Butterflies & Rainbows
By: Rick Beck
(© 2020 by the author)
Editor: Khris Lawrentz

The author retains all rights. No reproductions are allowed without the author's consent. Comments are appreciated at...

beck@tickiestories.us

Part 2

Chapter 5

When I left DC that afternoon, there was no way I could have guessed where I'd be at eight o'clock that evening. Yes, I was in New York City, but what I was doing, was so out of character, I hardly believed it.

Getting into a stranger's car was out of the question. It's not something I did, because I'd learned not to trust anyone, I certainly wasn't about to go to a strange city to look for an honest man, but seeing Carlton's face, I got no negative vibs from him. 

Why would anyone get into a car with someone he didn't know?

Being hungry, seeing Carlton's face gave me some sense of him. He was clean, nice looking, and well-dressed. I had nothing to do but wait for Johnny. A nice meal at a good restaurant appealed to me.

If I got bad vibes from him, I'd get out of the car. I wasn't afraid of him. He was no bigger than I was, but from the moment I got in the car, we were talking. First it was about Johnny, then it was about him, and the conversation was working its way around to me. I'd already learned things I didn't know about the Philippines.

Some days, you just go with the flow, even when you have no idea where the flow will go.

Carlton struck me as an intelligent and warm friendly man, who went to 42nd Street looking for the company of another man. It wasn't easy for men to make contact with other men, because society was laid out in a certain way. Men were to be a certain way.

A man could get away with punching a guy in the shoulder, even patting his back, but to hug another man put you on shaky ground. Picking up a man twenty-years your junior, might look suspicious. Do it on 42nd Street, in New York City, you'd crossed the line into the gross conduct segment of life that could cost you big time. 

A men who wishes to hug another man, is at a disadvantage. Gay men weren't simply frowned upon, everyone was on the lookout for such men. Heaven help you, if you were gay, and you were identified as such by men who weren't gay.

This left gay men few ways to contact each other, Society was clear on this. Gay men gathering, to do Lord knows what, won't be tolerated by polite society. These were perverts. A threat to the family, the state, God, and country, or was it, country and God?

People were always watching. People like the FBI.

When society insists everyone should be like the majority, the people who are different, unique, creative, and diverse, will find a way to get their needs met, in spite of the harsh consequences. You can watch all you want. I need a hug, and I intend to get one.

When caught doing this, they were labeled shameless perverts.

The ruling class doesn't like it. They'll do what they can to stop it, but some things are inherently unstoppable. All the intimidation and hand-wringing aside, some people will follow their instincts, regardless of how much intimidation is applied.

The harder they make it, the harder we try. There are some things you can't dictate.

The evening had turned into a learning experience. As little contact as I sought to have with strangers, Carlton had given me a lot to chew on. He posed interesting questions and revealed some intimate details about his life, as a gay married father and businessman.

I assuming Carlton was gay. I was in his car after all. That indicated to me, he was looking for the company of a man.

He'd told me things that could be dangerous for a stranger to have. I knew his car. Anyone could write down his tag number, but he talked openly, and we found a connection in his history.

Carlton wasn't reluctant to tell me about himself, when he knew nothing about me. He was searching for a connection, a point of reference where we might meet. He'd decided I wasn't dangerous, even if I did shoot my mouth off before I knew the lay of the land.

While Carlton was seemingly open, I had remained guarded, ready to leap out at any sign of things not being what they seemed. While Carlton was expressing his relationship to his history,

I wasn't contributing anything to that conversation. The problem with my history, it was mostly future, because I'd never looked back, and if Carlton was looking for answers to tell him who I was, he wouldn't find them, because I wasn't really anyone.

I followed my nose a lot. I played things by ear, being ready to  bail out at a moments notice. If someone got too close, I knew only one way to put distance between us. My life wasn't an open book.

That was a good question, but I had no good answer. My life was complicated. I knew where I was, New York City. I knew where I came from, Washington DC, but I had no idea who I was, not really. My life so far had been more about survival than discovery. When you are surviving, you hesitate when you suspect a big cat is about to pounce.

I'd never had a solid identity. I managed to get here by blind dumb luck. By placing one foot in front of the other, hoping I didn't fall. Even after ten years, I was without an identity. 

Who was I really and being with a nice man, who was telling me about himself, how did I avoid talking about myself? I'm no one, really, didn't seem to cut it, but I could play it by ear, one more time.

I had made it out of childhood by learning not to be there, when my parents were there. My parents didn't like me very much. This meant I was being disciplined and punished constantly. Until I learned not to be there, when my parents were there, I suffered. Once I mastered the art of being absent, when I was present, life wasn't worth living, but I was alive and there was nothing I could do about it.

I didn't know why I was here. It served no purpose I could see.

I didn't know what made my parents so angry and mean. I did know, but it didn't make any sense. What did that say about me, having parents that didn't like me. What would someone think if I told them, even my parents hated me.

What did make sense was an aunt who was at the house one time, and she'd heard my brother and I being punished. Afterward, while I was eating breakfast, She said to herself, “What would make a man treat his children that way?”

Overhearing my aunt's reaction to the insanity at my house, gave me an inkling, what went on at my house might not be what went on in the houses of other kids. I didn't live in those houses.

What did I do about it? I knew the answer. I'd keep my head down and my mouth shut. This was the house where I lived, and it didn't matter what happened in other houses.

Not wanting to be alive, never came to mind. I was alive.

Realizing I was spacing out, doing a thing I never did, thinking about my childhood. I had to reveal something about myself.

“I didn't read until I turned thirteen,” I said, instantly wishing I could grab those words back.

He didn't need to know that I was stupid.

“You, had trouble reading? That's hard for me to believe.”

I had never gone back to where life began for me. I'd always been where I was, and I made the best of it. I wanted nothing. I asked for nothing, but when I was as low as I could get, I found myself being born. I was 12 the year I was born into the world.

In high school, the thought came to me, it's like I'm in a play. Someone pushes me out on stage, and there I am. Everyone else has a script, and knows their lines, and I have no idea why I'm there.

That's how life looked to me.

“I was... slow,” I said, searching for words that made sense.

“I find that hard to believe. You are an intelligent and perceptive young man. I can't imagine you couldn't read at thirteen,” he said.

“That is where it gets complicated. If I tell you how I got here from where I was, it won't make any sense. It makes no sense to me to be where I am. I have literally arrived here by putting one foot in front of the other, and by following my nose, and here I am, in New York City. I have no real reason for being here, except, I like New York City, and I recently came here with a friend, and I've come back.”

