kind of guy.

"Uh, excuse me, but why don't you pick on someone your own size. James?"

That wasn’t meant to suggest that he might think about pushing someone else around or lay me out while he thought over my comment, but that’s what he did. I’d been careful to stand to the rear and a few feet to his left as I spoke, but a quick jab from his right hand decked me. I was more surprised than damaged.

It was swift and sudden and for a few seconds I didn’t know what hit me. James came to stand over me. His fists stayed ready for my reply and as I regrouped, Simon was heading up the hall away from us. Well, he couldn’t defend himself and I didn’t expect him to jump in on my account.

“Come on, get up,” he ordered from his fighter’s stance. “Smart move,” he taunted as his intensity drew down and my head cleared.

At this point I reached for the side of my face, discovering the blood dripping from my nose.

There was a silent rage burning within me. I’d brought it home from my sojourn. There was no particular place to unload it or to even know where it came from, but lying there with James Combs triumphantly standing over me ignited the fuse.

I was very aware of where he was without looking at him and as long as he stood over me, I focused on my nose and my blood as I boiled inside. As he made a half turn away from me, I sprang up, punching the side of his face with all the force I had. He bent at the waist, trying to protect his face as my fists flailed. His glasses skittered across the floor as I punched away.

“Hey! Hey! Hey!” came the screams of someone who obviously thought he was in charge, and then Mr. Burgess came between us as I continued to punch James Combs from under the arm of the vice-principal, but he finally got us under control.

As Mr. Burgess held me back with one hand he checked James over for obvious damage. I could see the blood smeared by my punches all over his face. At first I thought it was my blood, but when I felt my nose it was still just a trickle.

“He broke my glasses,” James hollered like a big baby.

“Take him to the nurse,” Mr. Burgess ordered a girl who had accompanied Mr. Burgess to the scene.

The kids in the hallway moved past us in two lines going in opposite directions. They looked as though there had been a fender bender on the highway and they slowed down as they passed the accident scene to take a good look. Most of them had no idea what the meeting was about, but it would be all over school in short order.

“Come on, Walker. Maybe I need to draw you a map about how I expect you to conduct yourself.”

I walked in front of him and each time I slowed down he shoved me from behind, until we reached the front of the school. Once we reached his office he took out his handkerchief and handed it to me.

“Wipe the blood off your face,” he said, and I wiped my nose.

“What? We going to do a show here or what?” Mr. Burgess barked as Simon slipped into the office with Bonnie behind him.

“He was trying to protect me. James hit him first. I didn’t know you were going to pull a Mike Tyson. I could have done that,” Simon scolded me and I laughed.

“What’s the story?” Mr. Burgess asked Bonnie Hill for an objective view.

“I was walking with Simon and James came up like he owned the hall. When I came to get you it was just a shoving match with James doing the shoving. That’s all I know,” Bonnie said.

“Mr. Walker,” he said in a disappointed tone of voice.

“I asked him to stop,” I said, realizing he could figure out the rest. “He hit me. I knew if I didn’t take him on it would never stop. I stopped it,” I said.

“I’ve been pushed before, Billie Joe,” Simon said. “I was coming to get you,” Simon said proudly to Mr. Burgess, “but you were already on your way.”

“And what do you do about it when they push you, Mr. Betts?” Mr. Burgess asked as if it was news to him.

“I don’t need to do anything. They get tired after a couple of minutes. They have a limited attention span. They feel good about being able to push the little gay kid around and I go to where ever I was going.”

“You have a good head on your shoulders Simon,” Mr. Burgess approved.

“Thank you. My mother taught me to think before reacting.”

“Or not reacting,” I snapped.

“Mr. Walker?”

“I’ve never been pushed around and I don’t plan to start now. I didn’t know there were rules to being pushed,” I said, giving Simon a dirty look.

“There’s one rule, Mr. Walker. You come to me if there is any trouble. Haven’t I made myself clear? This is becoming a habit with you.”

“Yeah, sure. You sit here in your nice office and I’ve got to walk these halls. At the time James decked me he stood between where I hit the floor and your office. I moved him out of my way is all. I remembered what you told me.”

“So you had it in mind to come to me?” he asked with suspicion in the words.

“No, I had it in mind to make certain James knew not to hit me again. Then, I would have thought about coming to you.”

The look on his face was one of quiet desperation as he looked from one of us to the other shaking his head.

“I can’t suspend him and not suspend you. You were fighting in school. It’s against the rules. It doesn’t matter why you were fighting. It doesn’t matter how many character witnesses you bring me. You were fighting. Case closed.”

“He was fighting for me,” Simon objected.

“No I wasn’t. I was fighting for me. I asked him to stop pushing you. It was between James and me after that.”

“Same difference,” Simon insisted. “Remove me from the equation and there was no fight.”

“I appreciate your situation, Mr. Betts, but you weren’t fighting. You come to me when there’s trouble, Mr. Walker. I’m not going to keep telling you.”

“Yes, sir,” I said.

“Three days, Mr. Walker. I’m sorry but my hands are tied or I might consider your actions justified. Bonnie is the only one who acted properly.”

“What did I do? I was walking to class with Bonnie when he decided I shouldn’t be walking in his hall,” Simon said, more indignant about my suspension than James pushing him around.

“Get a list of Billie Joe’s classes and collect his homework for him, since you are so concerned about him. Mr. Walker, keep your nose clean and I’ll see to it this suspension isn’t part of your permanent record. That’s the best I can do.”

“Yes, sir. Thank you.”

I wrote down my classes and my phone number as Simon stood silently by me at the front counter.

“Thank you, but I didn’t ask you to defend my honor.”

“Get over yourself. I didn’t fight for you, Simon. He hit me. I fought for myself. I wanted him to stop pushing you, but that’s as far as it went in my mind. He decided to take me on. I gave him what he asked for.”

“Okay, I’ll call with your assignments. Thank you. You beat the shit out of him. You are dangerous, Billie Joe.” There was a touch of excitement in his words.

The worst part was not being able to stop myself. After I hit the floor, I was like a wounded animal. Everything was out of focus but James. I knew better than to get up while he expected it, but as quick as he left me an opening, I was on him. I didn’t like that I felt good about what I had done. It scared me to know that level of violence was inside me.

For the first time since I’d returned home, my father acted like he was proud of me for getting thrown out of school. He had a talk with Mr. Burgess and was satisfied that there would be no other punishment for my actions. Mr. Burgess had added that I was defending a smaller kid, finishing a fight someone else started.

It didn’t change much. I still had no urge to spend a lot of time with Simon, but I didn’t blame him for any of it. It was okay every now and then but I didn’t want anyone hanging around me. Life was difficult enough without complicating it. I was putting in time and didn’t want to leave anyone behind. It was a simple plan.

That night I was back in Oregon in the car with the dark tinted windows. Over and over again I kicked the stranger’s head against the windshield, only it became James Combs’ face I was kicking. I woke up with my heart pounding just as it had done the day Raymond and I ran in terror from the stranger’s car. I’d had the nightmare many times since the incident but it was the first time I saw James Combs as a replacement for the stranger. I didn’t go back to sleep. My past came back on me powerfully and I didn’t feel safe closing my eyes.

The following week at lunch Simon sat down across from me. I asked a question that had been on my mind.

"How do they know you’re gay, Simon?"

"The same way they know you’re testing for AIDS. Talk.”

“You always dressed funny. You brought attention to yourself.”

“I was flamboyant. My mother picked my clothes. I didn’t have anything to do with it. She wanted a girl. So sue me?”

“She came a lot closer than she knows,” I said.

“I guess she did. She liked bright colors. So did I. Who was I hurting, anyway?”

“So that was it? You must be gay because you dressed in bright clothes?”

“That and Alan Bostic offered to show me his if I showed him mine. It was an offer I couldn’t refuse. He offered to blow me if I returned the favor. I was putty in his hands. I blew him, after he blew me. Next thing I know he’s spreading it all over the neighborhood that I blew him. It completed a picture they’d been trying to develop for ages,” he said, resignation in his soft voice.

“Did you say he blew you first?”

“No, I wouldn’t do that,” Simon said.

“But he told on you?” I reasoned. “Doesn’t make any sense.”

“Life is like that,” Simon philosophized for me. “Besides, boys rarely make sense.”

“Didn’t it make you mad?” I tried again.

“No, you do mad just fine for both of us. I don’t have time for mad, Billy Joe. I’ve got to plan my wardrobe.”

Simon could see me toil over the facts he gave me in an effort to make sense of it. He was treated like some bad disease by the boys, and he wasn’t a bad guy once you got beyond his being prettier than most of the girls, not to mention better dressed.

Chapter 4

Being Educated

Better Late Than Never

The following week Mr. Elliot cast the play Inherit the Wind. He called on Simon first to read for Scopes. I scrunched way down in my seat, hoping Mr. Elliot had forgotten his promise to make me read for the same part.

As he read the lines, Simon’s delivery was flawless. Dressed in a white shirt with broad red stripes, red suspenders, and strangely colored pleated pants, I thought his delivery was more reminiscent of Miss Scarlett in another windy story.

The girls gathered around him in adoration. The boys kept a respectful distance, and I sat low on the horizon, hoping to escape a fate worse than death. Simon was Simon. He told the girls the color of his pants and that his mother did the pleating herself. He blushed and took the class by storm with even the boys warming up to him as he took center stage. Simon was a character all right.

“That was quite good, Simon,” Mr. Elliot said in a not-so-fast voice. “You are a little…flamboyant for what I have in mind. This is a biology teacher who has dared to challenge the school board’s edict that only creationism be taught in school. By the time of the trial we have a local matter becoming a national story. The country is focused on the events unfolding in Dayton, Tennessee. The radio networks are there. Two of the greatest figures of the age are opposing one another, on stage if you will. This is a show trial that pit the Bible against Darwin and his theory of evolution. Scopes has been overwhelmed by what was his tiny rebellion against ignorance. He feels that science is to be taught by teachers, like himself, and Creation should be taught at church. Billie Joe can read next. Simon doesn’t fit the role no matter how good he sounds. We need understatement. Scopes is caught in a protest that has swept him up in a nation furor. He wishes he weren’t there, but he is at the center of the confrontation between religion and science in a small Bible belt town in Tennessee.”

I hesitated before realizing there was no escape. The class waited for me to read. Mr. Elliot stood behind the chair in the center front of the room. He turned the pages back to where my reading would start. His finger stayed on the line where he wanted me to start. I read hesitantly, looking up at the friendly class while trying to imagine an audience in the auditorium. It did nothing for my delivery. I spoke hesitantly as I read the answer to each of Mr. Elliot’s questions. It was touch and go but I survived, becoming a little more comfortable as I read the words that were the Scope’s testimony..

“He looks like a deer in the headlights,” Kenny Walsh said.

“Yes, he does,” Mr. Elliot said. “How would Scopes feel, making his private little protest about a system that teaches only Creationism, and suddenly he finds himself center stage in a national debate. It might be overwhelming to a small town boy. He probably looked like a deer in the headlights of the national media uproar.”

“Yeah,” the class agreed.

“Okay, Billie Joe, you’re our man. Thank you.”

No one wanted fashion tips from me and my delivery was anything but flamboyant. I returned to my seat with Simon smiling broadly at me. I felt a little like the deer that had just been run over by a Mack Truck.

“Better you than me,” he said. “My southern accent is better than yours.”

“Yeah, you sounded like Mini-Pearl. You did that on purpose,” I said, realizing he’d played the teacher in a way I couldn’t imagine.

The last thing I wanted was to be on stage where everyone could see me. Simon said that no one cared whether or not I was on stage. But the drama class treated me as though I was someone important to the play and to them. There were no George Phelps or James Combs types among the twenty students each of the two periods I took the class. Being one of the players got me equal treatment in both classes. It gave me twice as much time for rehearsing in class.

I was the only one cast in an important role in my third period class with the two central characters being cast from the fifth and sixth period drama classes. I spent a lot of time reading and rereading the Scopes role. I had become integrated into a role that made me important during class. It also got me out of most of the backstage work. I was supposed to rehearse my lines, but not loose the halting delivery or my wide eyed look.

I did participate in class when the flats and scenery were built to make the stage into a courtroom. It seemed like a whole lot of work for a play that would run a total of three nights as well as a complete dress rehearsal in front of the school at an assembly. It did get my mind off of what people thought about me as the year began to pass without my paying much attention to time. I wrote on a perpetual letter to Carl, sending each once it was getting too large to fit into a single envelop. I’d start a new letter before getting the last to the post office. He in turn sent me a letter more often but with less to talk about his were rarely more than a couple of pages.

When I announced at the dinner table that I had become a thespian, it was met with a blank expression from my father. I’m certain he thought it was some kind of sexual deviation dwarfs or animals. I explained I’d be studying for my role and would be part of the senior play. This was seen as far more admirable than thespians, but I didn’t explain any more than necessary.

When Ty called he was excited about me going into acting. He either wanted to be an actor or a basketball player. I thought he could do either or both if he wanted. Walt wasn’t doing well but he wanted to say hello.

“Hey, Champ, you going to be an actor, huh?” Walt asked, but his voice was weak and he talked slow.

When he handed the phone back to Ty, I asked, “He’s getting worse?’

“Yeah, …it’s nice hearing your voice too. How’s your Army buddy?”

“Carl, he’s great. Just got my second letter in two days.”

Ty wanted to hear some of my dialogue. I tried to recite it from memory, but I knew I left some out and put some in, but hey, I was still in rehearsal. It sounded funny to talk about a play and my being in it. I told Ty about Simon and he laughed and said he wish he could be here with me and meet my friends.

“I’ve got to go, Billy Joe. I’m going to fix some soup for Walt.”

“What’s going to happen to you when he dies?” I asked, horrified at the prospects of him being on the street on his own again.

“I’ll be okay. I do everything at the house now. Walt is going to see I’m taken care of. Todd says he’ll make sure I’m okay.”

“I’m sorry you can’t come here,” I said.

“Hillbilly heaven, no doubt. Don’t worry about me. I always end up on my feet,” Ty said.

“Yeah, size thirteen triple E.

“Almost. I love you, Billie Joe. Goodnight.”

“Goodnight, Ty.”

If I hadn’t come home I could be there for Ty now. If I hadn’t come home I could be dead now. Life had its benefits but it sure was fucked up on some stuff. I’d never be able to understand why kids were homeless on the street. I didn’t remember how I got there and I was damn lucky to escape. I remembered how Ty rescued me my first night on the street and then at the end, he was the one who came to get me off the street. If it weren’t for Ty I’d be dead or worse.

When Simon came over one Saturday to read with me for the play, my father didn’t know if Simon was a butch girl or a feminine boy. His reaction was priceless.

“I’m sorry for my father,” I told Simon once we went up to my room. “He’s quite conservative.”

“That’s the most fun part of every day,” he said, laughing at my concern. “I’m not here to make a good impression on your father, I’m here to help my friend prepare for his role in the senior play.”

The word friend played with my head. In spite of my reluctance Simon and I were friends. I just didn’t think of it in those terms. I found no reason not to be his friend, once I accepted the way he dressed and acted, especially around girls. Simon always seemed more comfortable with girls. Even in drama class he was usually the one who got the most attention. It had little to do with drama, except, like the girls, his life was a drama worthy of afternoon soap opera status.

My mother’s reaction to Simon was similar to the girls at school. She made a point of sitting him next to my father at the table, after inviting him to stay for dinner, but she stopped at asking him for fashion tips. It was the first time I realized that my mother had a sense of humor and aimed it squarely at her husband. Simon and I would become hysterical up in my bedroom where we relived my father’s reaction to the dainty way in which he approached his food, never forgetting to compliment the cook.

I had made up my mind not to befriend Simon. He would only complicate my life because he was gay and ill-equipped to hide the fact. I suppose if you used Simon’s logic, I didn’t befriend him, he befriended me. Even though he was obvious to most observant people and all teenage boys, I found him funny ha ha and not funny queer, although there was that. He didn’t take anything seriously, especially how different people reacted to him. Life presented a new challenge each day and Simon showed up to see what they would be.

I immersed myself in school work, but only English and English Literature required work. Psychology required memorization, but if you stayed awake in class you got all the answers that might appear on tests. Even if you slept through the class common sense would answer most of the questions asked.

With Simon’s coming over periodically to read the play with me, he brought a book he was reading in his English Lit class, Tortilla Flat by Steinbeck. I read it in two nights, and couldn’t wait to get to the library for a refill. I was guided to a section where the works of Steinbeck, Faulkner, and Hemingway abounded as the classic writing of the early twentieth century. I knew the names and little more. I checked out two books, read them by the end of the week, and checked out three more for the weekend. No one noticed I’d discovered a world that did something nothing else had ever done, it took me to other lives in other places from the safety of my bedroom. The irony didn’t escape me.

I’d never read before. I didn’t tell Simon I’d read his book. He asked for it and I returned it to the nightstand where he left it. He’d either forgotten it or left it there for me to read. He didn’t say and I didn’t ask. I began to understand how Simon survived growing up gay. He’d found literature to help him escape the small minds and ignorant people who insisted everyone be exactly like everyone else. He lost himself in books.

When I discovered The Great Gatsby by F Scott Fitzgerald, I was dumbstruck by how easy it was to read and how much information had been packed into such a small novel. I knew the title from somewhere before I picked it out. It was one of those hidden treasures that I discovered in the library. I was hooked on books.

I opened The Great Gatsby on a Friday night and fell asleep after finishing the last page early Saturday morning. I could not put it down even to pee. I’d only read text books before and skimmed over forced reading assignments. It seemed as though everything had been written about... almost everything. I wondered about books that told me stories about what I’d gone on the road to find. The idea festered for a few days before I could summon enough courage to approach the librarian.

I went to the gray-haired matron who sat behind the main desk.

“Excuse me! I have an assignment to check out gay topics in literature,” I said, nervously looking around to make certain no one heard but her. “Maybe novels.”

The gray haired woman sat for a second, typed something into her computer, taped her pencil on the desk.

“I usually recommend Wilde in such instances. The Picture of Dorian Gray by Oscar Wilde. You’ll find it half way down the isle to the left as you turn around from the counter. If you need more or don’t appreciate Wilde’s style, I can search for something you might like better.”

I was back in a flash with the book, not wanting to deal with anyone else who might look upon the selection with curiosity about the selector. Why this was such a big deal to me, I can’t say. I simply wasn’t interested in anyone else knowing or suspecting my sexuality was anything but ordinary.

I kept books on my nightstand to disguise my interest in gay novelists. There was Hemingway, Steinbeck, and Stephen King with Oscar Wilde mixed up in there. The book reinforced everything I’d learned on the street. It was about beauty, youth, and over indulgence, with Dorian being willing to sell his soul to maintain his beauty. Tragedy doesn’t begin to describe the read. It tormented me and tortured him as such novels always end badly. This was known from the beginning and you were merely a silent observer to the self-destruction of someone who wanted to stay young and beautiful. What I knew of the modern gay era told me not much had changed and the worship of youth and beauty was not much different from Dorian Gray. It depressed me about my prospects. Is this all there was. You were a star at twenty and over the hill at thirty? If this was a gay related novel I didn’t want to read any more. There had to be more to being gay than partying until you drop or burn out.

Where were we represented in the library beyond this self-indulgent gay male? Who wrote about their trials and tribulations of gay youth? Who told the story about growing up gay in America? Who wrote about the kids living on the streets? There was no way to ask the questions that might get me a response. I needed to work on my nerve, and I’d be back wanting better gay literature than from a hundred years ago.

One evening when I was preparing for my weekend reading, I stopped at the Librarian’s desk. A thin older man smiled and met my gaze with his.

“I’m looking for literature on growing up gay. Don’t tell me to read Wilde or any other depressing books that make you think you’d be better off dead than face that type of bleak stories.”

“Whom do you like?” he asked in a soft pleasant voice with just enough concern..

“Faulkner, Steinbeck, Hemingway. I loved The Great Gatsby. I hated The Picture of Dorian Gray.”

“So you don’t so much object to historic novels as you do to the overindulgence in an overindulgent age?”

“Why yes, that describes it perfectly. I don’t want to read about pretty people being desired by everyone else.”

He wrote a title down on a message slip and pointed out the way once he tore it off and handed it to me. He didn’t turn to the computer. When I looked at him he gave me a polite smile. That hadn’t been all that difficult. No lecture, no blank stare, just a title.

Bitterweed Path by Thomas Howell Phillips, sounded depressing but a few pages in I was caught up in historic Mississippi and became engrossed in the time and place where the boys who were at heart of the story lived. It was a huge step forward in how I viewed that era and my own. It was a time not far removed from Oscar Wilde’s, but it was as different from Wilde as night and day.

From then on I knew who to ask for the books that would interest me most. I didn’t need to read all about being gay. I was gay and I didn’t need an instruction manual, but reading about how other people lived in times when gay men weren’t persecuted was fine, even if there was a sad ending. I feared many gay men lived sad lives in my world and I wasn’t planning to be one of them. I wanted to have a real life where the fantasy world sometimes overlaps. Living in a fantasy world where the real world sometime overlaps wasn’t in my plan.

It allowed me to imagine a time when the first thing I said to define myself wasn’t, “I’m a gay man.” That was information that was only necessary for the people I regarded as important. Letting narrow-minded, hateful people define me as unacceptable by their standards only proved how devoid they were of compassion. As long as gay men accepted each other, that was what I regarded as important to me. It wasn’t about Dorian Gray’s popularity. It was about the rest of us creating a community where we all could celebrate our diversity as something worth celebrating.

Reading for pleasure was a new idea for me. I had plenty of time on my hands and couldn’t stop reading once I got going. Most days I couldn’t wait to gobble down dinner to get to my room and whatever book had worked its way to the top of the pile. This made the rest of what I did at school make much more sense. I realized it was important to understand English so I understood what I read. I knew it was important to get involved in discussions in English Lit, because it led to a better understanding of what we were reading.

Speech class was different. You were required to make presentations to the class for each type of speech we studied. This was where I planned to learn to speak in front of people, but instead, drama class had ended up putting me out in front of people to talk. There wasn’t any difference, except in speech class you were all on your own; drama required other people to interact with you so you stayed on script. It was easier to focus on the other actors than on the audience. In fact it was recommended you ignore the audience, although I don’t know how they felt about it.

What I learned in my classes each day had me wanting to learn more. Up until my senior year my idea of school was arriving a minute before the bell rang for us to be there and leaving a minute after the bell rang releasing us. I did have extra time in my life, but preferred not to dwell on why. I mostly filled my life with things I enjoyed, when reading was work to me. I guess as you mature you expand what you know..

Time passed faster as I raced home to read whatever book I’d placed on my nightstand from the night before, but there were those days a letter arrived from Carl. On these days the book waited. I went to my sock drawer where I kept the picture of Carl and placed it on my chest once I’d laid on the bed.

As I read his words, I periodically picked up the picture and I felt the rush of feelings I had for him. He described his days as I’d asked him to do. From time to time there was a new picture and I would spend extra time staring into the photograph, wishing I could touch him, but I couldn’t and the letters would do until he came home from Japan. He’d now had word his trip home would be later than originally planned by a month or perhaps two. He was in the Army and got no say in the matter.

A year was forever, and one or two months was a little more than forever to me. I wanted to be with him as soon as possible, but I had something I needed to do before I left home again. I never gave that much thought to it before but graduating high school had to come first. Then all my time would belong to Carl and that thought made me smile. I wrote it down in my letter to him. Once I graduate from high school, I’ll have nothing to do but wait for my love. My life will there ever after belong to you my love.

I’d never had anything I wanted as much as I wanted him. My life had never been full of things I wanted or needed. There had been a calm resignation that the life I had was the life that I’d always have. It was difficult to realize how meeting one person, on a bus no less, could alter everything I knew and was. Carl was my reason for living.

Looking in the library for stories to tell me what it meant to be gay was like looking down a well. I suppose I wasn’t supposed to fall in love at my age, but I remembered my first year of high school English. We read Romeo and Juliet. It was a story about two kids in love. If they could fall in love at fourteen and fifteen, my falling in love couldn’t have been that unusual, unless it worked different for gay kids than it did for Romeo and Juliet. There was nothing to tell me how often teens fell in love or who it was they loved.

I was angry with myself for being weak and doing all the insane things I did. It could have easily cost me my life, when I had Carl waiting for me. Maybe I didn’t know if he would wait or trust that he meant everything he told me, except he did and he still said it in each letter. I knew I’d gone in search of some mythical gay community once Ralphie killed himself. I’d gone in search of what it meant to be gay and I’d found nothing, except Carl without knowing he was what I was looking for. But he left me as quick as we’d met and I was too stupid to go home and wait for him to return to me. I knew nothing about love and less about being gay and it was no wonder I did such a stupid thing as go off on my own before I was ready. Now I was content looking for meaning at the library.

Now I searched the library for stories about gay men and their lives. What was gay community? Could it really be about just partying and run no deeper than searching for people like yourself so you can spend the rest of your life boinking as often as you felt like? I was gay and the idea didn’t sound like what I wanted to do with my life. I wanted to be around people like me and have a life. I wanted to know I could find acceptance as we supported and assisted one another through the tough times as well as the good times. As long as we accepted each other, we didn’t need to have universal acceptance in my mind.

My only worry came in the form of worrying about how long it would be before we were together again. The pictures made imagining him easier and before and after school I took a peak at my love. Why would someone so perfect fall in love with someone as dumb as I had been? I didn’t have the answer, but I was certainly glad he did. It made my life worth living as I waited to meet him.

Chapter 5

Insanity vs. Madness

At home life was the same as before I left, once I remembered how to act around my parents, except I spent a lot of time escaping to my room to read myself into other worlds and times. Before I was always running around because I had someone to run around with. Now I closed the door of my room to open books. It might sound simple but it offered me the idea that I was maturing and no longer needed to be occupied with something every minute of every day until I was exhausted. Reading in my bed achieved the same thing while I put myself in the setting of each book as I read the words.

Each time I went to the library and saw Jack behind the desk, he’d jot down a title and point me in the right direction. When I took home City of Night, by John Rechy, I knew by the end of the first chapter that it wasn’t a book I’d leave sitting on my nightstand, but by mixing it in with a few works by Faulkner and Hemingway it wasn’t likely to be discovered by my mother’s prying eyes as she cleaned my room. .

While I had spent months searching for a gay community that represented a place for everyone gay, I was no longer sure it existed in any meaningful way. I envisioned. Rechy’s words took me back to the street and the desperation of those who were lost there. It was all about adults, but it wasn’t far removed from the life I’d lived in San Francisco. How could someone write about it without gay men doing something about the lost souls. Didn’t they feel any responsibility for one another? No one else was going to give a damn about us. Was the only community found in bars and baths? This book scared me. It was too close to the truth, though it was another older novel. Maybe it had changed and I merely went to the wrong place, but The Castro crowd walked passed me every day, unable to see me, except for the men with lustful leering eyes. Was Rechy right? Is that all there is?

With each new book came a different reality, not all offering great prospects as far as community went. Once I was done with the latest book, I looked forward to seeing Jack to get another glimpse into how other men dealt with being gay.

Jack was a pleasant man with a twinkle in his eye that told me he was once a boy in search of some meaning to life beyond the quest for survival and having the biggest toys. The death of my best friend, the fact he gave up on life, forced me to find something that went beyond what Ralphie saw. There was no way I would admit to life’s being futile, just because we all died in the end. I knew there was nothing wrong with being gay, because I was one of God’s creatures no matter what God you prayed to, and God wasn’t likely to make the kind of mistake men make. No, there wasn’t anything wrong with me, but there was something seriously wrong with a culture that tolerates parents disowning their children before they are old enough to take care of themselves. What would Jesus say about the homeless children on our streets? Great job you ass wipes. Nothing was worse than those parents and it didn’t take God to recognize that fact.

I stopped making my Sunday trip to church with my parents. If there was a God and he sat silent on the sideline while children were tormented, I was on the outs with him, until he did something about it. If there was no God allowing this injustice then church was merely a social event where people met to make each other feel better about what they tolerated in the world around them. I preferred the latter of the two options. There is no God standing watch to spank us after we die for all our sins and he isn’t letting children suffer at the hands of an unrepentant society.

My participation in the senior play gave me another view of God and the people who worship him. In Tennessee they were so devoted that creationism was taught in school by law in 1925. Scopes, by choice or as a part of a larger act of disobedience, taught a science class and in that class he taught evolution. He was not teaching that there was no God, he was merely teaching that science was independent of God, even if created by God.

Darrow and Bryan, the real lawyers in the case were larger than life characters. Darrow had defended two boys who were guilty beyond any doubt and he got them off with life in prison rather than the certain death penalty everyone wanted. Bryan was a towering figure in the religious community and eagerly defended the Bible as God’s truth. Darrow used the Bible to disprove Bryan’s contention that it was the literal word of God. Using passages he proved that not all passages got the same treatment and not all passages made sense, unless you were Bryan and could add to any comment, “The Lord works in mysterious ways.”