“That's difficult to fathom,” he said, taking quick glances at my face. “What I see, and the image you project, would make what you're telling me impossible. If you like, you can explain it to me.”

I had no life at all before I turned 12. That's not completely accurate. I did become partially aware of the world around me at ten. Certain events had me wandering outside my house for the first time. Before that, I stayed in my room. I was safe there, most of the time. My parents never came into my room during the day.”

“Surely you went to school,” he said.

“Yes, I did, but I was never there. Not really,” I said. “My body was in class. I wasn't there.”

“Come again,” he said, being confused.

I knew the feeling.

“When I turned 12, there was so much life coming at me, in such a short period of time, it was difficult for me to connect to it,” I said. “I observed it. I knew it was there. I wasn't connected to it. It was like watching a television show. I knew all about it, but I wasn't in it.”

“Don't get me wrong, it's not that I don't believe what you are telling me. It's hard for me to relate what you're telling me to the boy sitting next to me. You are definitely not slow,” he said.

“Can you give me a little more to go on?”

“It's not something I can explain easily. I won't make a lot of sense. I don't know if it does make sense. I can only tell you how it started, and what happened along the way,” I said. “I've never thought about, thinking about it. It was what it was. It's over now.”

“You said you couldn't read. How is that?” he asked. “I came here from my country, when I was seven. I learned English, and I taught my parents English. I read all the time. How do you not read?”

“You'll need to shut up and listen. I'll try to explain it, but I've never given it that much thought. It takes all my energy, just to be here. There isn't a lot of time for processing the meaning of life. My life is what it is. I lived it as it came at me,” I said.

I could see him struggling to understand what I was telling him.

“I know you're telling me the truth, Rick. There's no way I can equate what you're telling me with the boy sitting next to me.”

“I need to tell the story the way it happened. It's the only way I know to tell it,” I said. “It's not something I enjoy thinking about.”

“OK, I'll be quiet. I want to hear what you have to say,” he said.

“Intelligent enough to call you a know-it-all,” I said.

“We're all entitled to one mistake,” he said, lightening things up.

“Let me put it this way, I'm a survivor, and that's how it is I couldn't read, when I started 8th grade. Oh, I could read, 'Dick and Jane ran up the hill with spot the dog,' but that's as far as I got,” I said. “I had trouble focusing on words in general, especially words in textbooks. It was like trying to read through the wrong end of a telescope. My brain simply couldn't focus.”

“Which brings me to the point I'm trying to make. In what couldn't have been that long ago, how is it a boy who couldn't read at thirteen, has learned enough, since then, to impress a successful businessman?” Carlton said. “I've picked hustlers up on 42nd Street before. None was as sharp as you.”

“One day, I walked into the classroom of the teacher from hell. Once he knew I couldn't read, he made me read in front of the class the first thing every day,” I said. “It was the first order of business before he moved onto that day's lesson.”

“You obviously learned to read,” he said. 

“Yes, but learning to read wasn't as important as making a friend, while I was doing it. I'd never had a friend before, and Tommy became the most important person in my life. He gets credit for the  boy you see before you today,” I said. “He became the secret ingredient for any success I had. Tommy wasn't just a friend, he inspired me. He didn't know how important his friendship was to me, but I made it a point to show him how much he meant to me.”

“I want to hear more about that. I'm enthralled,” he said. “I only had one close friend while I was growing up. How old were you two?”

“We were thirteen. Tommy's a couple of months older than me. If enthralled is something dirty, I'm still not a hustler, and Tommy was straight. He married his high school sweetheart, Bonnie. He never knew that I was gay. It just didn't come up.”

 Carlton started to laugh.

“It means, I'm captivated by what you're telling me. Don't leave me hanging. I want to know what happened. We can talk over dinner.”

Carlton made a right turn into a circular driveway.

“And here we are, Evelyn's. You don't mind wearing one of my jackets, do you? You're OK otherwise, but they insist on a jacket after six p.m. It's been dry cleaned. You're about my size,” he said.

Once we stopped at the entrance to the restaurant, Carlton reached into the backseat to pull a sports coat off of a hanger. He handed it to me, before opening his door to get out.

I slipped into the jacket, once I stood beside the car. It fit fine.

A guy in a red coat came toward us, taking Carlton's keys out of his hand, once he reached the open driver's car door.

“Enjoy your meal, Mr. Calderone,” the valet said with a smile.

“Thank you, Jeffrey. I always do,” Carlton replied, moving toward the entrance, holding the door open for me.

“That sports coat fits you better than it fits me,” he said, as I moved into the spacious area inside the door.

The front of the restaurant was large and brightly lit. An immaculately dressed man came hurrying our way.

“Mr. Calderone, how nice to see you. Your usual table OK?”

“Yes, Max. Is Mr. Eastbrook here?” Carlton asked.

“Oh, yes, he's always here early in the evening,” Max replied.

“Let him know I'm here, will you, Max,” Carlton said.

“As soon as you are seated. He'll be happy to know you're here.”

We walked by a dozen, mostly empty, tables, and we were seated off to the far right side of the spacious dining room.

The restaurant was dimly lit. Each table had a candle flickering at its center. There were overhead chandeliers that emitted enough light for the waiters to see where they were going. Following Max, I was sure we wouldn't get lost. Without him leading the way, I'm not sure I wouldn't have walked into one of the tables, before my eyes adapted to the lack of lighting. I wasn't sure about eating food I couldn't see. It was a big dining room, but there was an intimate feel to it. Mirrors on the wall near where we sat, expanded the light a little.

“Ah, Carlton, so good to see you,” a man said, as he moved in our direction, a minute after Max departed.

Carlton stood and greeted the man by taking both of his hands in his. It was a cordial meeting.

“And how is Mrs. Calderone and the girls?”

“Fine, Frank. She's spending the holiday in the Hamptons with the girls. I'm stuck here, trying to keep the business moving forward. My young friend would like a turkey dinner, all the trimmings, of course. I trust you have a modicum of turkey lurking about for  tomorrow's feasting?”

“I've never seen so many birds, Carlton,” Frank said. “We have them coming out of the oven faster than I can count them. We'll keep them in the walk-in cooler tonight, and tomorrow, we'll take them out one by one. We went through seventeen turkey's last year, and we almost had to send out for more. We've cooked twenty today. We've prepared almost all the dishes ahead of time. It's not a difficult meal to prepare. We just need to prepare a lot of it. They'll start coming in tomorrow at noon, and we'll be serving Thanksgiving dinner until ten tomorrow night, or until the last diner cries uncle.”