The play was far more dramatic than the trial. This was a town founded on Christianity and Scopes was never supposed to beat the charge. He was found guilty so he could appeal and thus the case would be heard in the state supreme court and possibly the highest court in the land. The argument wasn’t about science but it was about the separation of church and state. Teachers in public school should not be teaching religion was Scopes position. In the end creationism was removed from public schools as part of curriculum.

Literature nourished me with people, all long ago dead, who devoted themselves to their lives and their particular quest. It could be as simple as the love between two children who both die rather than live without the other, as do Romeo and Juliet. “All are punish’ed,” the prince tells the two warring families who would rather fight than allow their children to join the two families with marriage. How wise the children and how stupid the adult’s hatred for one another in Shakespeare’s Romeo & Juliet.

It could be as complex as a fisherman fishing and catching a fish as big as his boat; he respected the fish and the reader comes to respect the heart of the fisherman in Hemingway’s, The Old Man and The Sea. Catching the big fish was his dream to prove his value as the best fisherman. When the fish is devoured before he can get his boat back to shore, he apologizes for failing to honor the fish. He has respect for a fish because in his world the fish represents life. I was halfway through the story before I got it. I wanted to be as passionate about my life as that old fisherman was about his. I felt something for the fish as well as the man before Hemingway finished with me.

I didn’t need to hide Hemingway or Shakespeare, although both were preoccupied with war and the warriors. The habit of reading in my room was discussed at the dinner table, our family’s forum. Mother would ask me what I was reading and I’d be careful to zip off a few middle-of-the-road titles. My father would complain about congress’s being run by the apologist Democrats, weakening our image in the world.

I was always careful to compliment my mother’s meals. She did spend a lot of her time in the kitchen and the food was always tasty. I got all I needed and then some. She was always fretting over an ingredient she was certain hadn’t been added in the proper proportion. No matter how good it was, she was sure it wasn’t right.

When she asked my father, he answered by quoting one of his favorite columnists, who hadn’t actually eaten my mother’s food. I’d mention drama class and how my role was developing. My mother asked me if the potatoes had too much or too little salt. My father quoted the price of gold and how he should have invested when it was so low a few years back before the housing market heated up just before it collapsed.

I always left the dinner table wondering who these people were or more importantly, who I was. My brother had left home at sixteen. He was a lot older than I was and all it meant to me was more space in my bedroom. While visiting before I took my act on the road, he mentioned the madness and how our parents had been married to one another for over a quarter of a century and yet neither knew or even cared about what went on inside the mind of the other.

The most intimate they seemed to get was while mother was trying to identify the latest lost ingredient for a dish, he’d say, “Yes, dear. It was fine.” And she’d reply, “It may have been the basil.” Little changed if I wasn’t in the dock for cross examination for whatever I’d done, forgot to do, or wasn’t supposed to do under any circumstances unless they told me I should or could.

She’d constantly worry about what she’d forgotten to add in the way of ingredients. My father never talked about the food. I always complimented her in an effort to relieve her worries.

She’d then ask, “Did you think it had enough salt?”

This is when we might hear from my father, “You know the doctor told me to cut down my salt intake.”

I liked inviting Simon to dinner. My father looked at him like he knew what he was but couldn’t quite put a name to it. My mother loved his clothes and his complementary style. Simon appreciated everything all the time, because he was too polite to let on if everything wasn’t perfect, but my mother would have rather had a complaint she could worry about.

After I’d been home a few months, Simon was in my room giving me my lines when he admitted to me, “Your parents are quite mad, you know.”

“Yes, they are,” I said, feeling better that someone agreed with me.

“They talk to each other but they’re having unrelated conversations. He talks about financial stuff and she talks about the food. I listen to her. She’s a good cook,” Simon said.

When I thought I was crazy, my parents were both reinforcement and reassurance. They were making it through life fine and my brother was a regular well-adjusted male with none of these apparent quirks, but he’d gotten out at sixteen. Maybe the craziness at our house was enough to encourage him to make the move.

Simon’s mother was no walk in the park. She was overly protective and she spent a lot of time tending to Simon’s wardrobe. It was a wonder being gay was his only unpopular trait. Simon was remarkably well balanced if you disregarded his flamboyant clothes. While I didn’t see him interact in other classes, in drama he was one of the most popular kids and his clothes were an asset. Everyone knew Simon was gay, but in drama class it wasn’t a disabling factor.

The performances of the senior play were drawing closer and my preparation was complete, except once it was complete and I felt as though I knew the role, it left time to worry and so I rehearsed my lines twice a week with Simon in my bedroom. I knew the role, but Scopes didn’t have a very big part in his own trial.

“What’s this?” Simon asked, picking up one of the books from my book pile, knowing my mother would assume they were the same books as were there the week before. But once you got beyond Faulkner and Hemingway, you came to A Map of the Harbor Islands by Hayes or At Swim, Two Boys by O'Neill. Both were books whose titles were already marked on Jack’s message pad when I approached the counter the last time I went to the library. I never spent more than a few seconds at the counter where he sat.

“Thank you,” was my only response to the titles he suspected would interest me, and he was always right. Of course a librarian probably is able to know what to recommend by what you’ve previously checked out. Jack knew my reading habits.

The books he advised me to read gave me a greater appreciation for the diversity of gay men and how far and wide we spread across the horizon. At first I was amazed, then I was grateful, and it finally got to the point where I needed to have a talk with my mentor Jack. I wanted him to know how far I’d gone in my search for a gay community and that he’d given me more to go on in his selection of literature than I had learned after months on the street.

I gathered up the copy of Dream Boy by Grimsley that he’d recommend via his written message the Tuesday before. I’d read it, Simon had read it over the weekend, and now I’d return it to the library, and this time I’d talk to Jack about how he knew so much about what I would enjoy reading. As of yet, he hadn’t steered me wrong and I wanted to let him know that he’d shown me a world I never knew existed.

I returned the book, slipping it in the slot provided. I went to the counter and spoke.

“The fellow who worked this time of night, when will he be here?”

“He was replacing one of the girls. He’s done here. She’s back and he’s moved on to sub at another library I expect.”

“Oh, thank you very much.”

“Are you Billie Joe?” she asked as I turned to retreat down one of the isles and regroup.

“Yes, do you need to see my ID?”

“No, he said you’d stop and ask about him. He left this for you,” she said, handing me Jack’s final note.

“The rest is up to you. There is a book called Homosexuals in History. You will be surprised at how well known some are. You will recognize some of the names. Good luck with your journey.”

I was amazed. First I was amazed by the librarian’s reaction to my checking out Homosexuals in History. She never looked at me. She typed in the information off the book and off my library card, sliding the book across the counter to me with my ID on top.

“Thank you,” she said pleasantly, turning her attention to the next person waiting to check out a book.

“Thank you,” I replied, feeling somehow vindicated by her lack of interest in my selection of reading literature.

From the final book Jack guided me to, I got names, loads of names. That was enough to encourage me, but I wanted more. Starting with Alexander the Great, I checked out one biography after another to learn that some of the most revered people to walk the face of the earth were gay and still managed to make a mark on history and I read about them.

How cool was that?

From that day forward I didn’t hesitate to check out the books I wanted to read. Discovering literature had been a great comfort to me as I sought more than simply enduring the school year. Knowing that books on the subject matter that interested me most were limitless made it easier. That way I didn’t have so much free time.

Later that week I went to my locker before homeroom for a book exchange and I couldn’t believe my eyes. Marked on my locker door in magic marker were the words FAG HAS AIDS.

Being stunned, I stood staring at the words while the hall backed up behind me and readers digested the words. I wanted to rip off the locker door. I wanted to stand in front of the epithet until the hall emptied of people. I turned different shades of red as my anger boiled into the silent rage that came to the surface each time I faced the hateful minds that delighted in stirring up trouble. When I got mad my brain quit functioning. At times like this I was powerless to stop it. I needed someone to vent the rage upon.

I heard laughter coming from down the hall where I saw George Phelps and his mindless minion watching my reaction. I saw no way to avoid the confrontation that was brewing since my return to school. I was ready for a fight, knowing George would only instigate the trouble before stepping out of the way of it. It didn’t matter.

I dumped my books in the locker, slamming the door. I turned toward the mocking taunts. I knew better than to walk to where they stood, but I was on my way without considering the consequences. I refused to be helpless in the face of adversity. If I let them go unchallenged there would be no end to it. If I hit George Phelps, it was likely Mr. Burgess would expel me, but I had to do something. I didn’t mind getting my ass kicked if I made an impression on them. I would swallow my fear and take them on and I’d do my best to make it something they’d think twice about next time. It was the best I could do on short notice.

“Did you do that?” I yelled at George, stopping in front of him.

“Me? No, but someone must know you pretty well. We don’t need your type in our school.”

“Mr. Walker!” an angry Mr. Burgess bellowed from the other end of the hall.

There were three other boys besides George and I had no doubt they’d be more than happy to jump into any fight I started. If I did something violent I could kiss my diploma goodbye. I’d let it go this time with Mr. Burgess being my only salvation.

I turned to respond to Mr. Burgess. I forced myself toward where Mr. Burgess waited in front of my locker.

“Did they do this?” Mr. Burgess asked through his tight lipped anger..

“I don’t know who did it, but they stayed around to enjoy the show.”

“Did you forget about our agreement? That’s nowhere close to my office,” he said, looking at where my nemesis had been standing when he arrived.

“No, sir. This was about now. Turning my back on those assholes would simply encourage them.”

“Language, Mr. Walker. So your best guess would be Phelps and his crew?”

“It was those assholes,” Simon said, jumping into the fire with me, but staying behind Mr. Burgess..

“That’s enough, Mr. Betts. Neither of you are setting much of an example,” Mr. Burgess said to us as the maintenance engineer came with his supplies and stepped around us to go to work on my locker door.

Simon followed us to the office, but Mr. Burgess dismissed him before I was back in his office yet again. Simon told me he’d see me in drama class and headed toward his homeroom. I sat across from Mr. Burgess as he went through the messages on his desk. I wasn’t sure what I’d done but I was sure I was going to hear about it.

“I want a copy of the letter the clinic sent you saying you were negative on the second test. Do you mind if I have it on hand?”

“No,” I answered, sensing no conflict as long as it was negative.

“Since Mr. Phelps is the only one who seems to have the information about your being tested, I’ll assume he’s at the bottom of the message left on your locker door.”

“Well, not exactly. Simon knows.”

“I hardly think Mr. Betts is the type to write those particular words anywhere. Since Mr. Phelps stayed around to observe your reaction, I’d be inclined to think him the culprit. You bring me that letter with you in the morning. I’ll speak to Mr. Phelps. You are to avoid him on school property. My advice for you is to avoid him completely, but you don’t seem to be inclined to take my advice.”

“I’d love nothing more than to follow your advice, Mr. Burgess. I don’t want any trouble with anyone, but don’t expect me to run away from him. I know better if you’ve forgotten the law of the jungle, I haven’t.”

“So it seems. I want you to know I wish I could do more but I’ve got to wait for some concrete evidence of wrong doing on his part. My suspicions will only get me relieved of duty if I act upon them. Do your best, Walker. I’ll do mine.”

My speech teacher was less than thrilled with my late arrival. I handed him the note from Mr. Burgess and sat down to listen to his directions on how to deliver an impromptu speech. I liked Mr. Crockett. He was an okay guy and speech was but an extension of drama in some ways. He knew I was Scopes in the play and encouraged me to rehearse the role and he’d accept it as an impromptu speech if I worded it in that fashion, not using my dialogue as the text.

When I got to drama class, we were trying on our costumes. Luckily my vintage suit was all I wore on stage. Before the class was over Simon cornered me among the completed flats that simulated people sitting around in a courtroom.

“Would you walk me home today?” Simon asked nervously.

“What’s up?” I asked.

“One of Phelps’ boys told me they were going to get me after school for going to Mr. Burgess.”

“You brought him to my locker?”

“Yes. I’ve already seen you in action once. I don’t need to see it again. I could only imagine what they’d do to you if you decided to fight them.”

“I didn’t fight James. I blew up. I don’t even remember hitting him. He got all the anger from what happened to me on the street.”

“Well, you could have fooled me. Will you go with me? They might not want to fight me if you’re with me.

“Right! We are the dynamic duo. We make a fine looking pair Simon. They’re sure to be scared shitless when they see the two of us.”

“Well, that’s a lot better than the one of me,” he said softly.

“Sure. There’s no rehearsal after school today. Meet me at my locker after last period.”

“Should I tell Mr. Burgess?”

“He’s stirred up enough about me. I’ll walk with you and maybe they’ll leave us alone. Can you run?”

“Me? It’s one of my best things, but I’m not good at it.”

“If they do try something with us, if I tell you to run, you run.”

“What are you going to do if I run?”

“I’ve got a feeling I’ll probably be fighting no matter if I want to or not. You’re just the way they plan to get to me. I don’t think they’ll hurt you. Not if I’m there.”

I knew fighting George was inevitable. Threatening Simon was just another way for him to get to me. Simon was no threat to anyone. That’s what kept him safe from everything but harsh words and sour looks. Being my friend was dangerous when someone like George had a grudge he wanted to settle in a way only the feeble minded found satisfying. There was no compromise that would satisfy someone who had already made up their mind to get me.

I thought about the Karate I learned in elementary school. It was more like dancing than fighting, but it had saved my ass when the guy in the car with the dark windows was about to overpower us. It was the only time I’d used anything I’d learned about self-defense. I had plenty of time to be scared and I was.

There was a chance my karate knowledge from so long ago would surface if the danger required it. I wasn’t counting on it. That hadn’t happened when I faced James Combs. I was more like a cornered animal, acting defeated until James dropped his guard, and then, what he’d started, I finished without ever intending to finish it. Springing to my feet, I was as totally out of control as I’d ever been. I’m not sure what motivated me to act against a bigger and stronger boy. If I let him get away with hitting me I was a marked man for anyone who took offense at me breathing the same air. I hadn’t seen James Combs since our dust up.

I breathed the air George Phelps breathed and I knew he intended to change that if he could. I needed to find a way to avoid fighting if I could. There didn’t seem to be a way to end the threat short of bleeding all over him, which didn’t appeal to me all that much. No matter what I did, when George decided to get me, he’d pick the time and place. It would come by surprise and I’d need to act regardless of when or where it was.

If I could duplicate the same ferocity as I did against Combs, I might be home free. I thought about how more tactful people in literature avoided fighting when it seemed inevitable. There always seemed to be a bully in everyone’s story. Where did all the assholes come from anyway? Didn’t anyone teach them better or give them a taste of their own medicine? I knew it wasn’t my style, my job. That’s probably why I had the problem I did.

My story had taken twists and turns no one could have predicted. When compared to all the danger on the street, George Phelps was a small fish in a sea of sharks. I didn’t particularly want to get my ass kicked or be forced to kick his, but I fought bigger battles in my summer away. I wouldn’t let fear control my actions even if I was afraid. I could deal with whatever happened.

I wasn’t going to run, although it was what I told Simon to do when the time came. He’d never been on the street or faced anything more frightening than the fear that the color of his clothes might clash. I didn’t want that to change on my account. Simon was no more than a pawn in George Phelps’ chess game.

It was my fight in the end.

Chapter 6

The Gauntlet

I met Simon at my locker, and it was easy to see how happy he was that I showed up. He turned toward my locker as I jettisoned most of my books and pulled out the ones I’d need for homework.

“I thought Mr. Shaw was going to paint over those awful words?”

“He wanted to, but I told him not to,” I said.

“Why not. I can still read it,” Simon said.

“I know, but it’s faded from all the scrubbing he did on it. Can you imagine what it would look like with orange paint on it? It would stand out like a sore thumb and remind everyone why it looked that way.”

“I’d let him paint it,” Simon said as I closed my locker and spun the combination off the final number. “Scared?” he wanted to know.

“A little,” I said.

“I’m shaking,” he admitted, showing me his nervous hand.

“They aren’t interested in you. They want me, Simon.”

“It felt like it was me they were after, when he told me they were going to get me on my way home.”

“They want you to be scared. It’s what they thrive on.”

“I guess they’ll get what they want from me. I can’t fight,” he confessed.

“Neither can I,” I said.

“Yeah, I saw you not fight, remember?”

“I’m not proud of losing it in front of all those people. It’s not how you deal with problems.”

“Go get Mr. Burgess?”

“That’s what got you into this mess. They were just fine gunning for me, until you got involved,” I reminded him.

“I can’t let a friend get beat up if I can do something about it.”

“So now we both get beat up. That’s better?”

“When you put it that way, I guess not. Mr. Burgess can’t guard us or keep those jerks away from us. Why can’t they be happy beating each other up.”

“That sounds too much like logic for them to grasp. All Mr. Burgess does is stand in the way of what’s eventually going to take place. He’s as much as admitted it to me.”

“He is on your side, you know?”

We walked together out the back entrance and cut around the fence that surrounded the athletic field. We turned off on the path that would take us to the last street in our neighborhood. I was a little more scared as we came to the spot where George was likely to intercept us. The street was empty and I was relieved.

“I figured they’d wait here for me,” Simon said.

“No, they can wait. How does it make you feel?” I asked him.

“Scared. I thought they’d be here today and now I don’t know where they’ll come after me. What I know is they plan to get me.”

“It’s how their minds work. Make the threat and then let you wait for it. They knew you’d expect it today and probably have someone with you for protection. It’s the bully game of chess. Your move.”

“I want to move home and get in the house,” Simon said.

“Look, I’ll walk you to your house. I’ll walk you home after school each day, but we have rehearsals three days a week. You could come help with back-stage work and we’ll walk home together. They won’t wait around for that long. Their minds aren’t wrapped tight enough to sit in one place for long.”

“Thank you, Billie Joe. I know you think I’m helpless, but I’ve never had to fight. The girls have always taken care of any rude boys for me. This is different.”

“They want me not you. It’ll pass Simon. The memory of your going to Mr. Burgess to help me isn’t likely to become a part of their long term memory.”

I walked him to his house, and his mother opened the door and watched us saying goodbye. She was an attractive woman even without makeup and dressed in the fancy clothes she always wore outside. She waved and I waved back knowing Simon would tell her I was his bodyguard. Maybe being his friend wasn’t all that great an idea for him.

I remembered that I didn’t intend to be friends with Simon, because of his attention-getting flamboyance, but I liked that he didn’t know how to be anyone but himself. He was honest, told me of his fear, and asked for my help. He didn’t blame me for the problem or stay away from me, even if it was the safe thing for him to do.

These were mostly things I didn’t understand. Simon was from another world. Dressing up to me was my best pair of Wranglers and a new T-shirt. It was what I felt comfortable wearing. I had no interest in being the center of attention for girls or for boys. I’d prefer not to be outcast, but I wasn’t sucking up to anyone to get their approval either.

It never occurred to me that George would try to get at me through someone else. The fact it was Simon showed how simple minded George was, and his crew was going to follow him. They risked getting their eyes scratched out by the girls at school if they hurt Simon, but I didn’t want it to get that far.

Simon stayed after school the following day and helped move scenery and prepare the costumes. We’d done a lot of work in drama class and even rehearsed lines there by the time the scenery was well on its way to being completed. He watched from the wings as we did a casual rehearsal, using the stage in the auditorium.

My part consisted of sitting in the courtroom and being examined and then cross examined by the two attorneys, who were the stars of the play. This required me to be on stage all the time during the play, even after my speaking part of the role was done. The two titans threw barbs and jabs at one another to exercise their equally grand egos.

It was easy for me to maintain my confused look as the two eloquent attorneys jousted, hardly paying attention to my answers to their questions before they fired another question. One would object, the other complained, and the judge seemed as confused as Scopes—me. He too was caught at the center of the drama he had no control over. It did not necessarily give me much confidence in the justice system when the judge allowed the attorneys to control the trial, but no one remembered who the judge was and Scopes was merely the name attached to “The Scopes Monkey Trial.”

The actual law had just been passed and applied to the Tennessee schools. It made it against the law to teach anything that denied the Creation as described in the Bible. In my limited legal opinion, Scopes was teaching Biology and never denied Creationism as part of the larger world. He merely discussed and made pictures available from Darwin’s book on evolution.

It didn’t mention Creationism pro or con. It didn’t deny it or say evolution wasn’t in some way inspired by God. The mere idea that evolution took time beyond what the Bible retold didn’t enter the fray, although there was a lot of talk about Abel’s wife and family and where they came from, which didn’t seem to be mentioned in the Bible either.

I understood my part and the significance of the play. It was a very simple case that took on national importance when the subject of teaching Creationism in school attracted a three-time presidential candidate to defend the law and the best known lawyer of the time to argue against the law. The trial was no longer about a biology teacher teaching biology in Tennessee. It was about two American titans, William Jennings Bryan and Clarence Darrow and the national media strung miles of cable to allow the American people to follow the “Scopes Monkey Trial.”

It was a prize fight with two heavy weights slugging it out, determined to land a fatal verbal blow that would end up with the opponent being counted out as the champion of his cause.

There would be no winner in this philosophical battle, which has surfaced again seventy-five years later with Creationism becoming the “Theory” of Intelligent Design, but the argument is the same. Do Biblical teachings belong inside the biology classroom alongside scientific theory?

I rented the movie by the same name with two old guys arguing the case. At the end the Darrow character seems to be sympathetic to the beliefs of the Bryan character, which seemed far fetched after going through all the trouble of obviously battering his opponent in Hollywood’s version.

The play seemed more realistic than the movie to me. Seeing the movie “Inherit the Wind” allowed me to gain a larger view. I related to Scopes role but found it disconcerting that Scopes in the movie was a character in the sitcom Bewitched I use to watch on Nickelodeon TV.

Everyone had his own opinion at the time and mine was that it was a good play and my part wasn’t too large, which made it an even better play. Putting myself in my character’s shoes, why would anyone want a science teacher to teach religion?

A good teacher surely wouldn’t attempt to teach something as complicated and controversial as religion in a science classroom. It was obviously a different time and I didn’t have an understanding of why you didn’t learn Creationism in church or Sunday school. Those would be perfect places to talk about the Bible and make certain it was presented in its proper context.

With judges and juries aside I was more worried about forgetting my lines than how the trial turned out, which I could find by looking at the last page. The small fine Scopes paid for violating this state law didn’t match up with all the fuss it created.

I guess you had to have been there and I hadn’t been, but I could bring a new realism to my character once I realized how confusing it must have been for Scopes. Yet, as much as the play was on my mind, other classes did occupy a lot of my time.

In speech class we continued to give impromptu speeches. Each student was called on at random and asked if he or she was ready to deliver. So far about half the class was and my answer was always, I’m in rehearsals and haven’t got time to be impromptu. Mr. Crockett asked me if I knew what I was talking about, and I assured him I did, even if it amused him when I said it.

Mr. Crockett add his name to the list that made it clear I should come to him in the case of difficulty. He’d heard about my locker being labeled and suggested that it was best for me to deal with it head on, since everyone in school knew about the message.

“You need to present yourself as something other than what the knuckleheads are labeling you. If you don’t speak they are the only one heard. All you need do is speak up. The other students know who the knuckleheads are. Let them see who you are.”

“I don’t know how,” I told him.

“You can start with speech class. Word gets around school fast.”

“I wouldn’t know what to say.”

“You’ve tested?”

“Yeah, but what’s that mean?”

“Do you have AIDS?”

“No!” I said.

“You’ve tested. You don’t have AIDS. It makes the message on your locker a lie. Put a lie to one part of it and the students will see it all as a lie. You have nothing to fear but the lies told about you.”

It all sounded fine but I was already in the middle of a play and I wasn’t quite ready to take on any more speaking engagements.

I continued walking Simon home and neither George nor his emissaries intercepted us, although I’d seen him in school. I wondered if Mr. Burgess had interceded. That could have encouraged George to back off. It was his senior year too, and it wouldn’t be pleasant for either of us to get expelled.

On Thursday afternoon I was held up by my last period teacher, who wanted to talk about the senior play. I did my best to give short answers and get to my locker to meet Simon, but I ran into Mr. Burgess in the hallway that led to my locker and he wanted to know how things were going. I assured him everything was fine and there was no more trouble with George.

I was ten minutes late when I showed up to meet Simon but no Simon. I figured he couldn’t be that far ahead of me and once I’d exchanged books, I headed for the path that went through the woods. By this time I was worried about leaving Simon to walk home alone. He’d said several times that I made him feel safer, but he’d gone on alone, knowing I was usually at my locker shortly after the final bell.

I stopped to straighten out my books and get them back under control. I heard some laughter just beyond where I was, which was within a few hundred feet of the street that led into our housing development.

When I rounded the final turn in the path, I saw George’s car parked across the path where it came out of the trees. Laying on his backside, his books and loose papers scattered around, Simon was making no effort to collect his things as one of George’s boys stood just above Simon.

“You okay?” I asked, moving onto the scene as George and the two other boys broke off from leaning on the car.

Collecting the loose papers first, I pushed them into his notebook.

“Ain’t he cute, picking up after his boyfriend?” one of them said.

“Asshole,” I said, realizing the situation didn’t favor a good outcome.

Most of the kids from school that took the path were at home. I stood up and the nearest boy stepped back to join his buddies. Simon didn’t move and the smirk on George’s face told me this is what he’d been waiting for. He held all the cards and he was the dealer.

“Get your books and go on, Simon. They don’t want you.”

Simon didn’t move and when I glanced at him I saw the blood dripping from his nose onto his baby blue satin shirt.

“Yeah, the little faggot can go. We don’t want him,” George agreed.

Simon stood up and moved his books off to one side. He then moved over beside me.

“Simon, take off while you have a chance,” I warned.

“Yeah, little fag, we won’t hurt you.”

“I’m not going anywhere,” Simon said.

“Simon, this is no time to go nutso on me. Get out of here. They aren’t after you.”

“He hit me,” Simon said, pointing out the culprit.

“What, you want I should apologize?” the boy asked, bringing on a round of laughter.

I didn’t know what to make of Simon’s refusal. I’d walked with him all that time to make him feel safer walking home. What he was doing wasn’t smart or safe. He could slip away with no further damage, but he stood beside me. I could see he was shaking but he wasn’t leaving me. This was a calculation I hadn’t figured on. I’d always seen George and his crew finding me alone, where they’d jump me.

“Stand behind me,” I said.

“No,” he said, balling up his fists, putting his thumb up inside his fingers, which assured if he did hit anything, his thumbs would break.

“Your thumbs go outside the fist,” I told him.

There was more laughter as I instructed Simon on how to make a fist. It didn’t make for a very imposing picture and I needed to come up with something that might prevent a fight we couldn’t win in spite of Simon’s show of courage.

“You asked for it,” George said to Simon, moving forward with his crew beside him.

“There are some rules I want to make you aware of so you don’t get hurt,” I said, thinking as fast as I could.

“Rules? What rules? There aren’t any stinking rules, asshole. You’re on my turf now,” George boasted.

“No, not that kind of rule. It’s in my blood. The AIDS. If you get my blood on your fist or on your skin anywhere… well, you could get it. It only takes a drop. You see the way Simon’s bleeding?”

“Yeah,” George said hesitantly. “See the drops on his shirt and above his lip?”

“Yeah, sure,” George observed without having much understanding of what I was telling him.

“That’s enough blood to infect all of you with the AIDS. It only takes a speck, because the virus is so tiny you can’t see it or know how much is on you.”

“I knew I was right. You got that shit!” George said alarmed.

“I’m only warning you so you don’t get it. You really should think twice about making me bleed. I’d hate to think I infected all of you. I’d really hate that. I don’t have any hard feelings for you, George. We’ve never really been friends but that doesn’t mean I’d want to give you a disease that was likely to kill you.”

“Shit, George, let’s split. I ain’t hittin’ that asshole. No way.”

“Yeah,” the other two agreed, turning toward the car they’d come out of.”

“What about James?” George quizzed.

“Oh, I don’t care about him. He ought to get tested but I haven’t known him all my life like you, George. I wouldn’t want you to risk being infected.”

All the fight had gone out of the four of them as their posture of attack mode gave way to a posture looking more like retreat. I knew George was thinking it over and he’d lost his crew. They were ready to follow George if there was no risk involved. All they knew about AIDS was that it killed people. They saw no future in taking the risk.

“Okay, Billie Joe, I’m going to let you go this time. No point in messing someone up that’s got that shit. You just stay away from me, and you too, you little shit,” he yelled the final words at Simon, who had dared to stand up with me to face them. “I bet you got that shit too. All you fags do.”

“Well, if my blood got on any of you, I wouldn’t be sleeping so soundly for the next six months,” Simon explained.

“Six months?” George howled.

“Oh yeah, it can come up months and months after you are exposed. Then, there’s no way for doctors to know how you got it. They just assume you are gay if you get it,” I furthered the argument.

“They shouldn’t allow you people around normal people,” George said, and I almost laughed in his face at the concept of George’s somehow being normal people, but I choked back the humor I found in his words.

The car doors slammed before they backed onto the street and drove away. Simon looked at me as I watched the car.

“You don’t have AIDS. You showed me the test,” he protested.

“Yeah, but they don’t know that. What’s wrong with you,” I chastised him angrily. “You didn’t need to put yourself in jeopardy.”

“The guy hit me,” Simon complained.

“That the first time you’ve ever been hit?”

“No, but it’s the first time it made me mad.”

“You could have gotten away,” I said.

“I knew you’d come up with a way to discourage them. What do you think they’re going to do with the knowledge you gave them.”

“They’ll do something stupid, but the knowledge they have is wrong. So whatever they do will make them look more stupid than usual.”

Simon’s mother met us at the front door and was immediately checking over her little boy and his expensive shirt. Simon told her to get some washcloths with cold water in them and place them on both sides of the stains.

“I thought you were protecting him?” she leveled her charge at me.

“Cool it, Mom. He wasn’t there when I got hit. He came and got rid of them before they could hit me again. It wasn’t that big a deal. I’m fine.”

“Why are they after you?” she asked.

“They aren’t,” I said. “They’re after me. Simon and I are friends so they are trying to get to me through him.”

“I don’t like the sound of that. Maybe Simon shouldn’t spend so much time with you,” she concluded.

“Cool it, mom. Billie Joe and I are friends. Those assholes aren’t going to change that.”

“Simon Betts, where are you picking up such language.”

His mother was far more horrified by this new independent streak than by the fact he was in a fight. I began to see him in a different light. He’d never had a friend that stood up for himself before. I was as new to it as he was, but she didn’t know that. It was all a matter of deductive reasoning to me. If you did this what would happen, and if that’s unappealing you move on to another solution.

I didn’t want to fight if I could avoid it. The edge I’d gained by living on the street was slowly diminishing. Thinking fast and avoiding danger wasn’t the same at school. I’d so far been able to avoid most trouble by using my head. I couldn’t tell how long I could save my ass by using my mouth.

Having Simon in the middle of my trouble was disconcerting. I didn’t want him to get hurt because of me, but he was my only friend. Maybe George Phelps would back off now that he’d backed down. If his mother found out about the results of my test he’d be twice as mean as before, once he realized I’d put one over on him.

Mrs. Betts served us soda and chips in the kitchen, but she wasn’t happy about it. Simon turned to talking about the play and she didn’t interrupt the discussion. By the time I got home it was dinner time and the chips had worn off. I went to my room and read once dinner was done, and Ty called at about nine.

“Hey, handsome, how you doing?” I quizzed.

“Walt died this afternoon,” Ty said softly.

“I’m sorry. He was a nice guy,” I said, remembering the arrangements Walt told me about.

“It’s not like I haven’t been expecting it.”

“How are you?” I asked.

“I’m fine. My mother called me last week,” he said. “Todd told her where to find me. She left my old man and she wants me to come live with her.”

“You don’t have Walt to look after anymore,” I observed.

“No, I don’t. I’ve been away from home for so long, I don’t know I want to live that way again. She says it’s okay now and she’ll give me whatever room I need if I come home.”

“I came home. It’s not a picnic but it’s not all that bad. I don’t need to worry about food or how I’m going to make it through the night. I feel safer in most ways.”

“Yeah, I know. I’m glad you went home, Billie Joe.”

“You were as responsible as anyone,” I said. “If it wasn’t for you I might still be out there.”

It was nice hearing Ty’s voice. It was clear he was conflicted about going home to his family and finding a way to stay on his own. He was smart and could easily go back to school or get a GED.

I was sorry about Walt. He was nice to me. I was sure he’d been a nice man. It baffled me how one guy, Ty, stayed sturdy and kept his looks, while Walt had sunk down to skin and bone and was barely alive when I saw him last. What made the difference? Ty had been on medication since they found the virus in a routine blood test. I didn’t know how long he had or if he’d stay healthy because of being young and strong.

Once I hung up my mind switched back to San Francisco. I recalled all the faces, even some who no longer had names I remembered. I wondered about Gene and how he was doing. I’d stayed with him the longest. I wondered about Jesus and his place down beside a warehouse in a refrigerator box.

It seemed like another life and another time. What I faced as a high school senior was nothing like the street. I still worried, had concerns, and couldn’t be certain how it would all turn out, but when compared to Ty’s and Gene’s, my life was a picnic.

Chapter 7

The Impromptu Speech

The phone kept ringing and I finally rolled over toward my nightstand and over the books to pick it up.

“Hello,” I mumbled into my pillow.

“Hi,” came the cheery voice on the other end of the phone.

“Are you kidding me? Who is this,” I growled.

“Simon,” he said, not sensing my discontent over being awakened or ignoring it.

“What do you want?”

“I thought I’d fix you breakfast,” he said. “Sounds like I’m just in time. Have you eaten?”

“I haven’t even woke up yet,” I yelled.

“Well, then, you haven’t had breakfast. Where are your parents?”

“What day is it?”

“Saturday. We’re out of school.”

“My parents play tennis at the club Saturday morning and have brunch there.”

“Your mother actually leaves the house?”

“Saturday mornings. They play tennis and have brunch.”

“I’d like to see your mother play tennis. That ought to be good for a laugh.”

“Simon, you’re insulting my dear mother.”

“Yeah, tell me about it. What do you want for breakfast?”

“Why do you want to fix me breakfast?”

“You rescued me from those bullies.”

“Not really. You stood up to them yourself. I just talked them out of it.”

“Yeah, well, whatever you did, I want to fix you breakfast for it.”

“French toast,” I said, realizing sleeping was done for the day.

By the time I got dressed and made it downstairs Simon was at the kitchen door. I let him in with his bag of groceries and I made fresh coffee as he began breakfast preparations. He brought an apron and was careful not to splash any fixings on himself.

The coffee got my eyes open and by the time the French toast was coming out of the frying pan I was ready to eat. After four pieces I ran out of steam but Simon didn’t eat any. He had breakfast with his mother and merely wanted to cook for me. The idea didn’t appeal to me, because I didn’t want him to think there was something going on between us that wasn’t going on.

“Come on upstairs,” I said, tossing down my napkin and leaving the kitchen.

After he cleaned up, he found his way to my room. I’d conveniently placed Carl’s letters on my bed. It was the first thing he saw.

“Who are all the letters from?”

“Carl,” I said.

“Who is Carl?”

“My boyfriend,” I said.

“Do tell,” Simon said, looking at one of the letters, not reacting at all disappointed. “Are you really in love with someone?”

“Yeah, I met him while I was away. I met him before anything else happened.”

We looked at the letters and I took out Carl’s picture, the gold bracelet, and it wasn’t necessary to explain more. Simon seemed absolutely delighted for me and fired questions about how we met and fell in love.

“Hey, your bike? You fixed your flat?”

“No, I’ve been walking you home from school. I haven’t ridden it lately.”

“It’s warm today. I’ll bring my bike over and we can fix them,” he offered in a questionable deal.

“Yeah, we could do that. What’s wrong with your bike?”

“I haven’t ridden since I was twelve.”

“What’s wrong with it?”

“Both the tires are flat. They won’t hold air. I tried to put air in them but it just came back out.”

“Bring it over and I’ll look at it, but if we’re going to work on bikes, you can’t dress up like we’re going to some swanky deal somewhere.”

“I know,” he said, but I could tell he hadn’t even considered how to dress to do bike repairs.

A little while later Simon returned pushing his bike. The tires were flat and dry rotted. Simon wore a white T-Shirt and a pair of blue jeans along with a pair of tennis shoes.

“You actually have boy’s clothes,” I remarked.

“All my clothes are boy’s clothes,” he complained.

“All your clothes are dress clothes. I’ve never seen you in anything but dress clothes.”

“You said to dress to work on our bikes.”

“Yeah, that’s fine. I’ve just never seen you look like a boy.”

Simon frowned, hating the sound of what I said but knowing it was true. I don’t think he gave much thought to dressing any other way but the way his mother wanted to dress him. I liked that he would wear blue jeans because I asked him to. He actually looked like a regular guy: his hair wasn’t neat and his shirttail was hanging out.

We started removing the tires. Simon watched me do mine and then took the tool I used and started on his.

“Damn it,” he said, checking his hand.

“What?” I said.

“I broke a fingernail. My hand will look deformed.”

“No, your hand will look like a regular boy’s hand and not one that just had a manicure.”

“My mother does my nails,” Simon explained.

“Yeah, and my mother hasn’t been near my fingernails, not since I was three. You can’t do everything your mother wants. She’s a girl and you aren’t a girl.”

“I know that,” he said, thinking it over after the reflexive response.

“I’m going to need to go to the bike shop and get a repair kit to patch my tire,” I said.

“I’ll buy it,” Simon said, taking out his credit card.

“I need the repair kit. You need two new tires. Those won’t hold air no matter how many patches we use.”

“Yeah, but if you’re going to help me I’ll buy the kit.”

“I’ll help you and pay for my own repair kit. You are going to pay a pretty penny for two new tires. Why are you working on your bike five years after you last rode it?”

“Well, I figured we could ride together. I haven’t had anyone to ride with since then.”

“I’m beginning to think there’s a real boy underneath all that fluff, Simon.”

“I’m not a girl,” he objected.

“I know. That’s cool. We can ride together. I usually just ride to school but I like riding my bike.”

“Good,” he said. “Let’s go to the bike shop.”

I got my repair kit and the guy that worked on the bikes in the bike shop made Simon a good deal on two used tires that were in real good condition. I was sure they were good because I knew the guy was always fair with me and Simon would probably loose interest in bike riding as the weather cooled down.

By the time we got my tire fixed and put Simon’s tires on the rim my parents were home from the club. My mother brought us out soda as we were getting Simon’s bike tightened up and adjusted for his new size.

“Who’s your new friend?” my mother asked.

“It’s me, Mrs. Walker,” Simon said, turning around with grease on his face and dirt up to his elbows.

“Oh my God, Simon? I didn’t recognize you. You boys clean up and I’ll fix you hamburgers and fries for lunch.”

“Yes, ma’am,” I said, laughing at her reaction to Simon.

“She really didn’t recognize me,” Simon said.

“I hardly know you, Simon. This is a side of you I haven’t seen.”

“I never thought my clothes made that much difference.”

“It makes a big difference. I like you either way, Simon, but you might want to think about the options. Are you flamboyant because your mother wants you to be flamboyant or are you flamboyant because you want to be that way? Maybe your mother wanted a daughter and you’re as close as she could get.”

I liked Simon, and it wasn’t my intention to make him feel bad about himself, but I thought he might want to think about how he approached life and why. His current path was going to create obstacles for him, while a few changes might make it easier for him.

Simon didn’t answer, but I knew he was thinking about it. I got out the hand cleaner and showed him how to get the grease off and then we used regular soap to finish the job over at the wash tubs. He didn’t want to use hand cleaner on his face and except for a little water, he didn’t do anything to remove the grease.

My mother was well on her way to finishing with lunch preparations once we got through the door. She couldn’t get over how different Simon looked in jeans and a T-shirt. We ate like there was no tomorrow and then went to the mall to check out new video games.

That night my dreams caught up with me again. I was flashing back on events that were months old. I still thought about my life on the street and the boys who were still there, but my life was going relatively smoothly at home. San Francisco wasn’t nearly as far away as it seemed when it came to my nightmares.

This was more disturbing than the original dreams right after I came home. It was beyond my control and left me more insecure than before. I wanted to think I could put it behind me and finish up at school, meet Carl, and begin the rest of my life, but it wasn’t that simple.

Simon and I rode our bikes to school after that. It did speed things up, except if the weather turned bad. If we couldn’t talk one of our mother’s into driving us we walked the path through the woods.

The weather stayed fairly mild so rain was our only obstacle if you didn’t count the wind. Staying late for rehearsals became more complicated. We never knew how late we’d be and calling for a ride at the last moment didn’t work very often. Simon’s mother was usually out later in the day and my mother was in the process of fixing dinner.

The stage was always set up for the play but we still did rehearsals sitting at the big wooden defense table. We always had our scripts in front of us but I knew my part and the rest of the cast knew theirs. Mr. Elliot was more focused on delivery and stage presence.

Mr. Elliot stood by to feed us lines if we went astray. He didn’t mind us improvising lines too much if it didn’t throw off the other characters. He was patient and soft spoken. When he suggested we repeat a segment or offered a suggestion for how to better deliver a line, we were all receptive to his input. My hesitant answers and deer in the headlights look was incorporated into my portrait of John Scopes.

There were no more clashes with George or his crew. Simon seemed more comfortable with himself and around other boys. He still held court with the girls in drama class, but he spent more time with the boys, helping as they set the stage for the play and breaking it back down after a rehearsal.

We continued using our bikes for transport on nicer days, splitting up once we reached Simon’s street, meeting up in the same spot at the same time in the morning. George Phelps had stayed out of sight and I envisioned him tormenting someone else somewhere. I had no illusion that Simon and I were his only targets.

Simon showed no sign of being afraid. He obviously liked having a friend and he liked doing guy stuff together. It wasn’t all that bad for me either. Simon was easy to like and it gave me someone to talk to at a time when there were few people that interested me.

While I’d memorized my part and no longer needed to go to my script to remember the words, the two stars often got lost in their pages of dialogue. If they blew a line or fed me the wrong line, I got lost and wasn’t able to get them back on script. Fortunately, when they forgot a line in the middle of their dialogue, they frequently caught themselves and managed to steer the dialogue back on course. This seemed to indicate they knew the play better than I did, but my part had me sitting silent for large segments of the play.

Mr. Crockett continued to offer me tips in speech class. He allowed me to give parts of my dialogue to the class for extra credit. He would not let me call it an impromptu speech, because it was a formally written part and impromptu meant impromptu to him. He was more than fair to me, though, and I couldn’t get angry about his position on the different types of speeches.

After the incident with my locker, Mr. Crockett suggested I think seriously about giving my impromptu speech on AIDS, since I was aware of the danger to teenagers my age. While most high school teens didn’t want to hear about the subject, he was sure the class would listen to one of their own. I sought to put the AIDS thing behind me as the quarrel with George cooled down and since he’d lost interest in me. Talking about AIDS was going to stir it back up if he got wind of a speech I was giving on the subject.

Actually, I was afraid to face anyone with the information that I had been tested. There were only a couple of reasons to be tested and giving out that information was going to be an admission of guilt to a group of people that had accepted my presence in class without acrimony. I saw no reason to take the risk if I could slide by without telling them anything about the test and why it was necessary to have it.

The mere mention of AIDS and its deadly consequences had most teenagers running the other way. In many circles it was still said to be a gay disease, even though it isn’t a gay disease and it is no longer deadly. It is life altering with strict regiments of pills with very bad side effects. It was no longer a death sentence but it was life altering, and not for the best.

If teens were sexually active they didn’t want to hear about it and if they weren’t having sex they didn’t feel they needed to know. Yet most teens become sexually active sooner or later, and when they do, they need to understand how to keep themselves safe. Even abstinence-only programs come with a deadly flaw if one of the two people isn’t being honest about having been abstinent, but people wouldn’t lie about having sex, would they?

A blood test is the only way to assure you and your partner stay safe. If you are a committed couple it would be an act of love to exchange blood tests as proof. That’s how I saw it and what I’d say if I was talking about it.

Was it my job to stick my neck out to inform the students of these facts if the school didn’t, couldn’t, or wouldn’t? There was no circumstance I could imagine that would have me being the poster boy for AIDS prevention. I wasn’t proud of being afraid that I might be ostracized. My life had been fairly easy since I returned home. Why risk it all by bringing attention to myself?

I was safe being silent, because I’d been tested and came up negative through no fault of my own. Knowing the facts and speaking to other kids about them were far apart in my mind. There were ways to protect yourself from STDs and it was as simple as using a condom and washing up after an encounter, but the only way to be sure your partner is safe is by having a blood test.

I knew about the lack of education for young people, because the conversation was entirely about abstinence, which sounds good to adults, but many teens weren’t going to wait, as many adults know from their own experiences. When teens don’t wait, they need to be informed about how to stay healthy.

Only after I put myself at risk did I learn the facts of life. Then, once I was at risk, everyone wanted to talk about safe sex. It seems backward if you’re really interested in keeping teens safe.

We wear knee pads, helmets, elbow protectors, a mouth piece, and various other items if we go to skate in front of our house. Heaven forbid a child take a risk and ride his bike without prescribed protection.

I’ve never fallen off my bike or skates, but when my hormones had me in search of relief, it was good luck Charlie. We can’t talk about it, unless you get sick or put yourself at risk, and then they won’t shut up about it.

What about prevention?

Having the test got me the information, whether or not I had AIDS. Before they drew my blood the nurse talked to me about being safe. Once she’d drawn my blood, the doctor came in and reminded me how to stay safe. It was all greatly appreciated if a little late.

Up until that time my education on the subject had consisted of one word: don’t. My parents had never mentioned sex to me before or after my summer excursion.

Things were quiet and I intended to keep them that way. I’d tricked my way out of taking a beating from George and his buddies and stirring up any talk about AIDS was not in my best interest if I intended to stay safe.

There was a series of dreams that continued to surface late at night. Ty, Gene, and some of my other companions of the street appeared in strange places. While walking home from somewhere a car with dark windows stayed a half a block behind me. I walked faster and faster and looked for other people so I could blend into the crowd, but I was alone except for the car.

When I started to run, the car sped up just enough to stay a half a block behind me. I ran and ran until someone stepped out of the shadows and grabbed me. I struggled to get away as he slapped my face. It was Ty.

I told him about the car but he said there was nothing there and I was dreaming it.

I woke up in a panic.

My heart was still racing and my hair was pasted to my wet head. I threw the wet pillow on the floor and used my other pillow to go back to sleep, but I didn’t. My eyes were wide open. I feared sleep. I didn’t want to go back to wherever I had been. I knew fear every day. I was not brave or courageous. I’d done what I had to do one step at a time. The fear in my sleep was a fear of losing control of the tight grip I kept on reality.

On the worst nights I’d turn on the lights and get out my pen and some paper and I’d write Carl a letter if I wasn’t already in the middle of one. Our correspondence was erratic. Some days he’d get a couple of letters and some weeks he wouldn’t get any. It was the same on my end. I might get two in a day or one a day for several days and then I would go a week without hearing from him.

Carl’s phone calls came more often when the loneliness got to him. Hearing his voice made my day. I told him about the play and he wanted to know if I expected to be treated like a movie star. I told him I’d let him slide on that and we got a big laugh out of the idea.

I wasn’t cut out for being on stage. There was still fear that went with that as well. I knew my lines and we had formal rehearsals twice a week to run through the entire play. But I was still nervous in front of the stage crew and teachers who dropped by to listen.

We would have our dress rehearsal the Thursday after Thanksgiving in front of the student body. There were three performances scheduled in front of a paying audience, Friday night, Saturday night, and Sunday afternoon. It gave me far too many opportunities to screw up. I did spend time wondering why I let myself get talked into acting in a play.

The picture they took to promote the play was of me sitting in-between the two stars as they glared at one another. It was on all the bulletin boards at school and in many shop windows in town. How cool is that?

There was nothing I could do about the play. I was obligated to finish what I started. There wasn’t much I could do about George beyond hoping he’d find other things to occupy his time. There was nothing I could do to stop the nightmares, which were more unsettling than ever.

Having nightmares when I first got back home wasn’t as disturbing as the unexpected nightmares almost three months after I left the street. There was no rhyme or reason to explain the bad dreams’ abrupt reentry into my sleep. I became leery of sleep while needing more than ever.

Reading was the answer and I read most nights until I fell asleep, which was nice. Entering other worlds at different periods, past, present, and future, created a portal through which my dreams and nightmares could merge in bizarre ways that made no sense.

I found Poe responsible for the most unusual dreams, but for some reason his stories were odd enough that my own life’s experiences had no way to join up with his. I liked Poe’s use of words and the rhythm he created with them.

Once I started reading a book of Poe’s short stories, I only read from it in bed at night until I finished, but as bizarre as some of Poe’s stories were, they didn’t frighten me. Maybe his being long ago dead separated us far enough that things that scared people in his day weren’t scary to someone born of the Halloween and Nightmare on Elm Street generation.

The day after Thanksgiving I went riding up to Simon’s house before we took a trip to the mall to work off some of the food we’d consumed the day before by playing the games at the arcade.

I suppose the bike riding did more for that purpose than the games we played, but as long as we were doing something, it was cool, until Mrs. Betts came out to chat.

“Billie Joe, do you know who is encouraging Simon to dress like a ragamuffin?”

“Why, no I don’t. Besides me he mostly talks to the girls at school.”

“Yes, well you do have a habit of wearing denim quite often. Simon is too refined to let himself dress in denim. I think you know what I mean,” she said, hands on hips with eye contact being of a vague nature, except on the words denim and you have a habit. Then she stared right into my face.

“I don’t want to appear to be rude, Mrs. Betts, but what is denim?”

I might have been questioning her motherhood by her reaction to my question. As she studied my casual posture, Simon appeared in the front door in his blue jeans, white T-shirt, and a red jacket that was about right for the cool weather.

“Blue jeans!” she said sounding as though it was a dirty word she couldn’t wait to get out of her mouth because of its bitter taste.

“Oh!” I said, as Simon rolled his bike toward me.

“Hi, Billie Joe. Sorry I’m so slow. Later Mom,” he said, throwing his leg over his bike seat like any boy might do and starting to pedal out of his driveway.

“Nice talking to you, Mrs. Betts,” I said, turning my bike around and tossing my leg over the seat to follow my friend.

“Simon,” I said, as I noticed his pant leg being rolled up several inches on his right leg. “Why do you have your jeans rolled up?”

“Oh, my chain guard thingy came off. If I don’t role my pants leg up it gets caught in the chain.”

“You’ve got grease on your leg,” I advised him.

“Yeah, I know, but I don’t want to ruin my new Wranglers. I only bought the two pair. My mother would freak out if I asked her to buy them. She doesn’t know much about how boys dress.”

I cringed as I heard my words coming out of Simon’s mouth. I’d wanted him to act more like a boy so I could feel better about hanging around with him, but I didn’t know how to talk to him about it. Just hanging around together had him doing things more like I did. I wondered how much of his personality and behavior came from his mother and how much was actually part of the real Simon?

It was a complicated thought and not what I had planned for my day. Simon seemed comfortable with himself and that was fine with me. I still had the impression that most guys from school didn’t recognize Simon in jeans and a T-shirt.

Chapter 8

Inherit the Wind

It was a week after Thanksgiving when the dress rehearsal of the senior play was presented to the student body. We’d then perform it for a paying audience Friday night, Saturday night, and Sunday afternoon before the play was retired for a year or two.

Wednesday night we spent hours putting the scenery in place and anchored as well as getting all the props ready. We wore our costumes so they’d feel familiar and some last minute alterations were necessary.

The actors fed one another random lines so no matter where in the play it was, a proper response was the only response. Mr. Elliot employed this tactic to get us to relate to our dialogue front to back and inside out. Luckily the two stars were most often the victims and rarely stumped for something to say, even if it wasn’t the exact line in the script. It surprised me that I knew all their lines almost as well as they did.

I got stumped a few times, because my mind worked on an organized track and once I got into the random query, I might not get the right answer. All my lines came in response to lines from the two stars and they knew the script frontwards or backwards. So, that didn’t scare me, but being on the stage in front of eight hundred people scared the shit out of me.

I had this annoying little niggle in the back of my head all week that week. It was something like one of Poe’s stories. I knew something was coming, but for the life of me I didn’t have a clue what it was. It was likely just the fact that I had to stand up, or sit down, in front of all those people and remember my name and a lot more.

Mr. Elliot reminded me that I was simply a biology teacher caught up in a whirlwind. In the end I was still the simple man who believed he wasn’t qualified to teach creationism because it didn’t have anything to do with biology, which was what he’d studied to teach. It was a simple concept that became surrounded by the national media frenzy. It had become Creationism vs. Biology.

I could grasp the concept of having a simple mission in mind. I sat in on several biology classes, which Mr. Elliot cleared with the teacher. No one knew why I sat in the back of the room or that it was preparation for my role. It was all informative and helpful but the niggle didn’t leave and was likely to last until Sunday night.

Thursday morning I wasn’t able to eat breakfast. Simon and I walked to school and nearly froze our butts off. The Minnesota winter had been a long time coming, but it was making up for lost time. While walking was cold and took longer, riding our bikes became tricky in the gusty wind and I couldn’t cover up enough body parts to get any warmth. Walking meant a less intense beating, but I’d have traded either for a nice warm bus ride.

Simon was cheerful and polite enough not to mention the play. I was nervous and my stomach got upset as soon as my mother made me breakfast. Now my stomach was somewhere between growling and vomiting up the breakfast I didn’t eat. The cold simply took my attention away from the misery my body decided to visit upon me.

I had the most time on my hands with drama, lunch, and another drama class after lunch. When Mr. Elliot thought I looked a little green around the gills, he sent me to get a cup of tea and dry toast. It did take the growl out of my stomach, which helped but my newly acquired nervous condition wasn’t going anywhere until Sunday night after the final curtain came down on he play.

The only nightmares I’d had that week were of me standing naked, center stage, and not remembering a damn thing. I couldn’t go back to my regular nightmares, which I preferred. At least I was able to run in them. Now, faced with my first stage appearance, all I could do was to wait.

I was dressed an hour before the first students started to take their seats. There was a constant rustling after that and I forgot about the noise after a few minutes. My mind started going over my lines once I was ready to go onto the stage. I’d sit at the defense table long before I was called to the stand.

Once the curtain opened, I was able to calm down as I listened to the cadence of the other player’s lines. It was comforting to know it was going well as they prepared the stage for the key witness, me. I knew every line and each response, which kept me from worrying about my own lines. I had no idea I knew the play as well as I did. This was more comforting to me than anything else. Even if I blew a line, I knew they wouldn’t let me fall on my face. It was going to be okay.

I stood, taking a seat in the witness chair once I was called. I identified my character for the audience and was waiting for the first question to be fired at me, so I could get in the rhythm of the play.

“Billie Joe’s a fag. He’s got AIDS,” came a cry from the back of the auditorium.

“Jesus Christ,” I said, as the curtain came swishing across the stage in front of me and a major disturbance disrupted in the back of the auditorium. “Jesus Christ!”

Tears just started flowing from my eyes. I’d had to walk a fine line at school and had done so with only a minimum of disruption. The niggle was no longer in the back of my head; it struck me between the eyes.

I couldn’t stop crying as people huddled around me. I was ruined. Nothing I did would make any difference from here on out. Voices all talked to me at once. I couldn’t understand any of them. I sat stunned in the middle of what had been the senior play. I’d ruined everything for everyone by taking the part.

“Billie Joe, are you listening to me,” Mr. Crockett said as he put his face in mine.

“Yes, sir,” I sobbed and started crying harder.

“You owe me an impromptu speech. Do you remember the one I told you to give if you wanted to beat those knuckleheads?”

“Yes, sir,” I said, smiling at the word he used.

“Do you want to save the play? You’re the only one who can do it.”

“Yes, sir,” I said. My tears stopped as I listened to Mr. Crockett.

“Are you mad?”

“Yes, sir,” I said bitterly.

“Are you mad enough to go out there and nail the speech I told you to give?”

“Yes, sir,” I said firmly, taking a wet towel Mr. Elliot handed me to wipe my face.

“Do you know who you are?”

“Yes, sir.”

“No, you aren’t Billie Joe. You are John Scopes, biology teacher. I want you to give your speech as though you are John Scopes, biology teacher. Think about this. I want you to stay in character and step out in front of the curtain to address the issue those knuckleheads have tried to hurt you with. Can you do it? It’s the only way we can go on with the play. If you can go out there and sell it, we’ll b able to open the curtain on the trial where we left off,” Mr. Crockett explained to me.

“He’s right, Billie Joe. You can’t go out there as anyone but John Scopes. If you stay in character, deliver your speech, you can save the play. Can you?” Mr. Elliot asked.

I thought for a moment as everyone from the play stood around me and the audience buzzed just beyond the curtain. I thought of all the work done to be able to present the play to the public.

“I can do it,” I said, determined to do it.

“Remember, our speech class is out there somewhere. That’s who you are talking to,” Mr. Crockett reminded me. “Get me a piece of paper.”

Someone ripped a piece of paper from a notebook and handed it to Mr. Crocket. He placed it on the defense table and wrote across it in big letters. He handed me the sheet of paper. I laughed.

“Fold it up and put it inside your coat pocket. You’ll know when to look at it,” he said, patting my back as I stood.

“Who are you?” Mr. Elliot asked, as the people parted to give me a path to the curtain.

“I’m John Scopes, biology teacher,” I said, straightening my suit.

“Find the break in the curtain so this man can save our play,” Mr. Elliot said. Happy smiling faces met me as I stepped to where the two stagehands pulled the curtain aside for me to come face to face with the audience.