“Rick would like to get a head start. Can you handle that for me?” Carlton asked, releasing his friend's hands.

Carlton sat down, and Frank turned toward me.

“Turkey, dressing, cranberry sauce, of course, both mashed potatoes and our sumptuous candied yam casserole. There's a broccoli casserole, peas, and rice Pilaf. You'd like gravy on the turkey, dressing, and potatoes, I suspect.”

“Yes, sir,” I said. “You make it sound marvelous,”

“I'll be back to make sure you aren't disappointed. My chefs will be anxious to get your opinion of the meal,” Frank said. “And you will want your usual, Carlton?”

“Yes, and pick a nice white wine for us. Not too sweet, but not too tart,” Carlton said.

“As you wish,” Frank said with a slight bow, as he backed away from our table, disappearing into the shadows.

“You eat here often?” I asked.

“If I'm lucky, a couple of times a week. My business is a few blocks away, and believe it or don't, Frank will have a meal delivered to me at my office, if I'm too tied up to come in. I like the service, and you won't find better food. I've been coming here since Frank's father ran the restaurant. Frank was a waiter. His father died three years ago. Frank took over and the food and service is even better.”

“You are getting the usual?” I asked.

“Fish. I like mine grilled. A small salad, rice, and wine, usually. I don't want you to think I do this all the time,” Carlton said,

“You just said, you eat here a couple of times a week,” I said, confused.

Carlton sat up very straight. He looked serious, except there was an appearance of amusement on his face.

“You take things so literally. I need to be careful around you. I do eat here a couple of times a week. When I'm in the mood, I come here every night. The food is that good, but when I said, I don't do this all the time, I don't drive down that street to pick up someone, very often. I can't remember the last time I went there,” he said. “But I know I will find young men down there, waiting for a guy like me.”

“A guy like you, meaning not a man of color, and not a Filipino man, but a gay man,” I said, sorting through his comments.

Carlton looked away from my face. He clasped his hands in front of him, looking at me again.

“You really make this hard. I don't know if I'm gay. I have a wife, children, I'm a successful business man. Someone outing me could jeopardize it all. From time to time, I need to be in the company of another man. It's a hunger that I can't satisfy at Evelyn's.”

The idea of Carlton being married with children, was a new wrinkle for me. Was I surprised he had a wife and kids, not in the least. It brought up questions I couldn't answer, which wasn't unusual. I was a gay man who had little experience with gay men. I didn't know what secrets were hidden behind the stories gay men told.  

Carlton was more open than most gay men I'd met so far, but what he told me created more questions than answers. What he told me was new information. I had no thoughts about it, but I added his information to other information I'd gathered. It might paint a picture.

“A man who goes to 42nd Street to pick up hustlers,” I said bluntly. “You don't think someone hasn't noticed you?”

“The greater notice, of course. Someone at some time has probably jotted down my tag number. Someone one at times has taken notice of my face, after I picked a boy up down there. How many men do you suspect might drive down that street each evening, looking for an available boy? Men a lot more aggressive than I am.”

“It only takes one to bust you,” I said.

“I have no illusions about what I'm doing,” he said, glancing at me. “In the context of it being threatening, well, the need for companionship becomes stronger than my need for cautiousness.”

“And when I do that, it's usually a disaster from beginning to end, because they are hustlers. Young males tend to be unpredictable and less than refined. Because I know no other way to find a companion, the risks are built in to picking one of them up.”

“Why do they make it so difficult for men to meet and not feel guilty about it?” I said.

“Guilt comes with any situation involving two men wanting to get to know one another better. I don't believe that many guys can go through life and not meet a man who fascinates them. When they meet such a man, you must wonder how far it might go,” he said. 

“I've never thought of it that way before. I'm attracted to a lot of men. I just ignore it. I take one good look, and I move on,” I said.

“I'm not talking about physical attraction. There are too many attractive men to count, but not men you can have a meeting of the mind with. Not a man you feel like you need to get to know him,” Carlton said.

“You're talking homosexual feelings. If there is one thing society won't condone, it's men who act on their homosexual feelings,” I said.

“Not having them but acting on them?” Carlton asked.

“Your guess is as good as mine, but men who feel an attraction to other men, are homosexual, and they must be condemned,” I said.

“Are you a homosexual, if you have some homosexual feelings?”

“You're moving into a realm of things I avoid. I have no interest in society's view of how people should act, if they want to be acceptable. Whatever that is, I have no interest in it. This society leaves a lot to be desired, when it comes to how people should live. Which brings us back to 42nd Street, and why hustlers go there.”

“Which brings us back to men who go to find companionship,” Carlton said. “I keep hoping I'll find a nice likeable young man.”

“They're hustlers. They're supposed to be a little dangerous and unpredictable. They are role playing. They'll be whatever you want, within reason, for a price,” I said, knowing a little something about hustlers.

“Few impress me as being anything other than what they are, hustlers,” Carlton said, looking at his hands. “I'm always hoping to meet someone who doesn't act like a hustler, but this is the first time I've accomplished that. I know, you aren't a hustler.”

“No, I'm not,” I said.

Carlton looked at me. He seemed to be trying to find something.

“As soon as I saw you, I knew you weren't hustling, and I knew you were probably a cut above the men I usually meet there, and when I do meet someone, it's a quick meal, and I can't wait to get them out of my car. I remind myself it's an expensive way to come by dinner partners. I pay them to eat, and they act like....”

“Butt-heads,” I said.

“And they were having such a delightful time,” I said.

Carlton smiled.

“Exactly. An hour with a butt-head is plenty,” he said. “I do keep going back for more. Maybe I'm a slow learner.”

“You're a man who craves the company of another man. You go the only place you know to go to find someone,” I said.

“I know there's a sexual component to what I do, but I've never acted on that part” Carlton said.

“From fear, no doubt,” I said, knowing why I didn't acted on my feelings..

 “I take things literally?” I asked. “I'm naive, because of how I was raised. I have little to go on but instincts that taught me how to protect myself. I am like I am because I don't know anything about people, except I should be careful around them, and I'm sure that has to do with my attraction to men. You have an attraction to me. You mean you've never had a sexual liaison with another guy?”

“You do know, it's easier when we talk about you,” Carlton said.

“No, I didn't realize that,” I said. “You pick up hustlers, but you don't act on your sexual instincts?”

Carlton smiled.

“I keep hoping to find a nice likeable boy,” he said.  