There was an instant buzz that progressed from the front of the auditorium to the back. Teachers quieted the reaction to my appearance. The spotlight surprised me, lighting only my section of the stage. I reminded myself of who I was and prayed my voice didn’t squeak when I spoke.

“I’m John Scopes,” I said.

There was another buzz with the teachers’ hushing the noise.

“I’m a biology teacher. My story is a simple one. I’m not a minister or a preacher and therefore I wouldn’t know how to teach Creationism. I do know how to teach biology.

“The new law just passed by the state of Tennessee legislature says that I can’t teach anything that denies the creation. I don’t know that biology denies the creation. Biology is science and isn’t meant to explain things that are based on faith.

“I have no proof of the creation, but I have faith my minister knows about it. How can a teacher do justice to God’s creation with any understanding? I would never claim to understand God or explain his creation. That’s way too big an assignment for a biology teacher.

“As a biology teacher, I can speak about… biology.”

There was silence as I got to my point.

“I understand how things grow and multiply. When it comes to humans, we multiply by having intercourse. This would more commonly be referred to as having sex.”

The buzz ran through the audience without the teachers quieting it.

“For humans there are certain precautions necessary to stay healthy and not overpopulate the planet. While abstinence is the only safe way to stay healthy sexually, some of us aren’t able to abstain.”

There was laughter and more buzzing. The audience reacted predictably as I steered my speech into the right direction.

“As your reaction indicates, many teens are said to be sexually active. If you aren’t abstinent, there is only one way to be sure you are safe and aren’t at risk of getting or spreading an STD. It only requires a simple blood test to make certain you and your partner are healthy.

“You might wonder what the test results might look like, once you’ve had the blood test. Well, I just happen to have my results with me. It might look like this,” I said, reaching into my inside pocket and removing the piece of paper Mr. Crockett wrote on.

I shook it so it would unfold and reveal the word to the audience:

NEGATIVE.

The laughter started in the front row as they read the word and processed the message. As the laughter rolled toward the back of the auditorium, I was at a loss for how to get off the stage now that I’d delivered the punch line.

Someone started to clap near the door where George made his exit with substantial help. It was Mr. Lindsey. Other people started to clap and the laughter quieted. I took a bow just as an arm reached through the curtain to pull me out of sight. The audience howled with laughter at my unexpected disappearance.

I was met backstage with smiles and more laughter as Mr. Elliot instructed us to take our places from where we’d left off. Mr. Crockett hugged me tightly before sitting me down to get a makeup renewal.

I expected him to say, ‘what a guy,’ but he resisted any such impulse for which I was thankful.

Simon stood in front of me smiling his approval without saying anything.

Mr. Elliot slipped out in front of the curtain to apologize for the interruption and to set the scene for us to pickup where we’d left off.

I was questioned by one attorney and then the other before sitting back down at the defense table, once I’d finished my lines.

It was a relief to know all I had to do was keep from falling off my chair and I’d escape our dress rehearsal with no more than a headache and apprehension about what might confront me the next three times we performed the play.

The applause and closing curtain meant the hard part was over. There was a curtain call and then the lights came up as the students made their noisy exit. I was left feeling drained. I’d never expected our dress rehearsal would be a test of endurance. For the first time that day I wasn’t nervous. When I sat down, the emotions caught up with me again. I couldn’t stop the tears; I felt like a baby.

Simon stood next to me as some of the cast came over to say thanks as they got ready to leave. I knew it wasn’t about my performance and it certainly wasn’t about my crying. I didn’t know what was wrong with me but I hoped it would pass soon.

Everyone treated me really nice, which bothered me. I’d gone from being hardly noticed, except for when I blew a line, to being someone everyone felt obligated to talk to. I was fine with being a bit player that got no attention. That was what made being in the play painless.

Simon got a jar of cold cream and smeared it on my face before using a towel to wipe it and my makeup off. I didn’t feel much like going out in public in makeup, not that afternoon anyway.

“Thanks,” I said, as Simon came back to stand next to me.

“We can leave any time you say,” he said. “You aren’t staying here until it’s time for tomorrow’s performance, are you?”

“No,” I said, not sure I wasn’t going to keep crying.

“You did fine,” he said, not overselling his opinion.

“Yeah, just great. I was a regular shooting star.”

“You saved the play. They couldn’t have gone on with it if you hadn’t gone out there.”

“I should have known better than to take the part. I was too chicken shit to say no. I almost ruined it.”

“No you didn’t. George Phelps almost ruined it. You’ll feel better tomorrow,” Simon said.

“Sure I will. I’ll forget about the entire school knowing my business. I should have never come back here,” I said.

“Don’t be silly. You’d never have become my friend if you hadn’t come back. That must be worth something,” he said, giving me a smirk when I looked at him.

“It shouldn’t be this hard, Simon. I just want to go to school and be left alone. Why are people so fucking hateful? I never did anything to George Phelps or his idiot friends. Why do I have to put up with their shit?”

“Come on. Let’s go. You need to get something to eat and a good night’s sleep. You’ll be fine tomorrow.”

“You think so?”

“Yeah, you’ve done it once. It’ll be a piece of cake in front of adults.”

“Maybe.”

By the time I got home I felt as if I hadn’t slept in a week and I was frozen inside and out. Simon stayed with me until I opened the front door and went inside.

“How’d it go, dear,” my mother sang, as she put dishes on the dinning room table for dinner.

“Fine,” I said. “I’m tired. I think I’ll go lie down. I didn’t sleep last night. Don’t wake me up for dinner.”

“Oh, Billie Joe, you need to eat,” she protested.

“I know,” I said as I made my way upstairs.

Chapter 9

Everyone knows Billie Joe

My fitful sleep wasn’t very satisfying. I had resisted my mother’s efforts to get me to eat dinner and stayed in bed. I slept until eight in the evening and felt even worse than before my nap. I spent a lot of time on stage listening to howling laughter through the night. I spent a lot of time crying My only solace came from the knowledge that I’d be out of school in a few months and Christmas holidays were straight ahead. I’d still be forced to face the student body for a long, long time before graduation, but I’d do it.

It was daylight when I woke up for the twenty-fourth or twenty-fifth time. It was too light to be very early, which meant I was probably late for school. Somehow it didn’t seem important. My mother hadn’t bothered to get me up.

“You planning to get up or what?” Simon said from the chair across from the foot of my bed.

“Who let you in?” I asked in my go-to-hell voice.

“Your mother answered the door. I let myself into your room when she told me you were still in bed.

“Billie Joe, staying in bed for the rest of your life isn’t a good idea. Besides, you’ve got a play to do tonight.”

“Yeah, don’t remind me. Everyone will probably want to come see the little faggot with AIDS.”

“You don’t have AIDS. They only think you have AIDS.”

“Well, the faggot, then.”

“They won’t see me. I’ll be backstage.”

“What time is it?”

“Nine fifteen. You’re late for school,” Simon said.

“You’re not?”

“Well, since we go to school together, I guess I am.”

“How cold is it out?”

“You don’t want to know! It’s Minnesota. It’s almost December. Your mother will drive us.”

“You going to babysit me all day?”

“Maybe. Why don’t you get up and get dressed and I’ll go see if your mother has something to eat.”

“I’m not hungry,” I said.

“I’m starved.”

“You’re always starved,” I said.

“And your mother’s a good cook. Funny how that works. I’ll meet you at the table. I smelled cinnamon buns when I came in. Your mother’s cinnamon buns are to die for.”

“You’re going to get fat,” I said.

“Got to do something.”

My mother dropped us at the door nearest my locker. I grabbed my notebook and headed for the office to get my late slip.

“Hi, Billie Joe,” a girl said, passing us in the hall.

“Hi,” I said. “Who was that?” I asked Simon.

“I don’t know. I don’t know all the girls. I think she’s a junior.”

Simon followed me into the office as the girl at the counter looked up from a copy of the school newspaper.

“You can go on in,” she said, looking me over.

“I just need a late slip,” I said. “I overslept.”

“Mr. Burgess said to send you in when you showed up, Billie Joe.”

I shrugged and started around the counter with Simon behind me.

“Not you, Betts. He didn’t say anything about you,” she continued.

“Won’t he be surprised to see me,” Simon said, not being slowed down by the reprimand.

“What, you’re the Bobbsey twins?” Mr. Burgess said as we went into the office.

“It wasn’t safe leaving him alone,” Simon said.

“Well, this involves you as well. You’re late,” Mr. Burgess said looking at his watch. “Very late. Both of you are very late.”

“Yes, sir,” I said, not really concerned about scheduling.

“Sit. Both of you. Phelps is gone. The administration met last night to expel him. He’ll be able to go to school across town, but he won’t get any leeway on his behavior. The superintendant is aware of why we expelled him and they will be keeping a close eye on him.

“Two of his three protégés are on probation. You won’t be having any trouble from them. I spoke to their parents. The third boy isn’t any problem by himself, but I read him the riot act to be sure.

“Things should quiet down without Phelps stirring up trouble. I hope this meets with your approval,” Mr. Burgess said. “You’re both late.”

“Oh, here, Billie’s mom makes exquisite cinnamon buns. I thought you might like one about this time of day. I didn’t have any way to bring you a cup of coffee,” Simon said, sitting down after delivering the napkin he’d carefully wrapped around the bun he took to have later. I could feel his pain.

“Bribery, Mr. Betts?” Mr. Burgess said with disapproval. “Does smell good. Your mom’s a cook, Billie Joe? My mother liked to bake,” he said, sniffing the napkin in front of him and touching it gently with the tip of his fingers. “Well, I’ll write you a note saying you were both busy with the play to explain your tardiness.”

“Yes, sir,” I said, standing up as he wrote out two late slips.

“I was particularly moved by your poise under adverse circumstances, Billie Joe. A lesser boy might have been unable to do what you did. You can be proud of your courage. I am.

“You two get out of here so I can get back to work,” he said, giving the napkin in front of him a telltale glance.

The two girls behind the counter stood watching us as we rounded the counter and headed for the door.

“Bye, Billie Joe,” they both sang, giggling for good measure.

“Later,” I said and Simon giggled too.

“I think you’re a hit,” Simon said.

When I handed my late slip to my teacher the class was buzzing about my late appearance. I took my seat and tried to locate where we were in the lesson. By the time my mind began to work the bell rang ending the class.

“Hi, Billie Joe,” someone said in the hall as I headed for drama class.

“Hi, Billie Joe,” someone else said as they passed me in the hallway.

In spite of my annoyance with people I didn’t know speaking to me, I answered each salutation with “Hi” while trying to figure out who the person was, but by the time I had, someone else spoke.

It was the same thing several more times until I opened the door to the auditorium. There were several people there ahead of me and as I headed for the stage they turned toward me and applauded my entrance. I forced a smile and became cordial, saying hello more times than I can remember saying almost forever. Was it a joke? I didn’t understand the attention. I’d nearly ruined the play. People who didn’t have all that much to say to me before went out of their way to come to say hello.

It wasn’t a big class but it seemed big with so many people noticing me. My lousy night’s sleep and late arrival at school did nothing for my disposition. I tried hard to be polite and not act like a jerk. The idea of being a face in the crowd was over. For whatever reason I was noticed by people I didn’t know by name. I still felt out of place. Trying to make sense of it made no sense. I had too much to do and it didn’t take much time to say hi back to the people who greeted me. Just the same I’d be glad when I went back to being a face in the crowd.

Mr. Elliot came in with his arms loaded with books and once relieved of his burden, he took to patting me on the back as the class stood around us. Everyone was happy with me at a time when it was rare that anyone was happy with me. I took it all in without being rude and was happy when we got down to business. It was obvious everyone was happy that the play hadn’t been ruined, even though it was only in front of the students who weren’t paying to see it.

My frame of reference wasn’t very large and I did things out of practicality. The idea that I’d done something whose motivation was something other than fear and humiliation made no sense. I hadn’t gone out in front of the curtain to save the play. I’d gone out there to save myself. Had George Phelps been allowed to have the final word on who and what I was, my life wouldn’t have been worth a pile of donkey doo. No, I knew why I did what I did when what I really wanted to do was curl up in a ball and die.

Did I bother to tell these people how wrong they were about me or did I do the easy thing and let them believe what they believed. It seemed dishonest not to speak up but what the hell, it was better than the labels I’d been tagged with in front of the entire school and I was the only one who knew the truth. I smiled and kept it to myself.

The Friday night performance was a breeze. Most of the seats were filled with parents, friends, and other family members of the cast and stage crew. Mrs. Betts showed up and was dressed in a royal blue evening dress with a single strand of pearls adorning her slender neck. She got as much attention as the cast. Simon blushed when people kept asking, “Who’s the beautiful woman in the evening gown?”

‘Better her than me,’ I thought. I was glad she came to all three shows. By Sunday night I was played out. When the final curtain came down on Inherit the Wind, I was relieved. The cast party was Sunday night after the final performance. Parents brought the food and there was plenty for everyone, but I wasn’t all that hungry.

The conversation was all about the stars of the show and how everything went well in each performance. This is the way I saw it and wasn’t reluctant that the limelight no longer shined on me. I’d done one thing in one moment to help things along, but the two stars had made the play fun for everyone to see.

We all relaxed and chatted until one by one people began to say good night. Simon’s mother came to pick us up and she was very happy about how well the play went. She was sure Simon would have a roll in the next play so he could show off his talent. Simon didn’t act all that excited by the prospect.

Carl called Sunday night late. It helped me to hear his voice. He wanted to know all about the play but I left out the parts I wanted to forget. He was pleased that I had done it and his only regret was not being able to see me perform. I told him he’d get to see me perform plenty, once he came back to me. This made him giggle and sound very un-army like. I giggled back and felt giddy. I was such a dope.

I was remarkably refreshed Monday morning when I met Simon on his way to meeting me. It was December and in a few weeks we’d be off from school until in January. The hard part was over. School would become less and less a factor as I waited to graduate and to count the days until I would travel back to SeaTac Airport. I’d probably visit my brother for a couple of days. I needed to thank him for giving me cover the summer before. He only did it to keep from telling my father any sooner than he had to that his youngest son had flown the coop.

Simon was full of conversation on the way to school that morning and I was glad things were back to normal. It was cold but not bitter and the same could be said of me. I’d escaped again, not knowing what I was escaping from, but being glad I hadn’t found out. I’d always been lucky and before I was lucky I was too dumb to realize what a pain in the ass life could be. Then, I remembered when I found it out for myself and I pushed it out of my brain. I wasn’t going to dwell on Ralphie and a life that didn’t exist any longer.

Simon went on his way as I headed for my locker to make my morning book exchange. I’d fallen behind in every class the last few weeks, and I’d need to carry all my books and appear like I intended to catch up before Christmas vacation. As I spun my combination and started to open my locker, a long arm shot in over my shoulder and ended up on my locker door.

I recognized the arm, or what was on it. It was a letterman’s jacked. The long blue material of the arm was only broken where the white interrupted the blue near the shoulder. A twinge of anger and acceptance ran through me.

“What?” I said in as unpleasant and surly a voice as I had.

“Oh, sorry,” a soft voice said and the arm moved a few inches so I was able to finish opening my locker. “You’ve got guts, Billie Joe. I wanted to tell you that. I know we don’t talk but I had to say it to your face.”

I left my locker door waggling as I turned to face the taller leaner boy in the athlete’s jacket.

“I’m Brit,” he said, having his hand at the ready for a shaking. “I’ve wanted to talk to you, but we don’t move in the same circle. What you did… what you said… well, you got guts and I wanted to say that.”

“Brit?”

“Britain. My parents are from England. Not me. They decided I should be named after the homeland. Brit works better.”

“Oh,” I said, finding his lovely blue eyes with black lashes far too beautiful for a boy. “Thanks.

“You’re on the…,” I found myself checking the jacket for some athletic designation that might give me a clue.

“Track team,” he said proudly, showing me his chest with one white shoe and the word track above it.

“Of course,” I agreed.

“I’ve got to get to homeroom,” he said, alerting me. “That was the final bell.”

“Oh,” I said, shutting my locker and turning down the hall.

He turned around as he started down the hall, walking backwards and saying, “You ought to get your books. I think you were after your books.”

I realized my arms were empty as he jogged into the empty expanse of the school. ‘What was that about?’ I wondered.

There were still hellos. People spoke to me and I didn’t have the slightest clue who they were. I’d recognize some faces but not others, and I always said hello back.

“Hey,” Brit said, sitting down with me at lunch that day.

I’d seen Brit before. I may have even seen him in his track uniform once. We’d never spoken that I remembered, but I’d never associated with athletes. Brit was right, we didn’t move in the same circles. Why was he suddenly moving in mine?

His tray was filled with milk cartons. There were greens, cottage cheese, pear slices, peaches, and something that looked like shredded carrot with raison that looked a little like bugs. He had a banana and an orange.

“Where do you get that stuff?”

“Oh, Coach has them fix us special plates. Can’t eat the fat crap you guys eat, you know.”

“Oh, of course not,” I said, as if it was understood I wasn’t entitled to such special treatment.

“I could get you one if you like. I can get all I want,” he bragged, as I discovered the celery and carrot sticks hidden by the fruit.

“No, thank you. I wouldn’t be sure what to do with it. You enjoy it,” I teased, biting into my hamburger and noticing him glancing at the meat.

I sat my burger back on the plate, looked around, and slid it toward him as his eyes never left the burger.

“Go ahead. No one will know. You look like you could use a little meat and grease. You’re awful thin, you know,” I said, noticing his well shaped chest and conditioned arms in the shirt of a design to show them off.

Brit looked casually to one side and then to the other. He picked up the burger and bit into it. His eyes closed and the most incredible look came over his face as he savored the fat and the grease that now coated his mouth.

“Damn, that’s good,” he said, taking a second bite before setting it back on the plate as the cheese oozed over where he’d left his mark.

“Go ahead. I don’t need it,” I said. “Fries?”

I watched Brit eat my lunch and rather enjoyed the way it made me feel to know I’d tempted him into doing something he knew he wasn’t suppose to be doing.

“Well, I’ve got to go,” I said, standing and gathering my books. “We’re taking the set apart. I’ve got to lend a hand. Enjoy your…,” I said, casting a glance at his still full plate. “Lunch?”

I knew I was bad. I knew Brit knew I was bad, but I suspected it wouldn’t be the last time he sat down at the table where I liked sitting alone, except when Simon sat down to entertain me with his stories about this girl or that. I wondered if Brit would sit down with Simon at the table. I decided it wasn’t important. Brit was a kid that I went to school with. Why he bothered to mention my performance in front of the student body, I don’t know. He said I had guts, but I knew better. I was a survivor, but I didn’t have a tough bone in my body. I didn’t have guts beyond what we were all born with and those seemed irrelevant beyond their intended use.

I suppose Brit’s attention changed things for me. Not simply because I was evil and got him to do something he shouldn’t, or was probably told he shouldn’t. No, that wasn’t it. We were teen agers after all and eating junk was part of it. I probably ate better than he did, only buying the burgers at school, because they had a particularly juicy flavor I’d grown addicted to. After you’ve dumpster dived to eat, the time and effort my mother put into meal preparation was not wasted on the son she hardly knew.

Brit’s willingness to speak, sit with, and share something of himself with me changed everything. I gladly accepted the smiles and salutations after that. It didn’t matter why people spoke to me; they did. There was no great revelation or moment of truth. I was simply happy to be there and half way through my senior year. Maybe that’s what changed things. Sometimes it’s hard to know why you change your mind or what comes over you, but for me it came over me after Brit spoke to me and started eating lunch with me and sometimes Simon.

I wrote Carl constantly with the holidays closing in on us and I missed him about that much. His letters became less suggestive, but always at the end was, "remember Seattle." I held onto that and knew it was dangerous for Carl to say too much while he was so far away.

There were more pictures of him and his buddy Leon. I didn't appreciate the ones with Leon. One showed the two of them in green boxers lying on the same bed with Leon's leg over top of Carl's leg just above the knee, and they both had those big green helmets on. Besides their boots that was it. Carl's body had grown bigger and stronger looking. Leon looked a little wimpish with his pale skin and long skinny body next to Carl's tan skin and growing muscles. What I wouldn't have given to have been there in place of Leon. I lay on my bed staring at the picture for hours at a time.

I started to imagine they were more than best friends. Any guy with three kids by the time he was nineteen had to be a horny fuck. Then I thought Carl wouldn't send the pictures of them together if they were doing any sex stuff. He wouldn't remember to tell me to remember Seattle if he was getting some in Japan.

I cut him some slack and tried not to be jealous when he called, but I was anyway. He knew it. He laughed and told me Leon didn't make him feel anything between his thighs and that if it wasn't for the baggy uniform he wouldn't be able to walk back to the barracks for an hour after we talked on the phone. He said talking to me turned him hard as stone. If that ain't love, what is? I laughed and it was all right.

Ty called from San Francisco my last day of school. I'd sent a letter the week before. He told me he was still healthy and he had spent Thanksgiving with his mother. If everything continued to go smoothly he was spending Christmas with her and her parents. Ty sounded happy and thought he’d enjoy returning to school or at least taking classes to allow him to get his GED. He wanted to go to college after that.

I wanted Ty to be happy and it sounded as if he was on his way to reconnecting with his mother. She’d left his father and there was no longer anything to keep Ty from going home. Todd had been instrumental in keeping Ty out of the social service’s maze that would complicate any reunion. I thought it would be a wonderful Christmas present.

I knew that Ty and I were linked in a way that I’d never forget, but I could tell by his voice that he wanted to put the past few years away for good. He was smart and attractive and could likely become anything he wanted to become, but he’d need to let go of everything that might remind him of the street. As Ty reminded me of the street so I couldn’t help but remind him.

Ty was healthy and Todd had him on the latest cocktail so he’d stay healthy. His T-cells were up and he was eating good food. I couldn’t help but be glad that Ty’s life seemed to be finding a direction of his own design.

After talking to Ty was when I missed the street the most. It’s funny how dying can seem like living, when you don't care if you live or die. The streets had an allure that called me from time to time, especially when I was pissed at the world and getting down on myself for not being a better person. Anything goes in the streets. There is no one to say no. There is no reason to say no.

You stay up for days taking one drug after another, not remembering what you've taken or how much, until you don't know where you are or who you are. Then, you moved from one person to the next, being passed around like a snack tray and giving everything to get the approval of the hungry admirers. Some of them are your companions and you are with them every day of your life, but you don't know if you know the others, and you don't remember their faces or their names, if you ever knew their names at all. The drugs make it unimportant at the time, but the nature of what you did or think you did makes a name something you think you should have.

You pig out, eating everything and anything, and then you eat nothing, sleeping for days at a time, not knowing who is sleeping next to you, or if they are sleeping or just waiting for you to sleep so they can take whatever they can get off of you even when you have nothing.

You have a negative value on the street. The only time you are worth anything is when people are taking something from you. The drugs and the sex are the first thing everyone wants, but your food, shoes, or anything of value will do. Once you start to recover, you pull yourself together in order to have something to give, and to get it you must steal it or bargain yourself away for it. This is all a dream, except when you are awake. Each night it comes back to haunt you long after you’ve moved on.

Even to read about it disgusts me, but that doesn't diminish the allure of total freedom to do it. There are no adults standing over you to make you do what they can force you to do. You run from the cops, protecting one another with your life if that's what it takes, and sometimes it does. A human sacrifice is the price for a few to survive, and you remember the face for a day or maybe two, before they become a name you once knew, or thought you did. They are the fallen, those that gave it all, the missing in action and the lost souls that never existed for long.

This was the price I paid for survival. My mind exploded with ideas and impressions once I spoke to Carl and Ty back to back at a tempestuous time. They were at the root of who I was, who I became, and what I was once I came home. It was all in there without rhyme or reason. There was no way to completely undo what I’d done to myself. I could never wash enough to get the street off of me. I’d been there and I’d consumed it all, except, unlike most of my companions, I came home.

It was all a dream and all too real. I lay with my head hanging off the bed and daylight shining into my window. My covers and pillows were all on the floor as I measured my memories one more time. I tried to remember them all, their names, and where I’d last seen each. I once more had thoughts of Gene. We’d been inseparable forever. He’d taken me to meet Jesus and one day he walked way. There was no goodbye and no I’ll see you around. He walked away and I never saw him again.

I often asked Ty about Gene when I was first home, but we no longer talked about the street or the boys we’d left on them. These boys that had kept me alive were dead to me now. Ty could not go to them any longer and I’d never return, hating the sights, the sounds, the smells that I could not forget.

Was Gene dead?

I fell asleep again and I was blessed not to dream.

Chapter 10

Holiday Phone Calls

Carl called me Christmas Eve and again Christmas day. We talked for two hours in all. It was the best Christmas present I ever got. I couldn't wait until next year when we'd be together. He told me he loved me and couldn't wait to get back to me. I cried. He cried. I was such a baby.

"What about Leon? Won't you miss him?" I said, only half in jest when he talked of coming home.

"Sure, but Leon is a friend. You're a lot more than that. You aren't jealous, are you? He only lives a hundred miles from me anyway. We can see each other any time we want."

"He's there lying in bed with you and you think that would make me jealous? I'm not a kid you know. Tell him to keep his skinny leg off yours."

"That was just a picture. It's the only way I could get you one with my clothes off. I thought you'd like it."

"I'd like it better if Leon's naked leg wasn't over your naked leg," I said with conviction in my voice.

"I don't know why he did that. We were just clowning around. Leon's a good friend. He's another southern boy. He's so southern he makes me look like a Yankee."

"Just don't bend over in the shower to pick up the soap. I got a feeling Leon would be helping you in ways you never dreamt about."

"You really think so?" Carl said, never being sure if I was serious. "He mostly minds his own business."

"I've seen your ass. I know so, and he didn't get three kids minding his own business."

"All he talks about is his wife. Has a dozen pictures he keeps showing me of her and the kids. Let's don't have any kids, Billie Joe. I want you all to myself. We’ll let Leon have our share of kids."

"Just don't turn your back on him or you'll be having his kids."

"You're silly, Billie Joe. This is the Army. That kind of thing don't go in the Army. Besides, we're all lean mean fighting machines, which don’t leave no time for no funny business."

"Takes a good man to take it up the ass," I said.

"You ought to know. I’ll take your word for it," he said.

"Uh huh," I said, and I could feel him smiling. I giggled while thinking about Seattle which had me missing him all the more. “I love you, Carl.”

“I know you do, babe. It won’t be too much longer. I’m not interested in anyone but you.”

He made me feel like a giddy kid. I always felt so young and innocent and so clean after talking to Carl. We finished the conversation with listening to each other breathing. That's when we knew it was time to end the call. Carl held the phone against his chest so I could hear his heart, but I never did hear it. He said he'd call again at New Years if he had the money. He thought he'd spent a month’s pay on the two calls at Christmas. He didn't care though. He said he'd saved up to give me those calls as one of my big Christmas presents. I asked him what he meant by one. He said he didn’t know why he had said it. I said he should call collect next time, knowing he never would.

The ring came two days after Christmas. It was a simple gold band inscribed, C loves BJ. I about died and started wearing it immediately. My mother said it looked like a wedding ring. I laughed and said she was so silly, saying it was a friendship ring. Well, if you love someone you should be friends, don't you think? It worked for me and every time I looked at it I smiled.

Simon came over a few days after Christmas, once they got back from his aunt’s house. He gave me a sweater that was the most audacious thing I’d ever seen. I liked it. I gave him a Bret Farve jersey. He looked at it and he looked at me and we both burst out laughing.

I took him to my room and showed him my hand.

“My God. You got married,” he gasped, putting his fingers to his lips.

“Shh!” I said, taking it off so he could see the initials and especially the word love.

Simon twirled in a circle and did a fake faint onto my bed. We giggled like little girls and he loved that I was in love and wanted me to describe Carl to him again. We lay on my bed together and I described my love another time as he hung on every word.

“The rinks open. I left my skates outside. It’s only two-fifty over the holidays.”

“Cool,” I said.

Simon carried the jersey and the wrapping with us. He was going to put it in the locker at the rink so he didn’t forget it. He talked to me about his skating skill. When he was younger he trained to be an ice skater but gave it up because of the time it required. I was more a pond skater; Ralphie and I had skated as soon as the ponds around us froze. It was another of those things I didn’t do any more because the person I did them with wasn’t around. It didn’t bother me Simon trained to be a skater. I wasn’t going to do something fancy.

As we came in the door there was a lot of noise and slamming because there were guys playing hockey on the ice.

“Oh, no,” Simon said. “I don’t believe it. I wanted to skate.”

“There’s a pond out behind Wilson’s,” I said.

“It’s too cold,” Simon said, and it was.

“Hey, Walker,” someone screamed from the ice.

A guy skated up and yanked off his helmet. It was Barry Greene. We used to skate together when we were kids.

“Hey, man, long time no see. We need a couple of guys to make two teams. How ‘bout you two playing a little hockey?”

“Yeah, cool,” I said. “Hey, Si, you want to play hockey.”

Simon gave me a glance that was not filled with wonder and anticipation.

“Yeah, you and your buddy get out of your coats. I’ll get you on my team. Those guys are pussies. Thanks a lot, Walker.”

“Billie Joe, I want to dance. I didn’t come here to bang the boards with a bunch of assholes.”

“Come on, Simon. I told him we would.”

“You told him you would. I will not do that. It’s a game for cretins. I’m a gentleman.”

“Oh, come one, just a few minutes and we’ll say we got to go. Come on, Simon.”

Simon took off his coat to reveal a spangled and frilled shirt that would have made Madonna look modest by comparison.

I grabbed the package he’d carried and threw him the jersey. Put it on. Those guys will kill you if you wear that thing out there.”

“It’s my skating shirt. I always wear it when I skate.”

He reluctantly listened and pulled the shirt over his louder version. He started to straighten out his now messed up hair but I pulled his hands away from his head.

“You look like a real boy. Leave it alone,” I ordered.

“I am a real boy,” he protested. “Clothes a real boy do not make.”

We skated out on the ice and Barry introduced us. After Simon got some strange looks, I noticed his eye liner and closed my eyes waiting for someone to make a remark. None of them did.

“Do you know how to play,” one boy asked Simon after taking a closer look.

“Hockey! Shit yeah,” Simon said in a coarse voice he’d just made up.

I stifled my urge to grow hysterical; must have been the jersey.

The puck dropped and the two biggest boys slapped and pushed and shoved one another trying to control the puck. It zipped out and was passed from side to side as the goalie squatted in the nearest net. Skates flashed, bodies slammed, and when I looked, Simon was flat on his back sliding off to one side.

“Asshole,” he said, as he jumped up and started to brush the ice crystals off his clothes but he caught himself and skated back toward the center of the ice.

There were elbows, curse words, and loose ice chips flying as we raced up and down the rink. There were a couple of scores and Simon mostly stayed on the edge of the action. Actually, he skated better than most of the brutes we were playing with. Simon had pretty good control over his skates, except when one of the boys would bump, push, or shove him as the puck worked its way up the rink.

Once again Simon left his feet and slid on his butt until he banged the wall. Jumping up he headed back toward the guy who had hit him. Luckily the guy had the puck so Simon had every right to go after it, but of course he wasn’t after the puck. He was pissed off by being mistreated, but when he got to the guy, an elbow shot out beyond his stick and caught Simon in the stomach. I could see the grimace on his face as he bent seriously but refused to fall down for the guy. Instead he got his stick inside to interfere with the puck’s progress. The guy’s elbow was back but Simon danced around it and went for the puck. By this time the kid didn’t care about the puck, he was after Simon who danced in and out of his reach. The brute skated boldly right at Simon, who twitched his hip to avoid a collision, but then he let his hip hit that of the charging angry skater and sent the boy crashing into the boards. He yanked off his gloves and his helmet and charged Simon. As Simon danced a circle around him, the guy got more and more angry, finally lunging to grab Simon but ending up on his face.

Everyone stopped to watch as the guy ranted and raved and tried to get Simon in his grasp, but each time he went directly at him, Simon’s motion on his skates made the guy look like an idiot. We were all laughing and cheering like the guy was a bull and Simon the Matador. Finally the guy lay on the ice kicking his legs and screaming at the top of his lungs. I’d never laughed harder as Simon skated around him tauntingly.

The kid finally got up, stormed off the ice and disappeared. The other boys applauded and cheered Simon’s skill as a skater. I was totally blown away. My opinion of Simon was constantly changing. I knew having opinions of people wasn’t smart. They never turn out to be what you think they are and this was true of Simon. For the first time I was totally proud of him and ashamed of myself for thinking he couldn’t play hockey because he didn’t want to play hockey. It was Minnesota. Everyone knew how to play hockey. It was our national sport right after freezing our asses off.

When we left the ice, Simon had an escort. When we went to the snack bar Simon, didn’t need to buy his soda. It seems the fat dude that Simon made a fool out of was a constant source of conflict for Barry and his buds. Simon was the first guy on skates who put him in his place.

“Hey, you guys come play with us any time,” Barry said as we were leaving.

“Fuckin’ A,” Simon said as we left them at the bar.

“Fuckin’ A,” I said. “What are you trying out for the next play? Where’d you learn to play hockey, anyway?”

“A ways back,” he said, his butch persona getting my laughter. “There’s a lot you don’t know about me, dude. I got a past, you know.”

“You didn’t say you could play hockey. The way you acted I didn’t think you could. Where’d you learn to skate like that? Weren’t you scared of that asshole?”

“Not as long as I had skates on. I could skate circles around those guys. Going in a straight line was my biggest problem. I like to twirl and dance. I love to dance,” he said with a flourish that had him looking a bit like a starlet.

“So when did you learn to play hockey?”

“Long time back, BJ. I learned at the rink about an hour ago,” he said in his regular voice and sounding more like the starlet again.

“I’ll be a son of a bitch. You didn’t know how to play?”

“What do you think I am, Billie Joe. I’m not a ruffian. It’s just skating with that little thingy being passed around. You really think that’s hard.”

“Yeah, how’d you know how to put that guy on his ass?”

“That was simple anger and applied physics. He obviously knows little about the diversion of momentum. Any sophomore physics student knows that.”

“I somehow don’t think he’s gotten around to applied physics, yet. You absolutely amaze me, Simon Betts,” I said, putting my arm around his shoulder.

“I sometimes amaze myself. Watch with the touchy-feely shit. I ain’t no fag, you know,” he said in his butch voice again.

I absolutely fell on the ground laughing as he smiled at my hysterics.

Simon had become one of the most real and important people in my life. I remember wanting to ignore him and hating it when he talked to me at first. I was such an asshole for not wanting to know someone who wasn’t much different from me. We were raised in different homes with different parents, but we’d found each other and become friends. I was certainly glad he had persisted. I think he was to. He was learning things about himself and it was all good.

Much too soon we were back at school, but I knew we had to go back to get out and the closer that came the better I felt. My life was vastly improved. People continued to speak to me in the halls and I spoke back. The play was long ago and forgotten, but some kids remembered me for some reason. I didn’t know their names and it wasn’t all that important. Saying hello to people who said hello to me left me feeling good.

What a world. I hated it and everyone in it when I left San Francisco and now life was good and each day was fine with me, although I never quite knew what to expect.

I knew what I was becoming was good. I worried Carl wouldn’t like the changes. We knew each other for a minute of my life and I’d lived a thousand years since last we met. I knew who I was becoming had nothing to do with Carl. I was going to become me no matter who else came or went from my life. I was learning about life in a way that allowed me to grasp on to the idea that I’d never stop growing. I had been places and done things that took me to the edge of what it means to live and almost die but I’d come back and was able to learn, live, and accept other people’s journeys.

Mine was no more or less important to me than their journey was to them. Perhaps if we respected one another’s journeys and our dreams more readily we’d all be happier and better able to deal with the disappointments and failures that came to visit along with the success that came with getting closer to the end. I looked forward to the discoveries, the ideas, and the future that waited for me. I still couldn’t see beyond my graduation from high school, but that was the only obstacle that stood in the way of me and the rest of my life. It took a lifetime to get here and then came post graduation and the rest of my life.

Of course I saw Carl and he was with me, but meeting him was like graduation. What came after was going to be a mystery until it got here. How well did I know Carl? Loving him for most of my life, the life spared for whatever reason out of ignorance and accidental good fortune. I’d come back to finish high school and finish growing up, which was probably the real reason I let myself go home again. My life before Ralphie died was meaningless to me now. I preferred not to think about Ralphie, but he came to me anyway as a reminder of how someone else can get you to do crazy things. I wasn’t going to kill myself because my best friend killed himself, but that’s not to say I’d let myself die even if the idea crossed my mind at times when living seemed hard.

This had never occurred to me on the road all those years ago. Nothing really occurred to me then. I did not think I was living in a way that assured I’d die. Within a couple of days I was in a car with dark windows where anything could have happened inside with no one being able to see it. I was living in a way that could easily kill me and what would I have done if faced with life and death?

Living was good, now, and I wouldn’t have it any other way. Living for Carl, living for myself, living to see what happened tomorrow. For the first time in my life I lived to live and while I couldn’t see beyond tomorrow, I wanted to. This attitude helped to move me along in the right direction: learning and knowing what I was learning and how it fit into my life. Before I was learning because I couldn’t help it. If you stayed in school you learned. It didn’t mean you were smart or had something to do with the information you were retaining, but it was better than the alternative.

My psychology teacher often hit us with his favorite phrase, “Repetition makes an impression even on the dullest minds.”

At first I didn’t understand the meaning but he obviously knew that’s what most of us were doing, waiting for information to be repeated often enough for us to retain it. In psychology it wasn’t all that important. Who the hell would put psychology to any practical use? I understood more about myself and how what I was learning would allow me to have a better life. He wasn’t cutting us down or making fun of us. He was stating a fact that we needed to know about education. When the light goes on it isn’t always about making huge strides forward. Sometimes the little steps get you closer to your destination quicker than the giant steps.

I never knew it before, because I didn’t know anything before. I was at school because it’s where I was sent each day. I wasn’t a good student and understanding things didn’t make me that much better a student, but it made me a better person. I actually enjoyed learning, reading, and observing people around me, even those I didn’t know. Life was growing outside myself and knowing how I learned was a part of it. Allowing other people in my life was a bigger part of it.

I was no longer a face in the crowd in most of my classes. Yes, I stood out like a sore thumb for five minutes one day. People accepted me without that five minutes being the moments that defined me. I got their attention and made them think. For some it was enough to say hello long after the event was forgotten. I couldn’t forget because of how large the trauma was that forced it on me. I was noticed and this opened a door I’d kept closed for as far back as I could remember.

I still had no desire to be up front and explain to people things they should already know. Saying hello was one thing but being on stage wasn’t going to be part of my future. I liked small intimate settings. I liked Carl, Simon, and Brit. These were easy people to know and it required no effort. Lots of people took a lot of effort and I didn’t have a need or the energy to apply myself to a lot of people.

Ralphie and I had isolated ourselves from everyone else. I never knew I was missing anything because he was always there for me just as I was there for him. I doubt I’d have noticed our isolation had Ralphie not offed himself. It was easy for me to leave home because so much of what being at home meant to me died with Ralphie. It seemed complicated. Like Mr. McKelvie’s comment about repetition. It really wasn’t complicated. It was habit. My life was about habit and learning was about new discoveries and curiosity and a desire to see what came after graduation and what would come after Carl and I were together again.

What I knew was it would all be new and exciting. I couldn’t wait to live my life with Carl and discover all the things about him and his life that made him special. I didn’t dwell on it but each night I spent time thinking about him and wishing we were already together. One night Simon was in my room when Carl called. I let Simon talk to him, and afterward Simon wouldn’t shut up about it. Carl thought Simon was funny. He didn’t know the half of it.

Brit had me buy him a hamburger the days they made them up fresh. I’d get two on my plate and while Simon nibbled on his carrots and celery, Brit would bite into the juicy hamburger with the juices and the cheese running out on his lips; he flicked his tongue to keep from losing a single dram. I frequently worried he might pass out when his eyes rolled back in his head. Brit was a character and fit right in with the two of us. Once he was done with his hamburger he’d nibble on my French fries, but if he reached for Simon’s, Simon slapped his hand and told him to keep his hands to himself.

Brit was always apologetic when Simon responded harshly, but it didn’t seem to bother Simon to reach for Brit’s carrots and celery every time he sat down with us. I guess there were some things I’d never understand.

As spring made its first appearance in St. Cloud and the track team was on the field, Simon insisted we stop on the way home from school to watch Brit run round and round. I didn’t see anything all that exciting about it, but Simon alternately sighed and squealed each time Brit passed us. All the hamburgers I’d been feeding him had done nothing to add any weight to his thinness. With all the running he did, it was a wonder he weighed as much as he did.

Of course it didn’t take a rocket scientist to discover how damn gorgeous the boy was. I didn’t need Simon for an opinion about that, and I grew to realize the blond tint in his hair was natural and not from a bottle. His hair was relatively dark, like his eyelashes and eyebrows but his reddish brown hair had blond mixed all through it. If it hadn’t been for Carl and Simon of course, Brit would be at the top of my list of people I would want to know well. But I’d known enough people just for the knowing; I wanted better for Brit, and perhaps Simon with a few adjustments was the ticket.

He was obviously a mongrel of one sort or another no different than the rest of us except when his British accent broke through when our conversation became heated. This was always encouraged by Simon who was learning how to upset Brit to get him to talk fast so he’d throw in the accent he said came from his parents. The day Simon showed up at lunch in his Bret Farve jersey and jeans, I started to see his new approach to Brit. I hadn’t seen the jersey since the hockey came. I thought he’d burned it but even if he hadn’t, his mother would never have let him out of the house wearing it.

I was sure the school clothes he left the house in were in his locker and I’d see them in drama class. He probably brought the jersey in a bag and kept it in his locker. As soon as Simon appeared, weaving his way through the tables, Brit had an eye on him. I’d not seen that look before and I studied Brit as his eyes gave away more than he intended.

Brit kept looking at Simon in quick glances like he wasn’t sure it was him. Simon kept looking back with a smile, reaching for yet another celery stick. I don’t know if Brit hadn’t noticed him before or what, but they seemed to see something in each other they hadn’t seen before.

I ate my lunch and did my best to stay out of the line of fire. It was going to be an interesting spring. Simon couldn’t keep a secret, and it wouldn’t take him long to tell me if anything was going on out of view.

Brit reached for a French fry and Simon slapped his hand. I shook my head. Brit blushed and went back to scooping up cottage cheese, which Simon wouldn’t pick up in his fingers.

Chapter 11

Being Informed & Not

I’d become bored watching guys run around in circles by the end of the first week of springy weather. I left Simon sitting on the corner of the bleachers and told him that Jack had left me a note at the library recommending another book. Simon said he’d drop by later and I headed home. I really wasn’t in a reading mood, although I had enough homework to keep me busy. After having a cup of tea and some pecan cookies my mother had just taken out of the oven, I went upstairs to study.

By the time Simon got upstairs with a plate of pecan cookies and a glass of milk, I was finishing up a paper for English. It wasn’t due until the following Monday but I liked keeping ahead in case something came up that interested me enough to keep me away from my school work. It was all coming to an end soon and it felt good not to be applying extra pressure on myself by failing to do my school work on time.

Simon kicked off his shoes and reclined on my bed, studying each cookie before consuming it.

“These are good,” he finally said as I closed the book I was studying from.

“Yes, they are and you are going to weigh a ton if you aren’t careful.”

“Billie Joe, I don’t weigh all that much.”

“No, not yet you don’t. You keep eating those things and how long do you think you’ll stay thin? You are leaving childhood, Simon.”

“I know that but I like these cookies. They’re so thin and taste so good.”

“The taste comes from calories, fat, and sugar.”

“Yuk!” Simon said, nibbling away and washing the cookies down with milk.

“I just gave Brit his first blow job. Do you know they go under the bleachers to pee?”

“What?”

“Do you know they go under the bleachers to pee?”

“No, not that. What did you say before you said that?”

“Oh, yeah, I blew Brit.”

“Simon?”

“I did.”

“How did you get the nerve to do such a thing.”

“You know those celery sticks on his plate?”

“Yeah.”

“It was like that. There it was on his plate and I touched it. Speaking of sensitive tissue. He got hard in the blink of an eye. Then he couldn’t pee. He turned all red like he does at lunch. I told him, ‘there’s one way to solve that problem.’

“What was that?”

“I told you already. It wasn’t as exciting as it could have been. I got down in front of him and let my lips and tongue do the talking.”

“What happened?”

“What do you think happened? I got some of it on my jersey. It was kind of bitter but not much I could do once he shot it down my throat. You know how red he gets when he’s embarrassed?”

“Yeah.”

“He was white as snow. He shook and I thought he’d faint for a minute. He just stood there after I was done. When I stood up he just looked at me with this strange look on his face.”

“Well was he angry?”

“You’re kidding me right. He was like a puppy when I went back to sit in the bleachers he came and sat next to me.”

“What did he say?” I asked.

“Nothing. He sat there looking at me. I finally told him I was leaving.”

“What did he say?”

“Can I see you after practice?”

“Can he?” I asked.

“Silly boy. He can see me any time he likes.”

“I didn’t think you did that kind of stuff,” I chided him with a smile.

“I didn’t until today,” Simon said in a wicked voice as he smiled back. “I guess I do now.”

I went over and we lay together on my bed. I had him go through each detail of his encounter and we giggled and held each other both happy for different reasons.

Simon had changed. He was every bit as gay as ever but you couldn’t really tell it by looking at him. Even his colorful clothes fit him differently. He walked more like a boy than a girl. He’d already been determined and focused but the changes he’d undergone made it easier for me to relate to him. I’d started dressing in more colorful clothes, much to the displeasure of my father.

The next day at lunch nothing had changed. Maybe Brit was a bit more focused on Simon. Even after arranging for a second health nut plate for Simon, it didn’t stop him from reaching into Brit’s plate for celery and carrot sticks. Either Brit ignored it or wasn’t aware of it as he scooped and nibbled his way through his fruit and nuts. I was certain he burned more calories chewing than the food could supply him. He seemed thinner than ever to me, but he did run round in circles all afternoon every afternoon. I wondered what that was about.

By the end of the week both Simon and I were invited to accompany Brit to church on Sunday to hear him sing. I found this hard to believe. As good as Brit looked I couldn’t believe he sang. Why would someone run around in circles everyday if there was some other hidden talent? It made no sense to me either. Simon reminded me he wasn’t from here and was probably in the choir and wanted us to come see him as he’d come to see the senior play.

I’d distinctly heard the word solo. It wasn’t surprising Simon didn’t hear it as he was almost staring at either Brit or his food and unable to pay attention to anything else that was going on around us. I decided that Simon was probably right. It had to be some misunderstanding but even if Brit merely sang in the choir, he invited us and I was going.

My relationship with God had grown strained, since my excursion into the bowels of San Francisco. What I’d seen and what I’d been exposed to convinced me that God either didn’t care or he was far less influential in our day to day lives than the priests and preachers wanted us to believe. A good and benevolent God could not possibly allow man to get away with mistreating or ignoring the plight of homeless kids on the streets of major American cities. This qualified everyone responsible, who tried to convince voters how responsible they are in order to get elected to political office, to a one way trip to hell.

I wasn’t dumb enough to condemn God as a malevolent bully. Besides, the disparity between what preachers said God was about and what God could do wasn’t necessarily true. I found that men with power tended to want you to believe that they knew all about the power and what to do with it, but it didn’t add up. And while God and I were not about to square off about my doubts, I didn’t want to insult someone or something that obviously had to be a little perturbed by how man portrayed Him.

There was false advertising going on somewhere along the line and I wasn’t willing to blame God for the discrepancy.

My mother was pleased and my father shocked, when I dressed for church Sunday morning. I explained my friend was singing at his church and had invited Simon and I. Simon already had a standing invitation to Sunday dinner and I was told to invite my other friend as well. My father dropped me off at Simon’s front door on his way to church.

We were excited though we’d never gone into the church the directions took us to. Luckily we had dressed for the occasion. Everyone was dressed in coat and tie and the thick dark wood pews that had the appearance of being freshly polished. Simon and I slid into one of the pews near the right corner of the dais where Brit told us to sit.

People were polite as the church filled with parishioners. The minister started things off with a short reading from the Bible. He then spoke to us in a pleasant speaking voice with none of the fire and brimstone the preacher in my father’s church used on us. The message seemed simple and not beyond my vision of what the world was about. There were no supernatural invocations, or threats, or long winded dissertations. It was almost like sitting in class in school with a bit more formality.

As Simon suspected, the choir was introduced and on one end of the twenty men and women was Brit, looking quite dapper. His face was without expression or emotion. He sang when the men sang, was silent when the women sang, and joined in when they all sang together. We kept our eyes on him, because he was the only reason we were there. Simon giggled, which made me giggle, and the people around us looked at us to see if we’d lost our minds.

No, we hadn’t then but we were about to. While we were distracted by this or that inside the church, Brit stepped from the corner of the choir to the edge of their domain. With one loud clear tenor note he surrounded us with his angelic voice. Simon and I looked at each other at the same instant, wondering how our friend could make such a sound come from a rather thin and unimpressive body.

His face filled with joy and devotion as his mouth formed perfect words that floated on a voice made for or by the gods. The blush that frequently filled his face after Simon scolded him now appeared in his cheeks as his perfect lips let loose of a perfect sound that without amplification managed to fill the church front to back and floor to ceiling. Every face was turned up toward him.

By the time he stepped back to the corner of the choir my breathe was gone. My heart beat frantically as I listened for his voice as the choir sang in unison with Brit’s voice now apparent to me each time a sound escaped from him. The other voices were ordinary in comparison. There was more singing, we prayed, and the minister stood to finish the sermon he’d started before the music began. It was easy to see he was pleased as he thanked the choir, but there was no applause and that didn’t seem right to me.

By the time Brit had jettisoned his robes and met us at the side of the church he was in a short sleeved white shirt, a blue tie, and black slacks. It was the same Brit we ate lunch with in spite of the fact we now knew he could sang; man could he sing. I felt strangely in awe without knowing what to say. Certainly he knew what a wonderful gift he had and my telling him wasn’t going to mean a thing. Taking him come for dinner was the best I could do but he’d accepted the invitation without hesitating. It was the least I could be a part of to thank him for something it might have been better off for me not to know about him.

My mother was delighted to meet Brit and to have Simon over for dinner again. This was what my mother lived for and I was little help. I’d never have asked Simon over so often if he hadn’t invited himself most of the time. It didn’t matter. My mother always fixed major meals that we couldn’t possibly eat. I figured she’d come from a large family that ate large, but I didn’t know much about my mother’s family. My grandparents had visited when I was young, but they lived in Atlanta and hardly ever came back north.

By the time we’d been served ice tea and cookies in the living room dinner was well on its way to completion. My mother had stayed to chat for only a minute after introductions were made. Dad hadn’t made his appearance yet and was likely reading the newspaper on the back porch. He’d long ago lost any interest in knowing anything more about Simon and the idea of bringing home a boy from another church in town wasn’t likely to get him overly excited. Arguing about it or denying me the right to have friends home would only get him hassled by his wife, and so he remained out of site until it was time to stuff his face.

Simon, Brit and I held a conversation without any of us bringing up Brit’s performance. I still wouldn’t know what to say without sounding like an idiot and Simon wasn’t complimentary of boys in general. I was his friend and so I was the exception and got his most earnest endorsement, ‘you aren’t so bad.’

The biggest change in Brit was his voice. After being in church, his accent was pronounced. It was like it was natural and he’d forgotten to turn it off. It was only then I realized he worked to speak plain English, or American in our case. He seemed happier than usual. Maybe it was the invitation and maybe not. Maybe he was happy his singing gig was done. I was always happy after delivering up my final line during the senior play. All that was left to do after that was not fall asleep as the two stars badgered each other.

My mother introduced Brit to my father when he came to the table with part of the Sunday paper still under his arm. My mother reminded him that we didn’t read at the table and he didn’t think it funny. Once he sat down, Brit became of interest to him. Not of interest enough to talk to him but of interest enough for him to stare at him. Brit was handsome and way more polite than Simon or I. It was odd that my father kept looking up from his plate to stare into Brit’s face as if he as trying to remember where he’d seen it before.

“Is that coriander in the casserole?” Brit asked my mother after sampling several spoonfuls of the dish.”

“Yes, it is,” my mother blushed.

I could see the curiosity in her face but she wouldn’t ask and I wasn’t going to. What the hell was coriander anyway?

“I’m particularly fond of that seasoning. My grandmother use to use it in her dishes at home. This reminds me of her,” Brit explained.

“Oh,” my mother said.

“Where’s home?” my father interrupted.

“Liverpool,” Brit answered, and immediately sensed that Simon and I were taken a back by this information.

“Your parents are English?” my father quizzed and I wasn’t sure he didn’t have some kind of disagreement with the English by the way he asked.

“Yes, sir.”

Brit entertained himself with the food, keeping his mouth full to prevent us from asking any questions. I could tell he sensed that we wanted to talk to him after dinner, and that’s before we got the rest of the story.

“Brit. Brit,” my father said twice. “Britain Tungstal? You won the county cross-country championships. You were captain of the cross-country team,” my father advised him.

“Yes, sir,” Brit said, and Simon and I looked at him closer.

“How’s the team look for the spring?”

“Good. We’re pretty solid in most of our events. There’s always a couple weaker than others.”

“How do you look in the state competition?”

“I’ve got the third fastest time in the half-mile and second in the mile.”

“Whose the guy in the mile?” my father asked as if he knew what he was speaking about.

“Blanchard. He ran a 4:07 last week.”

“What’s your fastest time?”

“4:11.”

“Pretty impressive. Why didn’t you tell me you were friends with Britain Tungstal, Billie Joe?” my father now wanted to know.

“Slipped my mind, Dad. Didn’t know you’d be interested,” I said, looking at Brit as he occupied himself with more food.

“I ran some in high school. I was small potatoes compared to you.”

Brit’s face was now scarlet as he cut his roast beef and mixed it with the mashed potatoes and gravy. He drank tea as quick as he finished chewing and he smiled at my mother but never got around to looking my way. I didn’t know what to think.

Why didn’t I know who he was? I never asked. He was just a guy that said hello one day, and he sang, and he was captain of the track team, and, oh by the way, one of the best runners in the state, and he was from Liverpool and not the USA. My father knew more about Brit than I did and how weird was that?

After peach cobbler and vanilla ice cream, we excused ourselves and went up to my room. Brit and Simon sat on my bed as I closed the door and leaned my back against it, studying him.

“I don’t even know you,” I said, feeling like a dope and not liking it. “Why didn’t I know about all that stuff my father knows about?”

Simon held Brit’s hand and acted like he was going to protect him from me.

“Do you follow track?”

“No.”

“What difference does it make than?” Brit defended. “I know that day I helped you up after fatso knocked you into your locker that we’d end up being friends. It was the middle of cross-country season and I didn’t have time to spend making friends.”

“What? You were the guy that helped me up?”

“Yeah.”

“You were wearing your letterman’s jacket?”

“Yeah, I was.”

“Why didn’t you tell me it was you. I never knew who it was.”

“I felt really bad, Billie Joe. I planned to make it up to you, but I couldn’t leave you lying there without offering to help you. I did help you up,” he explained.

“Six fucking months ago and now you tell me. Why didn’t you tell me when you were ready to be friends?”

“I don’t know. It didn’t seem important. I didn’t think about it. I knew you were someone I wanted to know, but not then. You’re making a big deal out of a little deal, Billie Joe.”

I knew that’s what I was doing but I was still angry with Brit. Why his withholding of facts seemed important isn’t clear. Simon and Brit lay on my bed making out. I may as well not have been there. I wasn’t angry that they liked each other. I liked they liked each other. It gave me less of an opportunity to think about doing something stupid to further fuck up my life. No, I was happy that my friends were happy together, but I was mad that I thought I knew who Brit was when I didn’t.

We’d already had dessert and my mother wouldn’t come banging on my door for us to come eat dessert. I wasn’t sure my father might not come up to chat some more with Brit. It was the first time my father had more in common with one of my friends than I did.

That might have been the problem and I knew it was my problem and not Brit’s. There were scads of things I didn’t tell anyone about. I knew better. Having my father inform me about my newest friend was less than cool. Of course my father didn’t know what I didn’t know. He thought I was holding out on him, which was the way it had been for years. I hadn’t told my father anything about my life.

It was only last summer that I’d become a disappointment to my father, which is a major understatement. I’d gone so far from anything he knew or accepted as plausible that my being his son had become no more than a mere technicality. He made no effort to communicate with me these days. I had for a long time made no attempt to communicate with a man who I’d never known much about.

The introduction of Brit to our situation was going to blur the lines. If my father started to think my friendship with Brit had something to do with my appreciation for his athletic ability or an appreciation for conventional activities, nothing could be further from the truth, because I didn’t know anything but Brit ran track and ate ‘rabbit’ food. I did not want my father to misunderstand. It was important for me to maintain some idea of independent thought.

No good could come from my father thinking we could achieve some meeting of the minds. In my entire life my father had never done anything to make me think he wished for us to agree on anything of importance and I accepted that and when I left home for the final time, I didn’t want to go with any apprehension that at some later time my father and I might come to understand one another.

My mind often wandered when I had nothing to do and watching Simon and Brit making out was next to nothing to do. It did give me time to wonder about my feelings toward Brit. Once they broke their clinch, they lay on the bed staring at each other. Simon was pretty and Brit was handsome and I wondered if there would one day be a way to combine the genes of two gay men, or women for that matter. It would most likely be a sin if it could be done.

“You lips get sore?” I asked, once looking at them look at each other got to be too much for me.

“Oh, sorry,” Brit said.

“For what?”

“He’s sorry you’re being such an asshole. What’s your problem, Billie Joe?” Simon demanded to know.