“You mentioned that, I think,” I said.

Chapter 6

“I'm not very bright, when it comes to figuring out what to do, if I don't follow the leads of the people I'm with. There aren't many people I want to be with,” I said. “If you don't do this very often, I don't do this at all. You are looking for something you aren't going to find on 42nd Street,” I said. “Even I know that.”

“Until tonight, I'd have said you're right, but it's no longer true. You're living proof.”

“Except I'm not a hustler. You don't know how unusual it was for me to even walk over to your car. Until tonight, getting into a strange man's car would have been out of the question.”

“But you got into my car, and I found you on 42nd Street,” he said.

“You've got me there,” I said.

“Picking up young men twenty years my junior isn't that good an idea, but there are few other ways for me to come into contact with men who would like to go out with me. There is a limited supply of available young men who are going to go out with a man like me, on short notice.”

“A man like you, with a wife and two daughters,” I said. “A man of color. A Filipino man.”

“Exactly. So you see why I need to be discrete,” he said.

“But Frank knows you have a family. He's sure I'm not your son. How could he not know what's going on, Carlton?”

“A proprietor of a business that services the needs of his clients, doesn't want to know what you are doing with the person you bring to dinner. He wants to do all within his power to keep me coming back.”

“That makes sense, but there are people who know that you like men, in spite of your wife and daughters.”

“That is the risk I take. I like the company of men, even when it's obviously a charade. I'm not really with the guys I bring here, but we play the game as if there is meaning to it all,” he said, folding his hands in front of him, as if it made perfect sense to him..

“While we're being so honest with each other, I wasn't completely truthful, when I said there was nothing else I wanted to do. I wanted to play baseball,” he confessed.

“You wanted to play for the Yankees,” I said.

“No, I wanted to play professional baseball. That dream died when I was seventeen. A lot of things took place, when I was seventeen. Things that assured I'd work for my father, and eventually, become the man you see before you now.”

“What happened to baseball?” I asked.

“It's a long story, Rick, a very long story.”

“Where's your bus going?” I asked.

“What bus?” Carlton asked, and a light came on in his eyes. “I can see I need to be  careful with what I say to you. You turned what I said back on me. Very clever. You're an unusual young man.” 

“Would I do that?” I asked, smiling.

“You just did. I'll make you a deal. I'll tell you what happened to baseball, and then, you'll tell me how it is you came to be the pleasant, quick-witted young man I see before me,” he said. “You're like no one I've met before.”

“As you wish, Carlton. You go first. I'll bring up the rear.”

“I've never told anyone about this episode. I hardly think about it anymore. It almost seems like it didn't happen to me, but it did happen. Like I said, I was seventeen,” he said, losing momentum.

“It involved your desire to play baseball,” I said.

“That, and another desire I’ve spent some time trying to deny. There was a teammate I was close to. We started playing baseball together at about thirteen or fourteen, in middle school. We were always the best hitters on whatever team we joined,” he said, seeming to picture it.

“Once we reached high school, Chase and I played all our high school games in the outfield. Even as sophomores, we were better hitters than the older boys on the team. He became the starting center-fielder. I was the starting left fielder.”   

Once again, Carlton lost his momentum.

I said nothing. I watched Carlton processing his memories.

“It actually started when I was 12. That was the year my mother died. I went out for baseball to help me deal with my grief.”

As I listened to Carlton, I noticed Frank approaching the table. He carried a bottle of wine. He opened it and he poured a tiny bit in Carlton's wine glass. Carlton picked it up, swished it around, smelled it, and he drank it down.

“Delightful, Frank. That's the wine I want.”

Frank poured Carlton's wine glass two thirds full, and he took my glass and poured me wine before I had a chance to stop him. I rarely drank. If I did drink, I had a bottle of beer. The wine of American rednecks.

I said nothing. Carlton took a few sips of the white wine. He had a far away look in his eyes, and the wine ceremony didn't bring him completely back to Evelyn's dining room.

“Chase and I were... well, we were close. Even at thirteen, we stuck together. We'd gone to a party a girl at school gave. On the way home, Chase said he had to pee, and we stepped into an alley. He started talking about how stiff his dick was. It made my face turn hot and I got an erection, as he peed. 'You must need to pee. You had more punch than I did. Don't be bashful.' I got my dick out and he sees that I'm as erect as he is, and he said, 'Feel mine, and I'll feel yours.' I was stunned by the suggestion. I wanted to say that, but I was too big a chicken to take that risk.

Then, there we are, giving each other a hand job. I lasted about forty seconds, but he kept me pumping on his for quite a while. He'd gotten me off, and I had to get him off. Believe me when I say, I didn't mind at all.”

“I could see the confusion in his eyes. It was obviously traumatic. I was 12 when it happened to me. We have that in common. I was born the year I turned 12, and you lost your mother that year. Both our lives were forever changed,” I said.

I could see it. It was like the last ten years didn't exist, as I felt a twinge of sorrow. I was on the edge of panic, when I steady myself.

“You were kids. Some kids go through that phase,” I said. “I believe some boys are far more sexual than other boys. It's difficult to do what society says to do, abstain, while your hormones rage.”

Carlton was staring at my face.

“I believe that's true. Chase was way more... willing to interact that way than I ever was. Had we not walked into that alley together, well..., I might not have realized I liked a boy that way.” Carlton said. “You believe that one, and I got a bridge over in Brooklyn I'll make you a real deal on,” I said without humor in my voice.

He laughed.

“You see right through me, don't you. It was no phase for me, Rick. Believe me when I say, I was addicted to Chase. He knew every spot in and around the baseball fields to have enough privacy to get our hands on each other. I can't believe I'm telling someone this. I was horrified someone might find out. Chase, not so much. He was always ready.”

Carlton stopped talking. Our food had arrived.

I was still hungry, but I wanted to hear the rest of the story.

The plate could hardly contain the turkey, dressing, and mashed potatoes. The gravy dripped over everything on the plate. There were dishes for the two casseroles, rice, peas, and cranberry sauce. I couldn't wait to dig in.

Carlton's plate was sizzling. The thick piece of fish had been grilled to a careful tan color. A bowl of rice and a crisp salad were put in front of him. The waiter retreated, and we went to work on the food. 

Evelyn's was without question the top of the line as restaurants went. We arrived before eight, I don't know how much before, but before nine, the restaurant was nearly full. I figured on a week night, even Thanksgiving eve, the well-to-do took their time.

Carlton had a bit of a ritual, he'd take a bite of his fish, some rice, he'd dab the linen napkin on his lips, sip some water, then he'd take a sip of wine. He'd then take a bite of salad, chewing carefully, and then he took a bite of fish, and so on.

I don't usually notice how people eat, because I'm pretty busy eating myself. In DC, Big Mike took me to the Astor from time to time. It's where I ate my first lobster tail, and the mainly Greek menu gave me samples of flavors I'd never experienced before.

I was from a lower middle class family. We weren't poor, because we always had food. It might be bean soup a few times a week, and grilled cheese sandwiches with the bean soup, when times were better. We always had a roast, or chicken, on Sunday, and bean soup Friday nights.

While we weren't poor, and there was always food, my parents were always there, at six o'clock every night, and at two on Sunday afternoon. If my parents were there, my brother and I were going to be yelled at. My brother was three years older than I was, so he'd been yelled at for a lot longer than I had. If we knew what was good for us.

The one and only time we came together each day, and this took careful planning on my part, was at the dinner table. The sun could explode, the oceans could flood the land, but we better have our asses at the table at six o'clock each evening.

Sitting in Evelyn's with a sumptuous meal in front of me, the last thing I wanted to do was remember my childhood experiences at dinner. I dug in. I was soon lost in a flood of exceptional flavors.

Over the years, the yelling, the beatings, the constant and unrelenting anger, had me working overtime to figure out ways to avoid the inevitable. When I tried something new one night, I was 8, maybe 9. My plate was filled and handed to me. I said, 'Thank you,” as was required. 

I sat next to my mother. My brother sat next to my father, and if my mother became perturbed by something I said, or didn't say, I'd get a quick backhand in the chops. She used the hand with her wedding ring on it. It had a raised tiny diamond, and it hurt like hell.

I'd tried to argue a point or two over my short lifespan. It was 'back sassing,' according to my mother, and I got that wedding ring in the mouth. I rarely said anything at the table anymore. What I did say was, “May I be excused?” As soon as I emptied my plate.

I was always excused.

One day I figured I'd gobble my food straight down, ask to be excused, while the rest of them were just getting started, and see what happened. After two minutes of shoveling in the food, I asked, 'May I be excused?” I was excused. It worked.

How I didn't have ulcers or some kind of stomach problems, I don't know, but every night I gobbled my food straight down, and I got excused from the nightly inquisition. If they had something to yell at me about, they had to get straight to it, before I was gone.

“Where'd you go?” Carlton asked. “Your food is getting cold.”

“Oh,” I said. “It was a little hot. I'm fine,” I reassured him, trying to stop doing, what it was I was doing.

“The food isn't to your liking?” He asked.

“It's wonderful. It's my favorite meal.”

“Where'd you go, really?” Carlton asked,sensing a change in me.

I took careful control of my fork, after being ready to gobble my food in front of Carlton. I caught myself in time. Why was I thinking about that stuff? I never thought about my childhood.

“I said your name twice,” he said. “You were totally spaced out.”

“I was just thinking,” I said.

“You aren't uncomfortable with me, I hope,” he said.

“Oh, no. You've been a perfect gentlemen. I was just thinking.”

He continued his routine. A bite of fish, a bite of rice, the napkin to his lips. A little water, a little wine, and a bite of salad, before he went back to his fish. He had impeccable manors. I was a slob compared to Carlton. I took my time and I not to gross him out.

I focused on the meal in front of me, pushing my past aside. No one wanted to hear my tale of woe, but at 8, I became a food gobbler. Why it never earned me a pop in the chops, I'll never know. My parents seemed to lose track of their grievances once I left the table. It was so simple, Why hadn't I thought of it before?

I cut some turkey, dipped it in gravy, and I savored the flavor. It was all delicious, and I was hungry. I took food from every dish that sat in front of me. I couldn't possibly eat it all, and I wasn't trying to empty my plate.

Why had my past picked now to ambush me?

I'd been starving, and in short order, I wasn't. There was nothing I wanted to turn my nose up at. 

“Would you like anything else?” Carlton asked.

“A glass of milk,” I said. “I bet they don't even have milk.”

“Of course they do, my daughters eat here and they drink milk,” Carlton said, leaning back in his chair to signal the waiter.

In short order, there was a glass of milk delivered to me, and I drank half of it immediately. It was pleasing to feel it slide into my stomach. I didn't have ulcers, and I didn't know why I didn't, but milk soothed my stomach, while eating a big meal. I made a point of slowing the pace of my shoveling, so I enjoyed so many unique flavors.

I didn't touch my wine. Carlton didn't ask me about it. He did nothing to alert me to any possible flaw in his makeup. I had more flaws that you could shake a stick at, but I could keep them hidden for short periods. I could eat my dinner like a gentlemen, even if the gentlemen had a fast fork. I didn't want any of it getting away.

If the pace of my eating worried Carlton, he didn't mention it. When I'd had enough, half his fish was still on his plate, as he went through the same motions, over and over. He had perfect posture, and his clothes fit him like a snug glove fits your hand.

Just before nine, the soft and mellow music, went off, and a live trio began playing on the opposite side of the restaurant. Carlton looked that way, smiled, and he went back to his fish.

“We have apple, pumpkin, and, a superb mincemeat, pies. Six flavors of ice cream, Black Forest Cake, or a sumptuous rice pudding,” the waiter told us.

“I couldn't eat another bite,” I said.

“We'll, pass, Raymond. Thank you,” Carlton said. “What did you think?”

“I had to stop myself. I'd make myself sick if I ate anymore, but it was some of the best food I've ever had. It was all very good,” I said.

Carlton smiled as if he'd had some hand in it, and he had, he'd brought me to Evelyn's, and it was a meal I'd remember.

The next time the waiter passed, he brought the check, Carlton signed his signature on the document, and the waiter smiled, thanking him, and we exited the restaurant by taking the long way around. After reaching the trio, Carlton stopped to listen.

As soon as Mr. Calderone reached the front entrance, Jeffrey went into action, jogging toward the side of the restaurant. In no time he was parking Carlton's car at the front door.

When Jeffrey jumped out, a bill was passed into his white gloved hand, I didn't see the amount, but Jeffrey bid us a pleasant evening, and he told us to come back soon.

“I'm glad you enjoyed it,” Carlton said.

“It's the nicest restaurant I've ever been in,” I said.

Carlton smiled, but it had a dozen questions hidden in it.

“Do you eat out much?” He asked.

“Yes, I'm out a lot. I drive a lot, but fine dining for me is Sidley's hamburger joint, on Marlboro Pike, a mile from the DC line,” I said.