“It’s my father knowing we have a star sitting at the dinner table with us and I don’t know,” I unloaded.

“I’m not a star,” Brit objected. “That’s why I didn’t talk about it. If you want to know what I do, come watch me. If you don’t than that’s fine. I don’t do it because I expect people to think I’m something I’m not.”

“What aren’t you?” I asked, being an asshole.

“I aren’t a star and if that’s a problem for you, I can disappear. It’s not like I don’t have plenty to do. I admired you. I wanted to know you. Maybe I should have offered you my resume’ before I talked to you, but I don’t have one.”

“Your from Liverpool?”

“Liverpool, Glascow, Belfast, Wilmington, and St. Cloud. My father isn’t an educated man. Work runs out. We move to where there’s a job. I’m a blue collar worker’s son.”

“Are you going to be a singer?” I asked.

“No. I only sing in church.”

“You need to become a singer,” Simon said.

“I’ll give it some thought for you, dear,” he said with a smile, kissing Simon’s lips. “No. I sing in church,” he said.

“Your voice is only for God?” I asked.

“Billie Joe, you’re so strange. I have no interest in that kind of life. My voice is something that came with the body. I don’t need to make my living using it. That kind of lifestyle is too much like how I’ve lived all my life. I make friends. I get adjusted to a place. Sorry, got to go. I want to stay in the same place for the rest of my life.”

“St. Cloud?” Simon asked.

“No probably not. Where ever I end up after college, that’s where I’ll stay.”

“Why do you run?” I asked.

“It’s the most consistent thing in my life. I’ve always run. No matter where I went I ran. When I was really young no one noticed. Then, people started watching me run and I ran faster. More people watched. I joined a team and I ran faster. It’s routine. I put one foot in front of the other and I do it over and over again. No matter where I end up I can run. Besides, I like running.”

“You don’t want to get anything out of it?”

“If you’d asked me that a few years ago I’d have said no. There are colleges making offers and by graduation I’ll pick one and they’ll pay for my college education and my father can stop working so hard to send me to college. He’s getting old and it’s a good thing I run.”

“You’re lucky,” I said.

“How’s that?” he asked.

“You have a father you care about.”

“Your father’s okay,” Brit said.

“You’re a track star. Of course he’s okay, but if you were his son, it wouldn’t be enough.”

“I didn’t want to be your friend because of your father. You’ve got the kind of courage I wish I had,” he said.

“Yes,” Simon said.

“I’m scared shitless,” I admitted.

“I know that. We’re all scared, Billie Joe. It’s one hell of a world that’s out there waiting to eat us alive. You stand up to it. You don’t lie down for it. You refuse to give in to it. Whether it’s George, or your father, or any of the obstacles we face, you spit in its eye and are more than willing to pay the consequences. That takes courage.”

“I do what seems right. I don’t want to get my ass kicked or getting in trouble at home or at school, but I can’t let people force me to become something I’m not.”

“Straight,” Simon lamented.

“Exactly,” Brit said.

“Why didn’t you tell me all that stuff about you?”

“You never asked?” Brit said. “It’s not a secret. I don’t bring it up if other people don’t. It’s a tiny piece of who I am.”

“Do you know how lucky you are?” I asked.

“When I hear you talking about your father, yes. I have good parents who have always encouraged me. I am really lucky but I know it.”

“I don’t know my father. My mother thinks I’m a girl,” Simon said reflecting on his own circumstances.

Brit leaned over to kiss Simon.

“You’re the only one here that’s normal,” I said to Brit.

“How normal is it to be gay? This is not a happy place when you’re gay, but that only means we’ve got a lot of work to do,” Brit said.

“How do we figure out what to do? There are always assholes,” I said.

“Make sure everyone knows who the assholes are,” Brit explained. “Then, make sure you don’t become one.”

Chapter 12

Past Lives

Simon and I went back to our routine lives once we’d gone to see Brit sing. I suppose that was his way of letting us know more about him. There was nothing wrong with Brit but there was something wrong that I still held it against him that I didn’t know anything about him. My own life had been so completely crazy that someone as well adjusted as Brit seemed to make me feel poorly about myself and my prospects.

Simon, Brit, and I met at lunch each day and Brit seemed to be no less real to me. He was still captivated by Simon, but Simon had lightened up on Brit somewhat. It was easy to see the affection between them. This seemed to make Simon more confident about himself. While he’d always taken pride in attracting the attention of the girls, he had toned it down considerably without losing any of his female admirers. Anything Simon did was okay because he didn’t treat them like meat or act like he wanted anything from them. Their attention was genuinely appreciated and it was most apparent to me in drama, where he continued to shine for the class.

I went with Simon to the next home track meet and Brit came and sat with us for a few minutes. In his half-mile race he beat five other runners and the closest to him finished five yards back. I had to pinch myself to keep myself awake or wait for Simon to do it for me, and we did stay for the mile-run, which was one of the final events. It was also the premiere distance event in schoolboy meets.

Brit stayed in second place behind one of our other runners as they ran together for the first lap. Then, Brit moved into the lead once they passed the start-finish line. By the first turn he led by ten yards. Our second man was in second place and the rest of the runners strung out behind him. Brit ran effortlessly and stretched his lead as he went down the backstretch.

By the end of the third lap Brit led by thirty yards and when he came off the last turn you could see him turning on the speed. He propelled himself across the finish line fifty yards ahead of our second runner in the race. Once he finished he walked over to where Coach Williams stood and they looked at his watch. They turned to look at the backstretch as other runners finished, and Brit pointed at something and Coach Williams pointed at something else. They looked at the watch again and Brit jogged off and back onto the track as the bleacher dwellers broke out in applause with people yelling, “Brit! Brit! Brit!”

Once Brit got halfway around the track he stopped and walked a few yards and stepped off the track just before the Mile-Relay began. He walked back toward the start/finish line and looked like he’d been out for a stroll as the gun fired and runners dashed off in the final relay race of the day.

It was interesting. Seeing Brit race gave me some understanding of what it was he did. He was all business. After winning the race, he didn’t wait around to be extolled. He went over to the coach and they talked about his race. Like in all sports, this was working up to bigger track meets and he was working toward running faster, but you couldn’t see that was what was going on. It was very ordinary in appearance, but I imagined how much focus and training it took to be able to do what he did.

At lunch the following day Simon wanted to know more about what Brit had done but getting him to talk track wasn’t as easy as it sounded. We wouldn’t have understood what it meant even if he had wanted to talk about it with us, which he didn’t. During lunch Brit asked us to come to Sunday dinner at his house.

“Does that mean we need to go to Sunday church?” I asked.

“I’m singing. You invited me to your house for dinner the last time. My mother insists I invite you this time. She’d wonder if you didn’t show up for church. I could always make up an excuse.”

“Like I’m a heathen?”

“We’ll be there,” Simon said.

“You’re not a heathen. You used to go to church.”

“Don’t tell me what I am,” I said.

“Sorry,” Brit apologized.

“I’d invite you guys over to my house for Sunday dinner but we’re out of Pop Tarts and gourmet instant soup,“ Simon said.

I can’t eat Pop Tarts,” Brit explained.

“Of course you can’t, because we don’t have any. Why don’t you listen?” Simon chided.

The week dragged by and the next thing I knew I was back in one of those big shinny pews listening to the sweet mellow tones that came out of Brit. It amazed me that anyone could make such sounds without a studio and a lot of electronics involved. I closed my eyes and my insides shivered with delight. Simon held my hand and squeezed at the most beautiful parts of the solo.

Singing in church eliminated applause and that was unfortunate. I’d rather have applauded his singing than his running but we weren’t given an option. I thought Brit’s desire to keep a low profile might explain why he only sang in church. He made it clear it had nothing to do with religion. Brit sang because he could sing and church was the easiest place to do it without receiving a lot of unwanted attention.

Brit’s house was small and unpretentious. There were crochet doilies on the arms of the chair and the couch and on the backs. They were also generously spread on coffee tables and the buffet that had pictures of the family. There was a big mirror on one wall and more pictures of the family. I only noticed a couple of what might be called knickknacks.

My mother had what she called keepsakes all over the house to mark this trip or that event. The Tungstal house didn’t have a lot of extras, except when it came to kids and there were three younger girls and two younger boys. I’m not including the two brothers who had already gone out to seek their fortune, leaving Brit to be the oldest at home.

The meal consisted of white potatoes, carrots, and brisket of corn beef, which had an odd taste. There was tea and cookies and lots of arms and hands and conversation, different conversations but all at the same time. It was particularly daunting when I found myself answering two different questions asked at the same time.

The children were uninhibited and unrestrained, although they did nothing objectionable and they seemed to have a complete grasp of what was within the bounds of acceptable behavior and what was not. I can honestly say that I’m not a great lover of kids but as kids go, these were fine and typical as far as I could tell.

Simon held audience with the three girls. I shook my head and failed to understand what Simon had that so attracted women to him. Simon and Brit sat together on the couch and I sat in the chair, which was in full view of the dinner table, where the family stayed even after we’d finished.

Brit’s mom was round. She had a round face, a round nose, and pudgy round arms. His father was old. He seemed much older than the mother. His face had deep lines and his eyes made him look very tired. He was a small man and ate but a little food. I don’t recall him saying anything at the table, except if someone directly addressed him.

I thought this odd. My father was in charge of every aspect of life in his house. His wishes were treated as orders. Brit’s mom seemed to fill this role in his house but not in a direct order way. She’d merely make an observation or suggestion and it was obvious what she wanted. As if by magic it was done without discussion or examination for escape clauses or objection.

The three girls were all blonds. Brit explained that he’d started off that way, not as a girl as a blond. Where they all got their looks baffled me. Each girl was more beautiful than the last and the youngest was the prettiest of all. The same was true of Brit’s brothers. His youngest brother was far too handsome for his age. The pictures of the brothers who had left home proved that beauty ran in the family, but from where did it come. Neither parent was the least bit attractive, as plain a couple as I’d ever seen. The world was a baffling place and the longer I lived the less I thought I knew.

Had I been Brit I’d have apologized for something, probably everything if that had been my house, but Brit wasn’t phased. He had nothing to prove. These were his people and saying otherwise would have been like rejecting himself. As Simon and I adored him, so did his sisters and brothers. They each talked to him one on one and he did likewise in an interested and involved manner. His mother and father addressed him politely and that’s exactly how he addressed them. I detected none of the friction or tension that existed in my own house.

It was his mother that guided us to the family room where the television could be found and where on one wall were trophies, ribbons, and one picture after another of their athlete son. With headlines like Tungstal Beaks Record and Tungstal Wins Again the newspaper pictures had been neatly framed.

“Mom,” Brit said, returning from the bathroom and kissing her cheek. “They don’t want to watch TV and they know me too well to think I’m a big deal.”

Brit was a bigger deal after we’d had dinner at his modest house than before. I finally felt I knew Brit and he was the real deal and someone I knew it was okay to admire. There was nothing self-absorbed about him. I wish I could say that. Brit had it all and yet he didn’t let it change him. He wasn’t going to let it make him something he wasn’t and didn’t want to be. I finally understood and it made me like him that much more. Simon couldn’t like him any more than he already did. It was plain to see he admired Brit in a way that suited both of them.

Now, when Simon reached for his usual celery stick fix off of Brit’s ‘rabbit’ food plate, Brit smacked his hand before handing him whatever it was he was reaching for. I could no longer tempt Brit with hamburgers. His will was solid steel once the most important track meets were but a few weeks away. This was what Brit trained for all year and we saw less and less of him as his training intensified..

It was after he won the half-mile and the mile in the County Championships that we celebrated at lunch with all of us drinking extra milk. Brit wasn’t relaxed, but it was plain to see he was more relaxed. It was then Simon put a fly in the ointment.

“Are you going to the memorial?” Simon asked.

“What memorial?” I played along.

“You know what memorial, Billie Joe. I’m not going alone and he was your best friend.”

“I’m not speaking to him.”

“I’ll go with you,” Brit said.

“You didn’t even know him,” I said.

“How do you think I knew about you, Billie Joe?”

“I thought from all the crap going on in school last fall,” I said.

“Not even. Ralphie was in my freshman English class. He’s the one that helped me learn American speak,” Brit said.

“You knew him?”

“Yeah, not all that well. We had English together and the same study hall. It didn’t take all that long, you know. I’m pretty smart.”

“Amongst other things,” I said.

“He is pretty and smart, Billie Joe,” Simon said, blushing as he felt the back of Brit’s hand.

“Well, Billie Joe, are you going with us or are you going to keep acting like a twit?” Simon asked.

“You’re a twit. I hadn’t thought about it until two minutes ago.”

“Are you going, Billie Joe?”

“Yes, I’ll go under protest. I hate what he did,” I said.

“It’s up to us to make sure kids don’t think they have to do that any more. It’s something to shoot for,” Brit said. “We all think we’re alone until we stumble on to someone else gay. We’ve got to find a way to find each other before we have time to think we’re alone.”

“You’ve never been alone,” I complained. “You have a baseball team for a family. How could you be alone?”

“You can be alone standing out in front of a crowd as easy as you can be alone by yourself. I couldn’t tell anyone. I was always afraid someone would figure it out. That’s one reason why I worked so hard at running. I wanted to be better than anyone else.”

“You are,” Simon sighed.

“No, I’m not. I’m good but there are guys that are faster, but you know what, it doesn’t make no never mind. I know I’m not alone and I don’t have to run to prove my value. I’m lucky. Ralphie wasn’t.”

“I was his best friend and I never told him I was gay,” I said.

“I never told him I was gay either,” Brit said.

“I didn’t have to. Everyone knew I was gay before I did,” Simon said.

Brit and I cracked up.

I’d run away to avoid facing Ralphie’s death. I never had faced it. Ralphie’s house was as familiar to me as my own. I spent at least as much time there as I did at my own. Then, once Ralphie died, his house might as well have disappeared into the abyss. It was three blocks from my house, one street over, and in the year since Ralphie died, I’d never gone near it. There was some kind of barrier that kept me from purposely or accidently turning up his street that was one block off the main street I was on every day. I did not think about it and that was how I handled Ralphie’s dying.

Ralphie’s parents were nice. They didn’t cater to Ralphie but they never hassled him, encouraging to like what he liked and not forcing him to do things he didn’t care to do. I don’t recall ever hearing his parents raise their voices if they weren’t calling us a second or third time when we were preoccupied with some activity that had us shutting the rest of the world out of our world.

Hating Ralphie came from loving him. Losing him was like I imagined losing an arm or a leg might be. While the trauma of it might pass, each time you look, how can you not notice the missing part of you. I loved Ralphie as if he had been my brother. I’d had no particular sexual thoughts in those days beyond realizing I liked looking at the boys and couldn’t be bothered with looking at the girls, even though I liked girls fine. They were much nicer than boys but I didn’t need to look at them.

I’d never sensed Ralphie looked at boys, too. I suppose he did but I wasn’t looking for that. When I was with Ralphie, we had our own world and plenty to do and I wasn’t at all sexual. All that changed upon Ralphie’s departure from my life. My thoughts became filled with a desire to be with a boy, any boy. I wanted to be held and I wanted someone to make love to me.

There was a short service. I didn’t look at the picture of Ralphie that sat in between two lighted candles. There were all his relatives and there were kids from school and there was the three of us. One of us didn’t want to be there. It was an exercise in pain. Why did anyone want to remember Ralphie was gone. I remembered it every day of my life. A ceremony wasn’t necessary.

When Ralphie’s parents saw me, after the short service, I knew they felt the way I felt.

“Hello, Billie Joe,” his mother said.

“Hi.”

“Oh, Billie Joe, it’s nice to see you,” Ralphie’s father said.

“He’s grown. You’ve grown,” she said. “You look good Billie Joe. You should stop by sometime.”

“Yes, I will,” I lied, but she didn’t mean it and we both knew it.

Ralphie was dead and it would only hurt for them to see me. It could only hurt me.

“Sorry,” Simon said, as we walked away from the church. “I shouldn’t have mentioned it.”

“I wanted to remember him,” Brit said. “I sometimes can’t remember what he looked like. We sat together in study hall and he taught me how to speak American. I didn’t have a clue he was gay. He didn’t suspect me. There’s something called gay radar or some thing that allows gay men to know each other.”

“Don’t be silly,” Simon said. “That’s stupid.”

“No, it isn’t. You pick up on the way people stand, where their eyes go, when they speak to you, the expression on their face.”

“There is?” Simon asked. “How do you know?”

“I know. You and Brit know. You have a chemical reaction to each other. I saw it from the start.”

“Saw what?” Brit asked.

“The look in your eye for one thing. Your posture whenever Simon’s around. The way you respond to the things he does. You want to please him and you let him get away with murder.”

“He does not,” Simon objected.

“I do too,” Brit said firmly.

“Well, maybe a little,” Simon said.

“Maybe a lot,” I said.

“Want to come up?” I asked, and then I did something I didn’t usually do. “I don’t want to be alone right now. Why don’t you come up.”

“Will your mother feed us?” Brit asked with a smile in his eyes.

“She’ll insist on it,” I answered.

“I’m sold,” Brit said.

“I don’t know,” Simon said. “I’m not hungry.”

“Suit yourself. I’m going with Billie Joe,” Brit said.

“See, he doesn’t baby me,” Simon said proudly.

“I didn’t say he babied you. I said he lets you get away with murder. Like right this minute. He should slap you for playing games with him. You know you were going to come up no matter what he said.”

“Billie Joe, why are you telling all my secrets?”

“Get over yourself, Simon, and get your ass over here,” Brit said.

Simon smiled and bumped Brit gently as he moved obediently to his side. I laughed and shook my head. Ah love!

Brit and Simon lay together on my bed making out. It didn’t bother me and I didn’t want to be alone. It was simply a way of keeping my mind from wandering onto a subject I had no interest in revisiting. I guess going to the memorial was good. No, it didn’t make me feel a damn bit better but it was hard to do and I did it. I wouldn’t have if Brit and Simon hadn’t gone with me, or did I go with them?

I rummaged in my drawer and looked at Carl’s picture.

“Won’t be long now, baby.”

I’d known Carl almost a year. We’d spent a little more than a week together but that was the best week of my life. I put the picture safely back in the drawer. It was a month until graduation and I’d already talked to my brother about staying with him until Carl flew back to the States. I’d asked him to check around the local fast food places to see which one looked like the best place to work. He said he’d keep his eyes open and I was ready to leave home again.

“You coming to our wedding,” Simon asked, once they’d broken the clinch and lay side by side on my bed.

“That’s not something that’s going to happen in Minnesota,” I reminded him.

“I told him that,” Brit said. “I’ve got to finish college before I can do something like that, Simon.”

“You don’t love me,” Simon said in a pout.

“It’s not something I want to undertake until I’ve graduated. Then we can go to whatever state will allow us to get married.”

“That’s something you do in the church,” I reminded them. “No matter how many states sanction gay marriage, most churches won’t.”

“We’ll find one that will,” Brit said.

“And then you can sing at your wedding,” I said.

“Oh, would you, Britain?” Simon gushed.

“I could be convinced if you really want me to sing to you.”

“I do. I do,” Simon said, and he showered kisses on Brit’s face.

“Oh, brother,” I said.

“Aren’t you going to marry Carl,” Simon asked.

“I don’t think Carl has given marriage a thought. You forget he was born and raised in Alabama,” I said.

“Wow! That’s a stretch,” Brit said.

“I’ve never thought same-sex couples should marry,” I confessed. “That’s such a straight way to view things. I’d rather do something that’s meant for a gay couple. Make it something that is special to us so we don’t have to argue about if we have a right or not to do it. I don’t think our love is any different or any less than how straights feel about each other, but I don’t care about how they feel about each other. That’s their business and I want my business to be my business and not their business.”

“Good luck,” Brit said.

“I know what you mean, Billie Joe. I’ve thought about that. Something special for us. I want a lot of flower maids,” Simon said, sounding a little like Scarlett O’Hara.

Brit smacked the top of Simon’s head lightly and they wrestled until they were kissing again. Then, they lay looking at each other fondly.

“Okay, boys, time for lunch,” my mother said after tapping on the door.

Brit and Simon jumped a foot and then started laughing.

We had roast beef sandwiches, potato salad, and coleslaw, with a variety of cheese, onion, pickles, mustards and mayonnaise. We had several bags of chips to choose from. We sat at the table to eat our first sandwich, carrying a second up to my room along with a bag of Ruffles and a bottle of A&W Root Beer to pour over our classes filled with ice cubes.

“Your mother’s an excellent cook,” Brit complimented.

“It’s a sandwich,” I explained.”

“At my house we never have roast beef long enough to get a sandwich out of it. Believe me, this is excellent.” Brit made no mention of being in training or having the State Championships ahead of him next week. He didn’t often stray with the food he ate, but like most teens, he couldn’t resist items he ordinarily didn’t get.

“What’s this,” Simon said, picking up the turquoise and black covered book.

“Love the color,” Brit said.

“Antiques & Homicide/Homocide,” Simon said, opening the book. “What’s it about?”

“It’s a detective story.”

“I don’t like violence,” Simon said, sticking his nose in the air.

“It’s not violent. It’s about a rookie cop that’s picked out of the police academy because he’s handsome and can infiltrate the gay community to look for a killer.”

“Sounds violent to me,” Simon said.

“The rookie cop is a tad homophobic. Once he starts meeting and getting help from the gay men he needs so he can find the killer, he finds himself becoming friends with them. That’s what the story is about. He wants to find the killer so that the gay men who have befriended him are safe, but he becomes a target of other cops and the killer.”

“How’d Jack know you’d like it?” Simon asked.

“He read it and said it was right up my alley. It came from Amazon last week. I guess he got my address from the library. I read it already.”

“Book by Beck. Who’s Beck?”

“He’s a writer, Simon. If someone ever wrote my story I’d want him to write it. I like his style. He takes the time to develop his characters in a way that makes you think you know them by the end of the story. You can read it if you want.”

“Okay. If it isn’t violent. I don’t like violence.”

“Really. I didn’t know that,” I said.

“I like violence,” Brit said. “Within reason. I don’t get into blood baths.”

Simon left with the book in his hand and I took out the tablet where I began my latest letter to my far-away lover.

Dear, Dear, Dear, Carl….

Chapter 13

Following Old Footsteps

Once I’d faced up to Ralphie’s memorial, the natural response would have been to go into a tailspin, which is what I did. If I hadn’t had Simon and Brit around to slap me out of it, there’s no telling what the outcome might have been.

The final month of school was a breeze. I was assured of A’s in both drama and speech, because the teacher of each class assured me of it. Mr. Crockett simply needed to recall my John Scope’s speech at dress rehearsals. Mr. Elliot was merely thankful I hadn’t ruined the entire senior play. I got a B in English because I studied English for the first time. Brit would insist it wasn’t English at all. It was American. I’ll take it under advisement.

I also got a B in English Literature and Psychology. Mr. McKelvie insisted that repetition might make an impression upon the dullest of minds, but it left no A impression on mine and the B was a gift, because he was soft hearted. What the man had taught me about the human mind and how it works is worth a million bucks in my mind. The B he gave me was a gift of another sort for me.

English Literature, in spite of the sounds of it, taught me of the worlds you could find inside of books. Jack Beach had guided me to many different aspects of the world I’d gone in search of the year before. I’d learned more in my senior year of high school than I’d learned in my entire life, except for the three months I haunted the streets of San Francisco.

When my name was called and I marched across the stage for my diploma, I knew exactly where my mother was sitting by her ferocious clapping. I cringed a little as I approached the somber Mr. Burgess, standing at attention, watching my every step as he had all year. He reached out with the diploma in one hand, reaching with his other hand for a handshake.

“Well Done, Billie Joe Walker Jr. I had my doubts when you first came back to us, but you’ve made a believer out of me. Come back and see us now and then.”

It took me until I was on the bus on the way to my brother’s to remember the words Mr. Burgess spoke to me. I’d never been very trusting of adults, but he’d been fair, even when I didn’t think he was fair. I probably wouldn’t have made it if he hadn’t been watching me.

There is something anticlimactic about graduating high school. You have finished the formal education you must have if you want to get a job at Taco Bell or Pizza Hut. It doesn’t mean much more than that. To do something with a high school education you needed to have passion, a dream, and find a job you love to do. If you love making pizza you are set for life, but if your dreams reach past rolling burritos for a hungry public, you need to look beyond yourself and your world. Finding that which stimulates you more than anything else usually requires a mentor, some kind of education in whatever it is you want to do, along with some skill and stamina.

Brit won the one race he ran in the State Championships. He’d already received four offers of full or partial scholarships to colleges all over the country. He’d receive four more for a total of eight, but he had already decided on Princeton. They would pay for everything over his four years and he could train to break the four minutes mile and to compete for the 1500 meters, things on his list of things to do.

The week before I got on the bus to Seattle, Simon came over smiling. He handed me a letter of acceptance at Princeton.

“Come on. This is some kind of joke. How could you get into the same school as Brit?”

“My mother graduated from Princeton. She has a… personal relationship with the admissions dean.”

“That’s why Brit picked Princeton?”

“Uh huh,” Simon said, smiling. “You don’t think he can do what he does without the man he loves at his side, do you?”

I hugged Simon and kissed him. He was my closest friend in the world. I’d avoided him for years, but when I needed him, he was there for me. I really didn’t know anything. What I’d learned was invaluable but I was still stupid. I’d miss my friends and I’d think of them often. I didn’t know what I’d do until Carl came back to the States.

I’d written him that I was leaving home and heading for Seattle in June. His new date for leaving Japan was in August, but he was happy I was getting closer to him. It wasn’t like we’d been separated for a year. It was like we were only a short way from a reunion. Our letters became more passionate and the phone calls more tearful. We were both counting the days.

My brother worked at a computer software company, RamTech. He’d arranged for me to go to work in their mail room. My job was taking a cart to most of the forty floors, dropping off mail and packages several times a day. It wasn’t something I would have thought of but it was way better than being a pizza cutter.

Ms. Mars was sweet and in charge of all the incoming and outgoing correspondence. She explained it all to me the first day. Sitting me down with charts of which departments were on which floor and a diagram of where I went with whatever it was that needed to be delivered. It was usually small envelopes and packages that never weighed more than a few ounces.

By the end of the week I knew RamTech like the back of my hand. I could go from the first floor mailroom to the thirty-eighth floor in four minutes or so, using the stairs for the random mail that came special delivery during the day. I tried to do it faster each time but usually there were two, three, or four stops, and one might have a priority, which kept me from running the stairs. I thought of Brit as I raced the RamTech stairs, and I couldn’t think of Brit without thinking of Simon. I missed them both.

It was on Monday of my second week at RamTech before I was sent to floor forty. A key was required to access the fortieth floor via the stairs, and we were not allowed near the executive elevator without prior arrangement. I could take the regular elevator to the thirty-eighth floor, but you had to get out and take the stairs to get to the top two floors. If you weren’t delivering mail via the stairs, you didn’t have a key, so taking the stairs was futile.

This was a case where ninety-nine percent of RamTech’s employees could not get there from anywhere in the building. Guests and employees allowed on the thirty-ninth and fortieth floors either had a coded key to access the elevator or were given a temporary key by the guard who sat at a desk next to the elevator. I could get authority for the executive elevator when delivering mail, or as Ms. Mars suggested, knowing I liked running the stairs, take the key from her desk and let myself onto the executive floors.

“Once the secretaries know you, you’ll have no problem,” Ms. Mars said, and then she called ahead to let them know I was coming, even after they knew who I was.

Anytime mail came for those two floors it was special delivery of one kind or another. Ms. Mars would call ahead to announce I’d be popping out the door on one of the two floors in this many minutes. Once the secretaries got used to me, they’d call back to Ms. Mars with my time. She kept a chart to encourage me, but the first time it was a little weird. I couldn’t resist running the stairs, and adding the two flights to the fortieth floor took a bit more out of me than usual. Maybe the air was thinner up there.

I fiddled with the key and fell forward onto thickly padded carpet. I was looking straight out at Peugeot Sound. I located Pike’s Market and the Ferry docks with no trouble.

What a view!

“Yes, sir, can I help you,” the young pretty woman asked from behind her big desk with the portrait of the boss keeping watch over her.

The carpet was deep brown and the walls were paneled in shinny expensive-looking wood. There were pictures on the wall facing the windows, mostly of men, some of places with sailboats and something like a yacht club.

“I have this for Mr. McMichael,” I said, setting it on her desk.

“Mr. McMichael, the delivery is here. Go on in,” she said, hanging up the phone.

“Go in?”

“Yes, he often sends a reply on Monday morning. He’ll want you to wait.”

“Oh,” I said, quickly tucking my shirt into my pants and trying to make my appearance neat for the boss. I knocked on the thick wooden door.

“Go in,” she insisted.