Carlton didn't speak. Traffic had picked up, but we were deeper in the city now. I'd lost track of how we got where we were.

“What happened to Chase,” I asked.

He didn't speak for a while.

He finally said, “I don't know. Went away to college. I stayed in town. I went to New York University. I took business.”

“As was the plan,” I said.

“As was the plan,” he said. “As I said, Chase and I were making the most of what we did for each other. In our senior year, about the time baseball season was ending, and we were about to graduate, Chase started going with Marsha Whitfield. She was giving him head, and it's all he could talk about. I was jealous. I didn't want to hear about Marsha Whitfield.”

“I can imagine. You really liked Chase,” I said.

“I'm sure I was in love with him. He was getting hand jobs, and I was making love to him, while he did. Marsha put a crimp in our plans. We were going to go to the same college. We were going to continue to play ball together.”

“But that's not what happened,” I calculated.

“No, it isn't. Chase began asking me to give him head. I was holding out for him to return the favor, but he said, “I'm not a queer.” 

“Not cool,” I said. “What did he think he was doing with you all that time.” 

“Not cool,” Carlton said. “But after a while, I decided I wanted to do it for him. Maybe he'd rather me do it for him, but I wasn't doing it in public. Hand jobs could be covered up fairly fast. A guy on his knees in front of another guy is more difficult to disguise.”

“What happened?” I asked.

“I figured we'd go home and do it in my bed. I had a fantasy about getting Chase in my bed. If I told him I was going to give him what he asked for, he'd go for doing it in my bedroom, and my father never came home from work until after dark. Shandra, our maid, left the apartment about the time I got home from school. She cleans house and cooks for us, since my mother passed. So, baseball had ended, and we head for my house after last period. Chase is anxious to get to it. He had an erection that he kept rubbing. He didn't know I noticed, but I noticed everything about him. He had this incredibly exciting smell,” Carlton said.

“You were in love,” I said.

Carlton smiled.

“I was. I was about to get the man of my dreams into my bed. Once we got into the apartment, we went straight to my room, after we stopped in the kitchen for Cokes. We argued about where to do the deed. I favor the bed. He favors standing up with me kneeling in front of him. The argument didn't last long. We did it his way, of course. He pushed his pants down below his knees. He was always ready. I felt like I could eat him alive,” Carlton said.

“I was always all in for Chase. Now I was about to put him in my mouth. It was so incredibly erotic. Even his sneer made it hotter. I was servicing my man. He got his hands on the back of my head. I don't know what he thought he was doing, but he pushed for all he was worth, and he pushed himself across my teeth. I know that had to hurt, but it didn't slow him down any. I was just trying to survive. I couldn't breathe, and he kept pushing, pushing, and then, out of character for him, he began to unload. It was in my throat, and I had to figure out what to do with it as he pumped out his jizz. It was all over in a couple of minutes. I was the one with the quick trigger. Chase could lean back and he'd keep telling me, 'Faster. Do it harder.” He didn't say anything that day, and I was impaled on his erection, until it started to soften.”

“Sounds hot,” I said, not enjoying rough sex myself.

“It might have been, if my father wasn't standing in the doorway of my room. He had to travel to Chicago. He came home to pack. He heard us in my bedroom. He came in to tell me he'd be gone for three days. Calderone Industries was merging with a smaller company in Chicago. He was going to meet the men who ran Western Computing.”

“Bummer,” I said. “What happened?”

“Chase was horrified. I was apologetic. He pulled up his pants and left. I wiped my mouth off before getting up to face my father. It was time to face the music for my mortal sin,” Carlton said.

“That's a bit much, isn't it. You gave a guy a blow job, you didn't kill anyone,” I foolishly said.

“My father was a hardcore church going Catholic. There was no greater sin than for a man to lie with another man as a man would lie with a woman,” he said. “It's fundamental Catholicism. It has been made into one of the worst sins you can commit.”

“The way this society views sex, it's a wonder anyone gets born,” I said. “We have a sex drive that leads us to having sex. No matter what form the sex takes, bible thumpers are going to condemn it. The human body isn't dirty. Seeing it doesn't make you go blind.”

“All true, but to a dyed in the wool Catholic, it's all true, no matter how cockeyed it is. I knew this when I took Chase home. I was playing with fire, and I got my ass burned up.”

“That sounds serious,” I said.

“I thought he was going to kill me,” Carlton said.

“Come on,” I said. “You're exaggerating.”

“My father never hit me, while I was growing up, until that day.”

“You don't know what you missed. I got beat every day,” I said.

“That deserves its own time, but my father got out his father's cane, and he had me bend over my bed, after I took off my clothes. He began beating me, and I didn't think he'd stop. Some time before he left, I collapsed on the floor. I don't know how long I laid there, but it was dark when I woke up. I couldn't move. I was bruised from my feet to the top of my head. He literally beat the shit out of me.”

“What happened after that?” I asked.

“Nothing. It was never mentioned again. Oh, I knew every time he looked at me, he saw me on my knees with me taking care of Chase. I had no idea he was there. I only knew where Chase was.

The smell of him was so completely erotic. I got drunk on hearing the sounds he made. The slight undulation of his hips. His powerful hands on my face. Those hands that held the bat that struck like lightning at a baseball. We were both lost in the most incredible thing we'd even shared. It was our best and last moment together.”

I had no illusions about that. My father told me that I would no longer play baseball. I would enroll in New York University, and I'd take business courses, while working at Calderone Industries. There was no time for any fooling around,” Carlton said.

“What happened to Chase?” I asked.

“I don't know. He went away to college. We never talked again. I  mean if he saw me coming, he went the other way. What I thought could bring us closer together, had driven us completely apart. I had to live with that, until my father died, and then it was over.”

“That's harsh. There were no more guys like Chase?” I asked.

“No. I met my wife at school and we married the year I graduated from New York University. A year later we had our first daughter, and a year after that we had my second daughter.”

“Did she know about what happened?” I asked. “You and Chase.”

“Yes, I told her. I knew I liked men. Sex with her was more like work than what it should be like. I really became devoted to my work. We slept in different bedrooms, and we raised our daughters. I run Calderone Industries. It's not a bad life.”

“But you need to go to 42nd Street, from time to time,” I said.

“I do,” he said. “It's never sexual. It's almost not social. I keep hoping.”

“I'm sorry how it turned out for you. People deserve to be happy, Carlton. Why people who have power want to make it as tough as they can on people who have none, is a mystery to me. They should all go to hell, so we can find a way to enjoy this life,” I said.

“You are enjoying your life?” Carlton asked.

“I'm young. I'll find my way. I'm still learning,” I said. 

Chapter 7

After leaving Evelyn's and some of the best food I'd eaten, I got the rest of Carlton's story. While I couldn't have gone down the road he went down, but I could see how he was where he was.

“I was a queer for Chase, but if I am queer, it began and ended with him. I've never been with anyone the way I was with him.”

“It takes two to tango,” I said. “He took every step with you. He may have outgrown his desire for boys, but he knew he liked what you two did together, every bit as much as you did, and you can bet he knows it, too.”

“You think so?”

“I'm sure of it. Guys like him are selfish pricks. If you do what they want, the way they want you to, they'll play along, like they're playing along, but let someone question their manliness, and they'll become the most homophobic assholes around. They had nothing to do with what you were doing. Their dicks just happened to be there, while they weren't paying attention. They'll throw you under the bus, and go into a tizzy if someone catches them at it. They believe, if they point at you and say that you did it, no one will notice their part in it.”

Carlton laughed.

“You've been through this?” he asked. “Someone saying they aren't doing what they're doing.”

“Guys want what they want, Carlton. Some can't face the fact they enjoy having a boy take care of their needs. No matter what they're doing with other boys, they'll claim they didn't do it. You did it all, except they keep coming back for more.”

“I still think of Chase now and then,” he said.

“You were young, horny, and available. In spite of what we are told about sex, and not having it, there is far more sex going on than anyone is willing to own up to. Our ancestors were Puritans, and ain't nobody that pure,” I said.

Carlton laughed.

“There was an old biddy in every town, way back when, who counted the days between when a couple was married and when the first child was born. You might wonder, why would someone waste their time keeping track of such a thing, and the answer is, to bring the wrath of God down on any couple whose child was born early, and if the birth came early, the child was a bastard, and he was shamed if he failed to take the proper time to get born. These people are as evil as those God fearing folk that burned those witches. You can bet, any women accused of witchcraft was sleeping with the accusers husband,” I said. “Some people live to humiliate other people. It's a sad and destructive thing they do.”

“I know how destructive humiliation can be. It all but destroyed me, knowing what my father thought of me. I knew why he did what he did, but it didn't make how it made me feel any easier.”

“No, humiliation is about the worst thing you can do to someone,” I said. “There's no way to undo it, once it's done.”

“Do I hear the voice of experience speaking,” Carlton said.

“It isn't worth going into. That part of my life is over, but you could say, I have some experience with being humiliated.”

“I feel better telling someone about Chase. I've kept that secret for a long time. I feel better for telling someone who has some understanding of my experience. You've given this a lot of thought.” 

“I understand your feelings because I'm gay. In that respect, we are similar. Did you go to Catholic school?” I asked.

“No, my father thought about  it, because it would have protected me, but it would have limited me. I was the one to be soaked in the American culture. I'd learn the language, and I'd explain the system to my father. In Catholic school, I would have received a very different education. I wouldn't have met Chase at all. I probably wouldn't have played ball.”

“A game you loved playing,” I said.

“It's as American as apple pie,” he said. “My life wasn't easy for the first few years. I was a foreigner, a colored boy, a different sort of kid from the majority of kids in public school. Then, Mama died, and my aunt talked me into going out for baseball that year. I was good at it, and she stayed with us, after Mama died,” Carlton said.

“She kept house and cooked, trying to keep some normalcy in a house with two men in it. After I made the team, she came to my games. When I got a hit, or drove in a run, I could hear her calling my name. I loved baseball,” he said, pensively.

That said, we have two options. I can take you back to where I found you, or we can go to my place, and wait for your friend to call. It would be a lot more comfortable at my place, and you are safe. I asked you to dinner, and we went to dinner. Now, I'm asking you to come up to my place, to wait for your friend's call, and nothing but wait for your friend's call, and talk, and you can tell me your story.”

“Your place sounds fine to me,” I said, trusting Carlton, though I didn't know why I would trust a total stranger, just because he took me to dinner, but I did trust him. Trust wasn't my best thing. 

My ears popped as the elevator soared into the heights of New York City. We went from the lobby to the 37th floor in about five seconds. There was a rush, when the elevator took off, and a sudden stop, once we reached Carlton's floor.

His apartment was half way down on the left side of the hallway. When he opened the door, I could see buildings for as far as I could see. The windows straight ahead of us, gave me a view of New York City that took my breath away.

I couldn't imagine living so high off the ground. I walked to the windows and I looked down first, which was a rush, and then I looked beyond the beyond. I had never been so high, anywhere that had a hundred buildings that went as high as we were, or higher.

“Look for the last building you see on the skyline,” Carlton said. “Over to the right. See the blackness beyond there?”

“Yes, everything seems to stop there,” I said.

“That's the Atlantic Ocean. Some nights you can see the big boats coming into the Hudson River. I have a telescope in the other room. It offers a closeup view of whatever you want to see,” he said.

We walked to the right, where there was a sitting room. There was a television, stereo, and some dolls, seated on a sofa.

“There's nothing moving right now, but you can get a closeup of the last building on the horizon. You can see some stars, but the city lights make what's in the sky hard to see.”

I looked through the telescope, but I preferred the view I got with the naked eye. I'd never seen so much packed into such a small space. I'd lived my life with my feet firmly planted on terra firma. It was almost impossible to take it all in.

“Soda?” Carlton asked.

“Root beer?” I asked.

“Dr. Pepper,” he said.

“Coke?”

“Coke it is,” he said, leaving me in the living room.

I sat on the sofa, closest to the windows. I was captivated by New York's skyline.

Carlton handed me a bottle of Coke. He held a bottle of beer. I didn't recognize it. He assumed I didn't drink, because I didn't drink the wine, and I'd need to drive later, so I wouldn't drink anything alcoholic.

“Your turn,” he said, seated in a recliner facing where I sat. “You've given me some interesting hints. How'd you get here?”

“As I said, it's a long story. It isn't pretty. It's so not pretty, I don't like thinking about it. I left it behind me.”

“Give me the short version. You'll feel better, after you talk about it. I feel better, after talking about Chase,” he said. “I've held that inside me for most of my life.”

“For most of my life, isn't as long as for most of yours. The short version is, I was a bed-wetter. My brother and I both wet the bed. We weren't the occasional, once in a while bed-wetter, we wet the bed every night. My parents decided we were doing it to spite them. So we caught hell for every day of our lives. It was talked about in front of family and friends. A day didn't go by, when we weren't taken to task for wetting the bed the night before,” I said, drinking some Coke.