I turned the handle and let myself into the office. It was entirely different from the outer office. It was smaller although the windows gave me the same view. The well dressed man wasn’t all that old. He was writing something and paying me no mind. The desk was huge. There were bookshelves with leather bound books off to one side. I stood at semi-attention, waiting for him to call me forward. He continued what he was doing until he was satisfied. When he looked up at me, he seemed to be in no particular hurry, and then he spoke.

“Well, bring it here. My arms aren’t that long,” he said in what could only be described as an impatient voice.

I moved swiftly to the front of his desk, holding the envelope out for him. He fumbled with it as I stood there with no particular purpose. The secretary said there would be a reply and until he dismissed me, I was going to wait. I felt odd and out of place but I was out of place.

“You’re Walker’s brother from Wisconsin?”

“Minnesota,” I said softly, impressed he knew anything about the new mail boy. “Maybe he knew John well enough to know where he came from. John didn’t mention any knowledge of the boss beyond the noncommittal, he’s cool.

“Yes, the one with the lakes. Do you fish?”

“Not since I was younger,” I said, remembering I had gone with my father and brother but I was too young to remember the details and my father was so impatient, I’d spent most of my time trying my best not to do anything wrong.

“No, young men these days don’t know the joy of fishing, solitude, patience. It’s a world in a hurry out there. Too much of a hurry if you ask me,” he said, finally getting the envelope open at one end.

He dumped the contents of the envelope onto his desk. It was checks, cash, and notes on a lot of single sheets of paper. It was a lot of money. I’m sure my eyes opened wide.

“I’ll be a minute. Enjoy the view. Pick out a book and entertain yourself. I’ll need to send a reply once I’ve confirmed their figures.”

I was not pleased to know what was in the envelope. All kinds of thoughts ran through my mind. Who was this guy? Envelopes full of money and checks? I didn’t like the feel of it and I’m sure it showed, but I’m not sure it wasn’t supposed to show.

Why wouldn’t the secretary take the envelope to her boss and have me wait at her desk? She’d bring me back the note to take to the mailroom. That would have been expected. Watching what came out of that envelope wasn’t.

Once I stopped looking out of the window I looked at the books that were off the shelves and laying one on top of the other at the corner of the bookshelf a couple of feet from his desk where the windows stopped. Picking up the first book, I was blown away. It was the Great Gatsby.

The feel of the leather took my mind off of the money in the envelope. What a fine book, I thought. The library books I read were mostly worn and came inside of plastic covers. The paper was thick and unimpressive, but they were printed to be read and to last. This was printed to be enjoyed. I felt the leather carefully, reading the markings etched into the dark leather in golden letters.

It gave another dimension to the idea of a work of art. I’d never thought that the feel of a book could make it different to read, but feeling that book, I knew it was true. There was a lot I didn’t know and more to learn.

“That’s an original,” Mr. McMichael said, standing up and coming the few steps to his bookcase. “Go ahead. Open it. It’s signed by Fitzgerald on the title page.”

I turned pages until I found the author’s name written in bold ink, F. Scott Fitzgerald. I made sure I would recognize a title page the next time I saw one.

“Wow!” I exclaimed without thinking about hiding my enthusiasm.

“That was one of a few special edition copies he signed. The book wasn’t financially successful and hardly made a ripple in the mid-twenties literary world. The critics were particularly hard on Fitzgerald.”

“I loved it,” I said amazed. “It was full of life and people who weren’t afraid to live.”

“Oh, it’s the defining novel of the era. What a difference a few decades can make,” he said. “Time makes all the difference.”

“Yes, sir,” I said, putting it precisely back where I got it.

“You’re wondering about the envelope?”

“No, sir. Yes, sir.”

I knew he’d seen my reaction as he showered out the money onto his desk.

“Best not to lie. I was watching your face,” he said.

“You were?” I asked with the sound of confusion.

“You’ve got to know whose working for you, Mr. Walker. This envelope often comes on Monday mornings. Maybe not this one but one like it. I need to know I can trust the hands it’s put into, even for such a short trip up the stairs.”

“I’m uncomfortable knowing I’m carrying that. I’m not qualified to be handling that kind of money,” I explained from my knowledge of the world as I knew it.

“You can read what I wrote,” he said, leaning back from where he sat on the corner of his desk to reach the note he’d jotted out to be taken back with me.

“I don’t feel comfortable doing that either,” I confessed.

“Do it as a favor for your boss,” he said with the insistence obvious. “Read it out loud.”

“Prentice, the cash, checks, and pledges have arrived and I’ll provide the Mercer Island Ecology Foundation with my official figures. It was a fine luncheon and this will go a long way to continuing the preservation efforts of the residence and visitors who enjoy the Greater Northwest Ecology efforts. Extend my thanks to all involved. Dan,” I said, handing back the note.

“Feel better, Mr. Walker? It’s all quite respectable.”

“Yes, sir, but I don’t know why you want your mail delivery boy to know your business.”

“Does it worry you handling that kind of money?”

“Yes, sir, that’s putting it mildly.”

“Good. Never stop on your way here with the envelope on Mondays. It will be the same as this one each time. It’s hand carried here and besides Ms. Mars, you are the only other person to touch it. I’m confident that knowing its contents is far better than wondering about it. You know why you can’t stop on the way here with it. It is to be handled with the utmost care.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Take this to Ms. Mars and she’ll see it’s delivered. Thank you, Mr. Walker. I’ll look forward to seeing you again,” he said, handing me the envelope after licking the flap and rubbing the bottom of his palm across it several times.

I nodded at the secretary and made my exit, not running the stairs, walking them this time. I handed the envelope to Ms. Mars as soon as I returned to the mailroom. She could see my mind was elsewhere.

“How’d you like our boss?”

“He’s okay,” I said.

It’s the best I could do. Having only been there a week, I wasn’t ready to make a judgment about the big boss. I doubted I’d be called on to give my opinion on his behalf. The following Monday came and went without any envelopes needing to be delivered to the executives suites. I made my rounds with the four-wheeled cart set up to carry the mail for thirty-eight floors of offices.

Ms. Mars could load the cart in about fifteen minutes and have it properly organized. The first time I set up my own deliveries it took over an hour and then I got to the fifth floor and there was a third floor delivery I set aside to deliver properly on my way back to the mailroom. There were nine other misplaced envelopes causing me to criss-cross the building to finally get it right. It made for a long day.

Ms. Mars said nothing about the extra half hour it had taken me to deliver the mail once I was setting up the cart. She never said anything that wasn’t polite and considerate. On the second day I loaded the cart she offered several suggestions so I made fewer mistakes. There were only five mistakes that day but sooner or later all the mail ended up where it was supposed to go. I was free as a bird except for the final two hours each day when there was absolutely nothing to do but sit in the mailroom and wait for going home time. Only rarely did something come special delivery the last two hours and at most I could waste ten or fifteen minutes if I took a bathroom break on the way back, but I was known for my speed, so I couldn’t waste too much time and keep my reputation.

The first time Carl called me in Seattle I could hear the excitement in his voice. For the first time he was certain I would be there waiting for him at SeaTac. I told him about the mysterious envelope and my boss.

“He was testing you,” Carl said with confidence.

“What do you mean?”

“You were set up. Ms. Mars was probably in on it.”

“No, I don’t think she had anything to do with it.”

“They were testing you. At least it was something legal. It could have been like The Firm, the John Grisham book.”

“I missed that one,” I said.

“This guy goes to work for this firm in Memphis and he stumbles onto the files the firm keeps for the mob. The FBI threatens him and tell him he’s going down with the rest of the lawyers of The Firm. It could be like that.”

“No, they’re all really nice,” I protested.

“Yeah, that’s the shits. You got to watch out for the nice ones.”

“Carl, cut it out. I like the job. It’s fun.”

“Me too, but it’s boring after a year in this place.”

Monday after my early mail delivery a uniformed carrier brought an envelope and only Ms. Mars could sign. Once she set it on her desk, she ripped the end off the big envelope and removed the smaller envelope I recognized. She made out a request for a receipt and handed it to me.

“Mr. McMichael. His secretary will sign before you take it to him. Put the receipt in your pocket so I can have it on file.”

“Yes, ma’am,” I said, taking the envelope and the key from her.

I ran at my usual pace, opened the door on the fortieth floor on the first try and was once more faced with the western view of the city. It could almost take my breath away as I watched a ferry steaming for the middle of the Sound. Mrs. Johnson was waiting for me when I finally stopped looking out of the window.

“Take it in,” she said, after scrawling her signature on the receipt.

I knocked on the door.

“He’s expecting it, Mr.Walker. Go on in,” Mrs. Johnson told me with a smile.

“Oh, Mr. Walker,” Mr. McMichael said, looking over his glasses at me. “It must be Monday.”

He was leaning back in his chair and reading something that was stapled together, folding over each page as he read. He continued reading until he turned to the next page, then set the document on his desk placing a paperweight on top to hold it in place.

“Let’s see what we’ve got,” he said, opening and dumping cash, checks, and pledges onto the empty portion of his ink blotter. He was quickly stacking and counting the loose bills. He jotted down a number on the corner of the ink blotter before he looked at his watch.

“Can you count?’ Mr. Walker.

“Yes, sir,” I said.

“Can you run a calculator?” he asked, as he stacked a few dozen checks in front of him.

“Yes, sir.”

“Here,” he said, tossing me a small black Casio calculator.

Putting a paperclip on the checks, they followed the calculator.

“Sit in the chair by the bookcase and give me your count.”

He got up and opened a door off behind his desk. I could immediately hear the water running and figured he had his own bathroom. He came out carrying his coat in one hand, rolling his sleeves down with the other. I had added the checks on the calculator and was double checking in my head.

“What are you doing?” he asked, seeing me leafing through the checks one at a time and not using the calculator.

“Double checking,” I said.

“You are double check the calculator?”

“Yeah. I could have missed something or punched a wrong key,” I explained.

“What does your brain say the total should be?” he asked, looking at the numbers on the calculator.

“Lost my place. I don’t remember,” I confessed.

“That’s okay. I’m in a hurry but I can wait to see this. Go ahead and add them in your head again.”

I went through the checks and added the mostly round numbers with only a few that had random dollars and cents.

“$27,774.12.”

He looked at the calculator and then reached for a piece of paper on the desk.

“$27,774.12. I’ll be.”

“How’d you do that?”

“I added them in my head.”

“I’ll be,” he said again.

“Look, I’ve got to go. The foundation is meeting with the bank and I’m the Executive Officer. I need the deposit so we can get the account up to date. Maybe I should take you to double check them,” he said, putting on his jacket, scooping up the cash and pledges, and taking the checks out of my hand.

“Come on, young Walker, ride down with me in the elevator.”

“Yes, sir,” I said.

He opened the door for me and picked up a briefcase off the chair next to the door. He slipped the proceeds from the envelope inside the briefcase. We passed Mrs. Johnson’s desk and headed for the waiting elevator. Straightening his tie he pushed the button for the parking garage. I’d already decided I’d take the stairs back to the mailroom.

“You going to school, Mr. Walker?”

“No, sir.”

“You impress me. Why are you not in school?”

“School’s out. It’s June,” I answered rather than go into details.

“Oh, that’s true. Where will you go to school? University of Washington I hope. Good school, you know. We are quite proud of our University.”

“I haven’t thought that far ahead, Mr. McMichael.”

“Well, this is where I must leave you,” he said, stepping out of the elevator and walking over to a silver Lexus.

A uniformed man climbed out and Mr. McMichael slipped in and drove away. I pushed the button for the first floor figuring I’d had enough exercise for one day.

“Seventeenth floor,” Ms. Mars said, leaning across the desk with an envelope as she looked at her watch. “They’re waiting for it.”

I raced up the stairs and popped out on the seventeenth floor and handed the envelope to Barbara who sat just inside of the office where the envelope went.

“Two minute forty-two,” she said into the telephone. “You lost two seconds somewhere, Billie Joe,” she sang as I waited to be excused.

The usual excruciatingly long last two hours of my day were shortened by Ms. Mars. She told me no deliveries were expected and no one was waiting for anything of which she’d been made aware and I could go. I’m sure she saw my reaction as I bolted for the door before she could change her mind. I suppose I should have insisted I stay but I hated those last two hours.

When I stepped outside, it had rained but the sun was out and the glistening streets sizzled as cars sped past. I usually went home with my brother, but I left a message that I was gone. I breathed deep waiting for the downtown bus and in fifteen minutes I was wandering the main floor of Pike’s Market.

I stopped to look at the fresh fish resting on crushed ice. I bought a nectarine and some grapes, washing them in the sink next to the counter. I went to the restaurant that looked out on Peugeot Sound and took a seat at the windows, ordered coffee and thought about Carl. A ferry moved across the middle of the Sound and seemed to be almost standing still.

“Why the long face?” the waitress asked.

“Just thinking about someone I miss,” I said, remembering Carl and the double feature I watched playing in his eyes at the same table exactly a year ago.

“I bet she’s pretty,” the middle-aged waitress said.

“Yes, he is,” I said without batting an eyebrow.

I didn’t look to see what her reaction might have been. It no longer mattered how people reacted to my life. I was not a prisoner of my family or the school system and I was in love with Carl and I didn’t care who knew it. If I measured the time I had before he came back to me by the last two hours at work each day, I’d never get to August, but there was a special measurement when it came to Carl. It was awhile yet but not as long as it had been. I was in a good place, earning my way, and most of the hours each day sailed past.

I didn’t stay downtown past the time I’d usually be home. There was a routine to my life and it was easier to stick to it. My brother had bought Chinese for our dinner, which we usually ate together. I had Egg Fu Yung and egg rolls with some of the hottest mustard I’d ever tasted in my life. Once we’d finished eating I went to see if the roof of my mouth was still there. It was, but I could hardly see it for the smoke.

I sat down with my latest letter for Carl as my brother listened to some rock and roll music. I felt the gold ring on my finger and left his best picture lying on my chest for reference. It wasn’t a long letter but I tried to send one from the mailroom each morning. As the time grew closer for our reunion I wanted to leave no doubt how much I missed him and how anxious I was to see him. Of course I wrote that little detail into each letter more than once and he wrote the same in his letters.

He didn’t mail letters as often as me but his were fat with pages and his access to the mail facilities wasn’t nearly as convenient as mine. Anyway, I didn’t write him so he’d write me every day, I wrote him because I needed to write him to feel our connection.

Ms. Mars never asked where the letters were going each morning when I bought the stamp. She certainly saw who they were addressed to and by the tenth or twelfth time I mailed such a letter, she may have sensed something more than a casual interest in the addressee, but if she did she didn’t mention it. She was a great boss for my first real job ever and I knew I was lucky and wondered if maybe I wouldn’t talk Carl into staying in Seattle for a few weeks once he came back to the States.

I never mentioned it in my letters and I knew whatever Carl wanted to do is what we’d do. He was in the Army and would still have close to a year before his tour of duty ended. I didn’t want him to extend his service, because I never wanted him to be that far away from me ever again.

Chapter 14

4th Of July

By the end of June I’d settle into RamTech as though I’d been there much longer. All the nightmare stories I’d heard about employers passed out of my thoughts. It was far easier going to work each day than it had been going to school. It was likely the paycheck might have influenced my feelings.

There was a company picnic scheduled for Independence Day. It was my first chance to observer the people of RamTech away from the workplace. I was included in the mailroom conversations about the event. No one said I had to show up, but I’d have felt odd ignoring something the boss spent his time and money arranging specifically for the enjoyment of his employees.

Everything I heard made the picnic sound like something the mailroom personnel were excited about. We enjoyed a day on Mercer Island cooking out and eating burgers, Brats, chicken, and fresh grilled ears of corn. There were games to play and the holiday was topped off by a fireworks display.

My brother John was also anxious to attend the party. There was to be softball, horseshoes, and football. I wasn’t big on any of it, but that didn’t mean I couldn’t join in if the circumstances were right. I was told the evening fireworks display was worth the trip. I was looking forward to the food and a day in the fresh air if it didn’t rain.

I stuck with my brother and the people from the mailroom. Ms. Mars introduced me to her husband and a son that wasn’t much younger than me. She had a daughter who was off with her boyfriend and it added a bit more information about my boss. I nodded at Mr. McMichael who was busy with a group of older men, looking a bit out of place in white shirts and ties as they sat around an empty picnic table chatting.

I played horseshoes with John. Hooking the horseshoe, minus the horse, around a piece of pipe driven into the ground wasn’t that great a challenge. I think I’d played at another picnic somewhere when I was really young and my family still did things together. John beat me twice and I turned down his offer of a rematch. The scoring was a little weird but I didn’t take much time thinking about it. Two games were enough to get it out of my system, but John seemed pleased I played. It was far easier being with him as adults than it ever was when we were kids.

John and I had never been close. By the time I was old enough to go off with him, he left and never came home again. He’d been a bit of a bully as an older brother, wanting everything his way. If I protested he popped me up side the head, much as our father had done if the mood struck him, and having no fondness for being popped, I surrendered to whatever were their wishes. It was a simple response but humiliating to always be forced to yield.

I felt more at home tossing a football around. I could do that pretty well and it was something John and I had done while he was still home, but not often, because even when he was living at home, he was rarely around. We hadn’t done much together beyond mandatory family outing. John learned to avoid these as he grew older, refusing to respond to my father’s disdain. It didn’t please my father, but John no longer cared about pleasing my father.

While John had been bossy and hostile for much of my early childhood, he’d made every effort to welcome me at his apartment. He brought home dinner most nights and we ate together and talked if he didn’t take me out. He seemed genuinely interested in whom I had become, wanted frequent updates on Carl, and he listened to my tales about my job at RamTech.

He admitted to being less than enthusiastic about recommending his brother, because he had such a good relationship with people at work, but he decided he owed it to me to make up for being no help to me when we were younger. Now he was glad I’d gone to work there. He’d heard good things about me in more than one office at work. I’d gained the reputation of being polite and energetic. John said I had made a good impression, especially on Ms. Mars, although he didn’t know her well.

He was particularly curious about Carl and what happened once Carl came back. I was vague when discussing our future. We’d agreed to wait until he was back to make any final long-term plans. Neither of us wanted to tempt fate, make a lot of definite plans for when he returned from Japan, and then have something come up that got in out way.

Once we were together, we could plan the future without risking a lot of interference. He owed the Army time but it was supposed to be served near his Alabama home, after being overseas for most of fifteen months. He wasn’t sure where, but it would be a lot closer to Alabama than Japan, that was for sure. We did talk about where it made sense for us to live and I agreed I’d go along with whatever pleased him. My main interest was in being wherever Carl was.

“You’re going to leave RamTech?” John had asked.

“Yes, I don’t think Carl will want to stay out here. The Army will have a lot to say about it.”

“I wouldn’t say anything, until you’re sure. No point in letting them know you aren’t staying around before it’s necessary. They’ll have to deal with it when the time comes. I hope you two are happy, Billie Joe. It was lucky you found each other.”

My brother’s casual observation about me leaving the job he’d secured for me was a surprise. I was reluctant to tell him and more reluctant to lie. I’d learned it’s far easier to deal with a situation by telling the truth rather than by trying to pull the wool over somebody’s eyes, which then creates all kinds of complications you must add to the mix. In this case it proved to be spot on. John wanted me to have the life I wanted just as he had the life he wanted. Staying around to please him wasn’t a good idea for either of us, not that it was a consideration.

I went down to watch some sailboats race around the Point. I was sure it was a bunch of young guys by the way they raced one another frantically, each doing his best to steal the wind from the other’s sail. At times they seemed dangerously close to each other but they apparently knew what they were doing and didn’t sink one another in their exuberance to win out.

Mr. McMichael was standing at a long shiny grill with his sleeves rolled up and his tie blowing in the breeze as I walked back toward where I’d staked out a place with other mailroom folk.

“Young Walker, you busy?” he asked.

“No, sir,” I said.

“You know how to flip burgers?”

“Yes, sir,” I chuckled. “That’s about it as far as my cooking skills go, but I turn a mean burger, Mr. McMichael.”

“Yeah, well, come on over here and give me a hand. I’ve got to make a pit stop. I don’t want to leave them to their own device.”

He handed me the tool he was using and looked at the thick burgers dripping juices onto the glowing coals before he left me alone with the food. It smelled mighty good. In just a few minutes he was walking back toward me and I never got to sneak a sample.

“Okay,” he said, returning to the grill.

He picked up a fork and started to turn the Brats gently, releasing more juices to sizzle against the coals.

“You play golf, young Walker?” he asked, drinking from a soda he had placed to one side.

“No, sir.”

“And what is your opinion of golf?” he asked.

“I don’t know much about it. It’s boring on television.”

“We’re going to play nine holes after we put on the feedbag. How’d you like to come along and get a close up look at the game?”

“Sure,” I said, having nothing better to do, and I didn’t want to refuse the big boss so early in my career.

“Would you consider carrying a golf bag? You are a strong young man and the older guys like to walk for the exercise, but the bags weigh a bit more than they can comfortably carry.”

“I thought they had carts for that,” I surmised.

“Yes, well, as you’ll see by the sign near the clubhouse, this is an official Mercer Island Ecology Foundation Golf Event. No carts. We have to walk the course and some of the bigger donors are simply too old to carry their own bags.

“You game? The key word in what I’m telling you is donors. It pays to pamper the big donors who share our responsible attitude toward the environment.”

“Yeah, it’s not like I’ve got anything else to do. I don’t mind at all, Mr. McMichael. I thought this was the company picnic?”

“Yes, but the clubhouse and golf course give us access at times when donors are available in the interest of the environment. Already being here with the company allows me to steal a couple of hours from the fun to raise money. I don’t bring the foundation to the office with me, but I take advantage of whatever circumstances allow us to socialize with donors.”

“No need to explain the details. I don’t mind carrying a bag, and if it is doing some good for the environment, it makes it better.”

“Good, young Walker. I shall fix you the first hamburger of the day as your reward. Must keep up your strength, you know. You do eat hamburger?”

“Yes, sir. I love a good hamburger and those look great,” I felt a little twinge as I saw Brit closing his eyes and biting into my burger in the cafeteria at lunch in school.

“I made this batch up last night. My own special recipe! Actually, my mother’s if I must be honest about it, but I’ve expanded on her taste treat. Forty pounds of ground sirloin marinated and seasoned with an old family recipe and here you go. I’m sure you are more interested in the eating than the history,” he said, slipping the fat dripping burger on a fat lightly grilled Kaiser roll as my mouth watered.

He placed it on a Styrofoam plate before handing it across the grill to me. The plate had three divides for me to fill with potato salad and potato chips. I added a thick slice of Bermuda onion, tomato, and some pickle to top off my mountain of burger.

The first bite told me that Mr. McMichael knew his way around a hamburger. He watched until he saw the expression on my face and the juices run from the corners of my mouth.

“That’s a burger,” I said agreeably before taking another quick bite, holding it so the juices ran off my hands.

He seemed way too nice for a boss. He treated me like I might treat one of my friends. I sensed that there was more to my duties of carrying a golf bag than carrying a golf bag. As with most adults, I was never quite sure of what to make of him. I’d never been that good at knowing the good ones from the assholes, but one thing was for sure, Mr. McMichael was no a’hole. He made me feel like my presence was important to him. I don’t know where that came from, but on every encounter I left feeling better about myself, him, and RamTech and nothing that happened at the picnic changed my mind.

The sign was between the practice green and the first tee. I was curious about what it meant or maybe about what they did, since I’d handled some envelopes containing proceeds for the foundation. The number of guys playing golf was hard to tell. I stayed in Mr. McMichael’s group and I carried his father’s golf bag. Mr. McMichael carried his own.

They fussed with each other over which club to use and Mr. McMichael called his father Dad and his father called him Dan. It was difficult to tell what their relationship was, but they did play golf together and neither of them acted as if he might use a club on the other.

Neither of them played well enough to write home about, making it seem like their participation was part of promoting the Foundation. The golf game was part of the fundraising. While I listened they talked about the reduction of salmon, limited fresh water, pollution, and about Mr. McMichael’s wicked slice. There was more fussing and scores too high for me to add in my head, but no one asked me if I was keeping score. I knew better. I was simply carrying golf clubs.

“What does the Foundation do?” I asked my boss, once his father had gone to get a drink and take a leak.

“We’re trying to get some old salmon runs opened and put back the way they once were. We’re losing more salmon every year and by establishing a spawning system that gives them a chance to lay their eggs without interference, we might help them survive.”

“You mean there won’t be any more salmon?”

“If we don’t do something shortly, the northwest salmon is doomed. There are salmon farms but it’s a different salmon and a poor imitation when compared with a salmon in the wild.”

“That’s bad. I like salmon,” I admitted, trying to calculate life without them.

“Do you fish, young Walker?”

“I’ve been. When I was real young. My father took my brother and me. Minnesota. There are tons of places to fish.”

“Nothing like hooking into a full sized salmon. They are quite a catch. Once you fish salmon, anything but big game fishing is child’s play.”

“You catch them?” I asked, thinking there was some incongruity in his comment.

“Not any longer. They’re endangered. I went on a catch and release a couple of years back, but even catching them and putting them back worried me. What if I injured one severely enough that he didn’t survive? I couldn’t take the risk if I was going to advocate for salmon.

“I work to save them. We work to preserve the habitat for all wild things. Man is crowding wild things out of our lives. We are robbing our children of the opportunity to go into the woods and enjoy the different brands of wildlife that have always been there before. We can’t simply roll over the top of anything we please.”

“That’s cool. What you are doing? That’s what the envelopes full of money are for, preserve habitat?”

“That’s what we do. We’ll collect a good bit today. We mail out information and keep people informed of legislation and what needs to be done to preserve our environment. It’s not much but it is better than sitting by and watching the destruction of wildlife without fighting to preserve what’s left before it’s lost as well.”

“Yes, sir, it sounds like a good thing to be doing. The salmon need fresh water? You mentioned limited fresh water.”

“No, that’s purely selfish. I like water. I like having it to drink, to bathe in, and for fresh-water salmon. Corporations around the world are buying up sources of fresh water. They intend to sell it once an area has no source of fresh water. The price of gasoline might look like a drop in the bucket if a substance such as water is allowed to be owned by corporations whose only desire is to make money off it.”

“That’s serious business,” I agreed.

We went back to the game when his father returned and all three of us were ready to call it quits after they played nine holes. It had taken a little more than two hours without any hurrying involved. I’d walked enough to last me for a while. Mr. McMichael tried to give me a twenty dollar bill for carrying his father’s clubs when we got back to the clubhouse.

“I didn’t do that for money, Mr. McMichael,” I insisted.

“You earned it. That’s hard work carrying those golf clubs around. Go ahead and take it, Billie Joe. My father hears you’ll do it for nothing and he’ll be calling you every time he goes out to play.”

“No, sir. You add it to the money that goes to the Foundation. I don’t want you to pay me for helping with a charity event. I did it because you asked for my help and you don’t charge people for helping them. Consider it my contribution to helping save the salmon. I wish I was able to stay around to watch it all happen.”

“Okay, young Walker. Thanks,” he said, looking at me as I left them to go into the clubhouse to socialize with the contributors who’d finished their golf games.

He didn’t ask me to join them and I wouldn’t have gone if he did. Actually, I couldn’t wait to wrap my lips around another burger before I looked for my brother to make sure he didn’t forget I was there.

As I sat down at the mailroom table, Ms. Mars walked over and brought me a cold soda.

“Here you go, Billie Joe, right off the ice. You enjoying yourself?”

“Thank you. Yes, I’m having a very nice time. These hamburgers are great.”

“Yes, they are. Mr. McMichael is very impressed with you, you know.”

“I’m not very impressive, Ms. Mars. I do my best to do a good job.”

“Don’t sell yourself short, Billie Joe and don’t look a gift horse in the mouse. If he offers you a better job at RamTech, don’t you hesitate to take it. I’d hate losing such a promising young man like you, but I wouldn’t mind if I was seeing you move on up in the company.”

“I’ve only been there a few weeks,” I said. “I like my job. I like my boss.”

“Mr. McMichael doesn’t take long recognizing talent. That’s how RamTech got there. He started out in his garage after college. He knew what he was doing.”
“It’s not his Dad’s company?” I asked, having assumed the obvious.

“No, but his father was his first full time employee. He retired on a very nice pension I might add. No, RamTech is all Daniel McMichael’s invention. He’s a shrewd businessman. I don’t want you to give a second thought if it comes to leaving us for a better position.”

“Yes, ma’am, but I’m not going anywhere.”

That was about the oddest conversation I’d ever had. It was something like an out-of-body experience. I didn’t feel like I was really there or maybe Ms. Mars wasn’t. Maybe I’d dreamed the entire conversation, or maybe I was back home in Minnesota dreaming all this. Why would anyone promote me in only a few weeks after I took the job. It was obvious to me that Mr. McMichael was a busy man and spending a lot of time thinking about a delivery boy wasn’t a very productive way for him to be spending his time.

After my third hamburger, even though I spaced them pretty far a part, I felt bloated and the soda didn’t do anything to relieve the discomfort. I threw a Frisbee with some kids near the softball field. The sun was fairly warm by late afternoon but a breeze off the water kept it comfortable enough for me. By the time it was getting dark I needed my sweater from the car. Dark clouds rolled over later in the day but rainfall didn’t visit our picnic.

The fireworks display was impressive but not set off over the water where I expected. Instead, the 4th of July show was in the middle of the golf course where all the remnants could be accounted for and collected once the show was over.

A Seattle band accompanied the show and continued to play after the fireworks were done. Seats were set up where you could sit and listen as long as you liked, but John was ready to go and we didn’t stay around for the late entertainment.

We stopped at Dunkin’ Donuts on the way home and got our sugar fix all ready to go for the next morning before we headed to work. I was still waddling with burgers in my belly, but I knew I’d polish off my share of donuts for breakfast. I was going to be fat as a house before Carl got back and I tried to dial my appetite back but with little success.

Carl knew what time to call that night. I’d told him we’d be going to the company picnic. I gave him a rundown on our 4th of July celebration in the States. He told me about the big celebration on the base and they ate and drank and had plenty of entertainment. I imagined being so far from home on the 4th was a bit more difficult than spending it on Mercer Island.

“You packed yet?” I asked.

“It’s only July, Billie Joe.”

“You don’t want to take a chance of missing your plane,” I argued.

“Don’t worry, babe, I won’t miss that airplane, even if I’ve got to run all the way to the flight line.”

“How far is it to there?”

“Down at the end of the street. We can hear the planes taking off from the barracks.”

“That doesn’t keep you awake?”

“You get use to it. It isn’t that loud. I hardly hear them unless no one has their radio on. Then you can hear them if you listen close enough.”

“I miss you,” I said, wishing I could touch him.

“I know, babe. It won’t be long and we’ll be together for good.”

“I can’t wait. I won’t let you out of my sight,” I threatened.

“Cool.”

We talked about him having six more weeks before he’d be on his way home. It was overwhelming to see how swiftly time was passing now that school was over. He didn’t relate to it moving all that fast for him, but he was stuck in the same routine day in and day out.

I had him hold the phone over his heart so I could listen to it beating. I wouldn’t let him hang up so I could listen to him breathe. He laughed and told me there were two guys waiting to use the phone. I told him he had it and not to give it up, but he told me he had to get ready for duty. It was already tomorrow in his world and tomorrow in my world wasn’t far off.

“I love you, Billie Joe,” he said as he hung up and I held the phone until the dial tone hummed in my ear and then the buzzing that comes from a phone being off the hook.

I hung up and pushed the phone away from the mattress on the floor where I slept. My fatigued body couldn’t override my wandering mind. I had Carl on the brain and I couldn’t stop thinking about him.

When I fell asleep I dreamed about jumping salmon, spawning and filling the waters as though they still thrived and weren’t in danger of going extinct. I knew the entire time it was a dream.

Chapter 15

Impressions

The next morning a uniformed guard showed up with the envelope for the Foundation’s account shortly after I’d finished morning mail deliveries. I was busy setting aside the outgoing mail I’d collected on my rounds for Ms. Mars to check over before posting. She signed the receipt for the guard, opened the outside envelope to remove the inner envelope, and wrote out the receipt she needed to prove Mr. McMichael’s office had received it. She handed it to me once it was ready for delivery.

I took the stairs two at a time. The sugar from the donuts surged through me. I could likely have flown up the stairs after two jelly donuts—one maple, and one chocolate with chocolate icing—one cup of coffee, and two glasses of milk. I bounced out of the door on the fortieth floor before I knew it. I pocketed the receipt after Barbara signed it before indicating I should take the envelope into Mr. McMichael’s office. I knocked politely before stepping inside.

He had the envelope opened and everything out on his desk like he’d had a few donuts himself. He went through the pile of money, writing numbers on a piece of paper he’d removed from his top drawer. Finishing what he was focused on, he put a paper clip on the pile of checks and tossed them to me.

“Do your thing,” he said, getting up to go to the bathroom door and disappearing from my view.

There were only three out of twenty-seven checks that weren’t round numbers. He came back carrying his jacket. He looked at the slip of paper he’d written on after asking me for the number in my head. He looked at me and back to the paper again, before tossing everything into the envelope and putting the envelope into his briefcase.

“You interested in going to see what I do with the proceeds? You seemed interested in what the Foundation is all about. Maybe seeing a meeting of the Board would better explain it to you.”

“Sure, but I’ve got work to do,” I said, catching myself reminding my boss I had work to do.

“You can drop the receipt off to Ms Mars and tell her you’re accompanying me to the bank,” he said. “I think she can hold down the fort until I get you back. This is important.”

“There might be mail deliveries. I shouldn’t leave the office,” I worried.

“Let me put it another way. If I kept you up here talking about the Foundation for the next hour would that be okay or would you tell me you had to be going because you have more important duties in my company than pleasing your boss?”

“No, I don’t think I could say that to you,” I said with caution.

“It’s the same thing. I want you to come along. You wanted to know about the Foundation and most of the Board meets at the bank after events like this one.”

“Yes, sir,” I said, accompanying him to the waiting executive elevator.

He followed me out of the elevator and into the mailroom as I gave the receipt to Ms Mars.

“I’m taking young Mr. Walker with me, Ms Mars. Is there anything pending that makes sparing him for an hour a hardship for the mailroom?”

“No, Mr. McMichael, we’re caught up and I don’t expect anything else this morning. The day after a holiday is usually slow. If something comes in that can’t wait, I can get it delivered.”

“See, you are expendable. We’ll take the stairs,” he said, and I followed him to the parking garage.

The Lexus was a step up from John’s five year old sedan. It was a smooth quiet ride with something like Mozart drifting out of the stereo in light well-measured tones.

The bank was a few blocks away and the briefcase with the envelope in it was set down on the manager’s desk in the back of the bank. Mr. McMichael handed him the items out of the envelope that were bankable along with the two slips of paper with the Foundation’s count on the funds being deposited. He placed the pledges back in the briefcase and closed it.

We climbed a flight of stairs and went into an office on the second floor. It was similar to Mr. McMichael’s office, paneled in dark wood with windows on one side that gave us a nice view of the windows in the building next door. There was a gray haired man sitting at a long table, reading through some papers. He stood and smiled, once we’d entered the room.

“Brad,” Mr. McMichael said. “This is my calculator, Mr. Walker. Mr. Walker, Brad Knight. He’s the Foundation’s top attorney.”

I felt funny in my shirt sleeves. Brad wasn’t sure what to make of the introduction. He shook my hand vigorously in any event. I was sure if he was curious he’d ask for a clarification when I wasn’t present. It felt a little like being the punch line in a joke. I was feeling very much out of place.

More men came in and someone was called to bring the coffee after six people were seated at the table with Mr. McMichael and Mr. Knight. I sat to one side as the men made small talk. The bank manager came in with the official tally and a deposit slip. This was handed from man to man and each man glanced at the figures before it came back to Mr. McMichael and was filed in his briefcase for safe-keeping.

“What’s the news on State Senator Bailey?” someone asked.

“He’s introduced the bill for the reopening of the salmon runs we’ve specified in the minutes of the May meeting. We’ve got some support from several localities directly impacted by the move. Friends of the Foundation have expressed their interest in supporting the measure. We are currently working to identify next group of runs that are the easiest to rehabilitate. With our funds on hand we shouldn’t have any difficulty financing the first segment of the project. We are on schedule.”

“Contact me at RamTech if there is any change in the wording or the locations specified. I do have funds set aside to use to continue the study which will identify more runs with the least environmental impact coming from their rehabilitation. Even if we can get them open this year, it’ll probably be two or more years before we are capable of reintroducing salmon safely back to those environments.

“We’ll need to identify local environmentally friendly allies who may already have done studies on natural runs that have been subverted in corporate efforts to divert water to their own interests in local areas around the state. We need to get our newsletter in their hands so they know what we’re doing.

“The faster we can name culprits who are spoiling our environment for profit the faster we can get them in front of a judge, who just might help them to change their ways. We don’t have time to play nice with the people who will stand in our way. We need to investigate the possibility of recovering the cost of rehabilitating the runs from those responsible for their closure. That will add funds to the project,” Mr. McMichael said. “The best we can get might be for them to relinquish whatever rights they’ve secured to the property.”

There was agreement and nods to Mr. McMichael’s ideas. There were motions to take the actions specified and two other men offered statements suggesting complementary approaches to expedite the rehabilitation of specified areas. There was conversation about pollution from insecticides and fertilizers, not to mention the garbage people threw into the abandoned salmon runs. The greatest cost was cleaning up the manmade mess. They’d approach other environmentally sensitive organizations for manpower assistance to clean out the garbage before attempting to redirect water back into each of the areas in question. It was only then they’d assess what level of contamination might be present and how best to neutralize chemicals that might be a hazard to the fish or their eggs.

It took about fifty minutes and all the men met at the door, shook hands and left. It was all more agreeable than I imagined a group of men being. There was no rancor and only a few comments that didn’t follow Mr. McMichael’s vision closely.

“Come on, young Walker. Let’s go get a good cup of coffee from Starbucks before getting our collective noses back to the grindstone.”

I ordered a Mocha Grande, feeling a need for a sugar rush only chocolate could provide me. Mr. McMichael paid. We took the coffee to the Lexus. He assured me we wouldn’t move until the coffee was consumed.

“That was a meeting of the Board. Usually it lasts five or ten minutes and we exchange the numbers we are working with. There are several attorneys, the banker, and we have two state legislators associated with us but for obvious reasons not on the Board. Believe me nothing gets done without attorneys to make it legal and politicians who grease the skids. As distasteful as it is jumping through hoops to get the right legislation, nothing happens if you don’t go through that maze and sometimes nothing happens once you do. Most politicians know how to wheel and deal for other politicians’ votes on the bills they want to pass. You give me your vote and I’ll give you mine.”

“You can’t just do something about things that are plainly wrong?”

“Nope. Not allowed. The things that are wrong are usually the carefully orchestrated results of someone who is making a lot of money keeping it wrong. These people have money, politicians, and more attorneys than it should be legal to allow. I should talk. We have attorneys any time we need them. They volunteer their services so it isn’t like it costs us anything but just the time and effort it takes makes it difficult to get anything important done. Attorneys with consciences are the best allies of this kind of foundation. They believe in what they are doing and are tireless. If it addresses their own interest, they’ll do all it’s legal to do… and sometimes more.”

“Opening the runs is that important?”

“Yes, it’s the key to saving the salmon in the wild. It might come to forbidding the fishing of salmon for a few years, until they begin to recover. They use the runs to get to where they reproduce. Salmon have unique radar. It takes them back to where they were born so they can spawn. Then they die but they leave the next generation of salmon behind, waiting to be born. They can no longer get back to where their ancestors spawned, but they know where to go if they have a way to get there.”

“How will they know how to get there if they weren’t born there?” I asked, confused.

“Instinct. They have remarkable instinct. That alone is worth preserving. If we open those runs the salmon will find their way back to their ancestral spawning grounds, even though they’ve never been there. It’s rather amazing. All wild creatures are amazing.”

“They have built in GPS,” I said, sipping my Mocha.

“Yes, in away it’s like a built-in GPS, encoded into their genes.”

“Cool,” I said, wondering how it worked in fish.

“Well, polish that off and we’ll get back. Did you learn anything, Billie Joe,” he said friendlier than usual.

“Yes, sir. I followed the conversation. It was all quite civil.”

“Yes, we all have the same interest at heart. We don’t always agree on how to achieve our goals. It’s important your generation takes responsibility for the injustices, especially in our environment with the kind of difficulties that are created by people not protecting their own interests. Believe me, if people went to their taps tomorrow morning and nothing came out, or, worse yet, what came out looked like oil or mud, you’d hear the howl from here to eternity.

“The problem is that the problem has existed for years, decades, and sometimes a century or more before the tap stops producing water. Nothing happens over night. It takes a lot of people and a lot of work to make things right.”

“Yes, sir, I understand that. It’s good to see someone doing something about it.”

“This was time well spent. I anticipate that one day you’ll be involved in creating a better world for us all. It’s a job for all of us, you know. This has nothing to do with RamTech and my work, yet it has everything to do with RamTech and my work.”

I didn’t completely understand what he was telling me but the experience taught me something. He’d sensed my interest and exposed me to the inner workings of his foundation. I went back to work feeling a tiny bit smarter about how his foundation got things done. It was an incredibly large task. Taking on the powers that be to keep the salmon from becoming extinct, sounded like a big deal.

I remembered reading about Louis and Clark reaching the Columbia River after a couple of years of journeying across the continent in search of the Northwest Passage. They were near starvation for a time near the Pacific Ocean. The Indian offered to trade them salmon. Unfamiliar with the food value of the salmon, Louis and Clark and his men wouldn’t eat it, even though the water boiled with the fish at times.

Now, like so many other things, the greed of some men had the once king salmon of the western waterways in danger of disappearing. Was it possible for a handful of men, even with attorneys and legislators, to reverse the damage done over many years and save the once plentiful fish?

I loved salmon but I wouldn’t be able to eat it again, not unless I knew they were no longer in danger. My heart told me it was likely to be a taste that was lost to me forever. What I’d seen of man’s cruelty to man told me their cruelty to wildlife was even more brutal. I couldn’t figure out what such men valued if their fellow man and the natural beauty of wildlife were only there for them to exploit. How sad they must be.

I wrote Carl about my adventures with Mr. McMichael. We wouldn’t be able to talk about it after agreeing Carl should save his money for when he returned home. We were going to need a place where we’d start our lives together. This meant writing every night and trying to remember the details that I would usually tell him on the phone as we searched for subjects to talk about.

I was once again feeling guilty about my plan to leave RamTech the final week in August. Each time Mr. McMichael paid special attention to me or went out of his way to teach me about something he valued, my guilt increased. He was investing in me on a long-term basis and I was a short-time employee.

I wanted to tell him the truth but I needed the job and the money for the same reason Carl wasn’t there to talk to several times a week. I was again left with the feeling of being dishonest for accepting lessons I considered to be of great value. Did this make me a thief of sorts?

Learning from someone as anxious to teach as Mr. McMichael, made it worse. How could I tell him I intended to make the down payment on a life I was starting across the country with my wages from RamTech? Was it any of his business, and how bad should I feel about accepting his hospitality? I didn’t want to insult the man and I didn’t like feeling dishonest.

He’d watched my face and eyes for a reaction to the thousands of dollars he poured out of an envelope I carried to his office. He knew from my reaction that I was honest and wouldn’t steal his money. Did he see that I could deceive him, even if I wasn’t a thief? My first job presented me with a dilemma with no answer I could find. At least not an answer I liked thinking about.

“John,” I said on our way to work the next day, “how do I tell Mr. McMichael I’m leaving next month?”

“Don’t. Lots of guys work there over the summer. Most of the younger guys are college kids. They leave or make part-time arrangements. You shouldn’t bring it up until it’s time.”

“I’m not going to college and he keeps trying to teach me about things, important things like he’s planning on my being around.”

“This is a problem?” John questioned.

“I feel like I’m betraying him,” I said.

“Billie Joe, I hate to point out to you that the rocket scientists don’t start in the mailroom. Usually they start in rocket science. Accept what you are learning as part of your job.”

“Very funny. I feel guilty about taking up so much of his time.”

“Don’t. When the time comes you’ll tell him. In the mean time do your job and don’t short change the man. That’s what you’re paid to do. He didn’t hire you to be his running-around buddy. Let the man run his company the way he wants. You don’t know everything and he can teach you things you might never learn otherwise. I’d shut up and listen, but that’s my warped sense of idealism. The man is doing what he wants to do at his company. Humor him. He hasn’t asked you for a thing.”

That was a big help. Keep on lying until it’s too late to keep it to myself any longer. My morning was no fun. I did my usual deliveries without my heart being in it. There was no envelope for the fortieth floor and Ms. Mars kept looking at me as if I’d grown another head. I went about my business and did my best not to short change the man. It didn’t help my disposition.

“You okay, Billie Joe?” Ms. Mars asked after I’d tidied up the work area for the third time that morning.

“Yes, ma’am,” I said, wondering why she’d ask.

“You don’t seem like you’re feeling all that well. If you’d like to take the rest of the day off, I can arrange that.”

“Oh, no, ma’am, I’m fine. I was just thinking.”

“Anything I can help you with?”

“No, it’s personal. Just giving some thought to my future.”

“Ah, as you should. I hope RamTech figures in there somewhere,” she advised.

“Well, I don’t know,” I said.

“I didn’t mean the mailroom, Billie Joe. Of course you’d want to try for something with a little more meat on its bones.”

“I like the mailroom. I don’t want to be tied to a desk.”

“I’m sure Mr. McMichael has his eye on you. If you find something that interests you he could probably make arrangements.”

“Yes, ma’am,” I said, needing another line of thought. “I haven’t gotten that far. I like what I’m doing, but I do have other things going on in my life.”

“Of course,” she said, going back to her morning records keeping.

It was well into July, when the invitation came. Mr. McMichael had stayed busy and had not had time to be bothered with me. I got a return letter from Carl and he agreed that my life and decisions weren’t tied to a lifelong commitment to RamTech and therefore I should feel no guilt for doing what was best for me. After a few weeks to think about it, I accepted he was right overall but this didn’t relieve me of my responsibility to be aboveboard in my dealing with others.

It all boiled down to finding a way to best announce my intention to leave. Did I tell Ms. Mars first, because she was my direct supervisor, or did I tell Mr. McMichael first because he might be considering me for something more important in his company?

The invitation to dinner came through the mailroom as an interoffice memo. I was to be ready at 7p.m. and a car would pick me up. The dress was shirt and tie, which was the same as work. I decided I’d tell Mr. McMichael over dinner that I’d be leaving RamTech at the end of August in case he had plans for me within his company.

The dinner was on Mercer Island at the golf club where I’d carried his father’s clubs. It was a celebration after the legislature unanimously gave his ecology foundation control over the salmon runs he’d been after. The water flow was to be restored to its natural course as fast as was prudent. Several politicians and a similar number of attorneys sat at the head table. I sat at a table with Mr. McMichael and his lovely wife Linda. He wanted the credit going to the men who had fought the fight and so our table was off to one side.

“I let you see the inner workings of what this dinner represents. We’ve gotten the first salmon runs we approached the legislature about restoring. The day you attended the meeting was for the third set of runs we’re after.”

“You’re succeeding,” I said.

“It’s a start, Billie Joe. Success comes in small steps. I haven’t had a lot of time to share the details with you but I’ve been really busy with company affairs.”

“Oh, that’s not necessary. I have no doubt you are busy,” Mr. McMichael.”

“I’d have you call me Dan but there’s work to consider. This is a social setting but one I felt like sharing with you. What’s this Ms. Mars tells me about you not being as happy with us as you were. Is there anything I can help you with?”

“No, sir, I do the best job I know how,” I said in my defense.

“No, she’s very happy with you, Billie Joe. She mentioned you seemed to be under some kind of stress or pressure. Is there anything I can do to help? I’m not interested in intruding just helping.”

“There is one thing. I’m going to be leaving at the end of August. I really like my job and the time you’ve taken with me. I just felt like I needed to tell you that I have plans.”

“You’re going to college. I was hoping you would. You’re a clever lad, Billie Joe.”

“No, sir, I’ll be going east.”

“It sounds like you know where you are going. You are an impressive young man. I’m glad you came our way and I hope some of what I’ve shown you will be useful to you. We all need to get involved if we hope to have the kind of world we want to leave to our children.”

“Yes, sir, I’ve never been exposed to environmental concerns. I’ve had my own but nothing I acted on.”

“When I was your age, and this is not a recommendation, I was involved with an environmental group and we went down the Amazon River to try to stop the cutting in the rainforests. Speaking of learning something, I learned there is a time to run. The people doing the cutting weren’t about to let a bunch of Anglos come to tell them they’re wasting resources. We never had any time to reason with them, but being an Anglo turned out to be a drawback for our little band. We were lucky the army was nearby and we got out without any trouble, but they told us we weren’t likely to be that lucky again.”

“Wow!” I said. “I can’t imagine doing that. The Amazon? That had to be totally amazing.”

“Yes, as I said, that’s not something I’m promoting for nineteen year olds. My family did have some interest in the environment and I was a headstrong kid. As you can see it hasn’t changed, but if your leaving has anything to do with your stress at work, don’t ever think of us as being anything but supportive of anything you decide to do in life, Billie Joe.

“I do business all over the country, all over the world, and if you find yourself in need of work or some kind of help, don’t hesitate to ask. You are an impressive young man and it’s been obvious to me since we met, you know where you’re heading.

“My advice for you, young Walker, is follow your heart. Be passionate about your endeavors and you’ll never be disappointed by life. Choose your battles carefully, but fight like hell once you find a cause.”

“You do remind me a little of myself, except I could never add numbers in my head. I have to say that was impressive. Young Walker here took the checks from the foundation he’d added on a calculator I’d given him, and he double-checked the calculator in his head. It might have looked like a stunt, except his figures were correct,” he said to his wife. “You never did explain to me how you do that.”

“I add the numbers together is all,” I explained. “I get a total.”

“How do you do it? Certainly there’s a formula or some new math they teach you or some such as that?”

“I don’t know. I look at the numbers and add one to the next. I can’t explain how I do it. It’s how my brain works. Up to five figures I can add immediately.”

“How interesting,” he said. “Einstein couldn’t teach, you know. He was so smart everyone thought he’d end up a college professor. His own professors couldn’t fathom him at all. He always had the right answer to their questions, but he lacked the ability to explain how he came to his answers. I think he ended up going to work at the German Government’s patent office.

“There is one thing I’m certain about, I’m no Einstein,” I assured him. “I wasn’t very good in school. I hated Geometry and didn’t much care for Algebra.”

“I can’t add a column of numbers but Algebra and Physics fascinated me. I’m an abstract kind of a guy,” he confessed.

“I understand you haven’t left yet, but don’t have any second thoughts about leaving us. Get out there and live, Billie Joe. Find what excites you and go for it. I want you to let me know what you’re doing and where you go. If you ever get back out here you can think about rejoining us. Most of my interest and activity is in the west but I have contacts all over.”

“Yes, sir,” I said, feeling as if he’d just lifted a major weight off my shoulders.

I could mark this experience up as a lot of worrying about nothing. I felt really stupid for spending all that time worrying about how I was going to quit his company. I should have known he was going to accept my departure gracefully. My brother ended up being correct. Mr. McMichael hadn’t asked me for anything. What he taught me was what he wanted me to know.

I had the best dinner and I found it easy to enjoy the celebration.

Chapter16

The Wait

There was a wonderful change at work. I enjoyed going each day and there were lighthearted times in-between the mail rushes. Almost all the work was done in spurts and the rest of the time was spent preparing for or cleaning up after the rush. After the dinner with Mr. McMichael and his wife, I told Ms. Mars the approximate date of my departure. She leaned forward to scribble it down on her calendar, smiling as she always smiled.

“I, for one, will miss you, Billie Joe. Could this be what’s been on your mind for the past few weeks.”

“Yes, ma’am,” I confessed and that’s all there was to it.

This could possibly be described as the most pleasant period in my life. While it lacked the passion and direction Mr. McMichael told me about, I had something I was looking forward to and at the same time I enjoyed what I was doing.

RamTech was like what I imagined a good family should be. I wasn’t all that aware of what went on in-between the mailroom and the fortieth floor, but I felt that it was all under control and filled with people who smiled when they worked, and they encouraged each other and me as we did our work.

I was sure it wouldn’t be hard to find a replacement to run the stairs. Each time there was a special delivery during the day, I’d pop out on one of the floors, and the person behind the desk would be checking their watch and talking into the phone.

It was what I did. Every delivery was a hundred-yard dash that I couldn’t lose. People admired my energy and how I did my job. I was no longer amazed that people noticed me. I was heading somewhere and I stopped at RamTech on my way there.

I continued writing Carl every day and I told him that I’d given my notice for late August. He was glad that it was no longer on my mind. He wrote back that I seemed worry free, but I’d better start worrying about him, because he was dreaming of us being together every night and what he was dreaming was most definitely X-rated.

Carl related a story about going drinking in town with Leon. There were sections where the soldiers frequented most and where they were most welcome. Carl was curious about and comfortable with a culture totally different from ours. He knew enough Japanese to be respectful and he did his best to be polite toward his host country. Leon wasn’t necessarily of the same mind.

After having too much to drink, Leon became difficult, insulting some innocent Japanese men. Carl said he could tell by the looks on their face that they were only going to take so much. They did all within their power to avoid a physical confrontation, but the more Leon talked the more belligerent he became. Once it was obvious the four Japanese men had taken all they intended to take, Carl could see they weren’t going to be able to avoid a fight.

Then, Carl said, he realized that it wasn’t the Japanese men that were creating the problem and why should he get in a fight with them because Leon was being a jackass. They were merely reacting to the insults being hurled at them.

Carl told Leon to shut up and Leon turned on him. Carl once again told Leon it was time for him to shut up. Leon didn’t take the hint and Carl slugged him, knocking him out. The Japanese men bowed and smiled at Carl’s diplomatic solution to what might have turned out to be a very painful lesson in foreign affairs.

I wrote him to give him my approval, but he couldn’t be all that happy with the outcome. Leon was no longer talking to him and the only guy he was close to wasn’t close any longer. I let him know that soon there was only one guy he was going to be close to and that’s all there was to it.

John seemed disappointed that I was leaving. We’d been brothers for the first time. We talked, did things together, and enjoyed being together. I told him we’d visit him and once we got located he could come to visit us. I’m not sure my brother was happy, not that I think he was unhappy. He seemed to do okay without having any particular plan of what his life might be about.

Early in August Mr. McMichael invited John and me to go sailing with him in the Sound. We fished and released what we caught, which would never have occurred to me before. The wind filled the sails of the modest sized boat as John and I moved from station to station to follow our captain’s orders. We’d sailed out among the islands where the ferry’s chugged back and forth to each day.

There was no talk about my leaving and there were no questions about my destination. I wanted to tell Mr. McMichael about Carl. I wanted to be honest with him. He’d offered me help if I needed it. He knew I wouldn’t steal from him. He knew deception or the idea of being deceptive wore heavily on me, but he could not see the secret that was so tightly woven into my character. It didn’t bother me until we went sailing.

This was the secret I was always afraid to reveal. When faced with the idea of telling someone who it wasn’t necessary to tell, you could depend on my silence. I wanted to be honest with Mr. McMichael, because he’d seen something in me that impressed him. It had me wanting to tell the complete truth about myself for once in my life, and yet, as impressive as I might have been to him, I disappointed myself and held tightly to my façade.

Out in the center of the Sound the argument was again on my mind. Being honest was the only way to be if you wanted people to respond to you in a way that made a difference. Silence merely assures that I’d never know who the real friends are as opposed to those who would throw you overboard for not measuring up to their particular standards. What good was the companionship of people who thought you ought to live by their rules?

I only needed to go back to my best friend to throw a monkey wrench into my ideas about who it was safe to tell and who not to tell. Ralphie would still be alive if I had told him. How could I have a best friend and not understand my silence would kill him, or me, or both of us. All I had to do was to say,

“Ralphie, I’m gay.”

My failure to find a way to trust my best friend with the most important information about myself led to his suicide. I could find a dozen ways to excuse my guilt and put the guilt at Ralphie’s door, but I knew the truth and I had remained silent.

I lived more in the last year than in my entire life before. I was not the same person that had let Ralphie down. This was the only escape from my guilt. I’d been punished for my ignorance. I’d been punished for thinking there was anyone out there who cared about me being a gay kid with a dead friend, frantically searching for a reason to live.

I’d gone in search of what it meant to be gay and instead I found an underworld of kids, suspended in a purgatory that had no end. Without identity, value, or purpose, we languished invisible to anyone who might be able to bring us in from our exile. I had become a non-person in a non-community seeking an answer to a question no one heard me ask.

Carl had been my only salvation. Had I not met him I’d be with Ralphie. Having him affirmed I wasn’t alone. What I’d found in Carl was a reason to go on living. I’d almost forgot what he meant to me as survival dictated my moves. It was what I’d found in him that led to my rescue.

I accepted that what I’d gone in search of in response to Ralphie’s death didn’t exist. Discovering that allowed me to embrace something or someone that did exist, Carl.

I’d come back from my time in hell. In only a few weeks my life would belong to Carl and I’d go with him to wherever he wanted to go and being with him would become all-important to me.

I did know where I was heading.

*****

Rick Beck

[email protected]

a writer’s mind…

We are brothers and sisters. We are never alone. From first step to last breath we are united by a common cause. If we don’t accept one another unconditionally, who will? The kind of world the next generation of LGBTQ people will inherit is up to you and me.

If we don’t fight to make things right for all of us we are agreeing to the proposition that it is okay to discriminate against queers. We are the last people it’s acceptable to bash. It’s time we took a stand to say, no more. Let’s end it on our watch. Let’s stand together. If we do the work the next generations of LGBT won’t understand how hard it once could be to be gay.

...love one another