“They thought you did it on purpose? Why would they think that?” Carlton asked. “Who in the world would wet themselves on purpose. It makes no sense.”

“When you're a kid, and your parents tell you something, you're going to believe it. I didn't know why I wet the bed. If my brother knew why, he was keeping it to himself. Every morning, before my father went to work, he came to our room to check to see if we were wet. We always were, and he'd proceed to yank us out of bed, beat us, strip us naked, and make us stand in front of the toilet to 'Make water.' I rarely had to pee, I'd already peed the bed.”

“That's crazy,” Carlton blurted.

“Once he changed the sheets, put us in fresh pajamas, we were put back in bed,” I said. “It wasn't daylight yet. Being yanked out of bed, while still sleeping, did disturb me for a time.”

“It doesn't make any sense. Didn't they know there is a biological component in boys, that keeps them from waking up, when they've got to pee in the middle of the night?”

“I don't know what they knew, and they saw no reason to discuss it with me. They called us bad, lazy, and defiant. I knew that meant I was pretty hopeless, because I didn't know what it meant, except I was pretty bad. Each evening, at the dinner table, we were read the riot act. That I could depend on.”

“That's insane. How could they treat their kids that way? If I raised my voice to one of my girls, my wife would take a skillet to my head. If I ever touched one of them in anger, she'd send me flying out  over the balcony to allow me to think about it for all thirty-seven floors,” Carlton said. “You don't beat children if you want them to grow up to be happy adults.”

“You don't beat children,” I said.

Carlton leaned forward, placing his hands on his knees.

“By the time I was seven or eight, I began developing ways of avoiding the constant yelling and punishment. I learned how to disappear inside myself. I was there, but I wasn't there. Since the scene kept repeating itself, over and over again, I knew the script. I could disappear inside. When I heard certain words, I knew it was over, and I came back. It's how I avoided punishment. At night, when I was yanked from my bed,” I said.

And Carlton found himself outraged.

“Didn't they know how damaging that is, yanking a sleeping child out of bed,” he said, with no understanding for what I was describing.

“I didn't wake up. I'd be standing there, taking the punishment, but I was sleeping. I responded when he told me what to do, and I slept while standing in front of the toilet, and I was asleep when he tossed me back in bed. I simply didn't wake up any longer, and so my brother got it, and I escaped it.”

“I don't want to hear anymore. That makes me sick, Rick. How could your parents treat their children that way?” He asked.

“They believed we did it on purpose. When our childhood comes up, my mother still insists we wet the bed on purpose, and they were duty bound to force us to obey them, because you can't allow children to be defiant, after they told us to stop wetting the bed,” I said.

“That's crazy,” Carlton said. “Even crazy people learn something can't be true, after it repeats itself so often. They should have figured out they were wrong, and it wasn't defiance, but biology causing it.”

“One would think. Anyway, that's how I got into the 8th grade without knowing how to read,” I said. “While disappearing inside myself was a nifty trick at the house, it wasn't so cool at school. I could slip right into escaping a boring classroom as fast as you could say, 'Jack Robinson,'” I said.

“How did the teachers handle that?” He asked.

“'Charles could do better, if he paid attention in class,'” I said.

“Charles?” Carlton asked.

“I'm Charles Richard. I got Rick from the movie Casablanca. At some point in the movie, Humphrey Bogart signs someone's chit, and the camera shows him signing Richard Blaine. His club was Rick's, and after that, when I met someone new, I was Rick.”

“One of my favorite movies,” Carlton said.

“The movie was made in ten days. They only had ten days, because Bogart was due to begin making, The Maltese Falcon. The movie that made Bogart a star. Whether or not his becoming a star made Casablanca a block buster hit, no one can be sure, but everything Bogart touched, turned to gold, once he made The Maltese Falcon.”

“Rick suits you,” Carlton said.

“I thought so, too,” I said. “It was a name I picked for myself. It was the start of me having an identity of my own.”

“You were going to tell me the story behind how it was you learned to read, and to find a way you could make it in a world you were ill-prepared to face,” Carlton said. “I don't want to hear anymore about your parents. I want to hear about what happened to create the young man I'm so smitten with. You are no ordinary, young man.”

“As I said, mostly I put one foot in front of the other. What was created..., or what was destroyed, by the childhood, which was no childhood at all, that I had, I can't say. I am what I am. I've gotten here on my own. With the help of Tommy, and a couple of teachers, and blind dumb luck. Here I am.”

“If I'd been treated the way you were treated, I wouldn't be able to sit up and take nourishment,” Carlton said. “I can't imagine anyone surviving what you've endured.”

“I'm not saying, I had the worst childhood ever. I know there are far meaner, far more violent, and malevolent parents than mine. Some children don't live through it. For some reason, I did. My parents were in charge. Whatever they dished out, I endured. Somehow, I grew up. The simple truth is, I was born the year I turned 12. The only reason I'm alive, is because of one friend and two very innovative teachers, who saved my life. It's the only reason I'm here.” 

Carlton sat on the edge of his chair, watching my face. I sipped from my Coke. The apartment was silent, and the city stretched out as far as my eyes could see. I began to move back in time, to an event that seemed illogical, not to mention impossible. My fear was, I'd end up a vegetable, or worse. I feared I'd become my parents.

I was born at 12, but someone was laying the groundwork for my birth, in sixth grade. Mrs. Foster, a woman with purple hair, was my sixth grade teacher. When she learned that I wasn't following along in the text book, she moved my chair to in front of her desk.

Before 6th grade, I always took the last seat in the last row of a classroom, on the first day of class. Usually, the seating arrangement was put on paper, after the students all took their seats. If there were any talkers, they were quickly separated, as for kids not paying attention, that was where I fit in, and it didn't seem to be covered.

I could sit in the rear of the classroom, look outside, and slowly drift away. I was alert to my name, and I was alert to the bell. Nothing else mattered much in elementary school, until Mrs. Foster broke with the past.

Teachers had two reactions to me, they did their best to get me to participate in classroom lessons for maybe a week or two, and once I didn't respond, they gave up. A few teachers simply did what they did and ignored me. If I weren't interested, they weren't.

Mrs. Foster didn't lecture me. She didn't try to get me to stay up with the class.  Mostly, she spent a lot of time turning the pages in the textbook in front of me. I was never on the right page, and she thought if she got me on the right page, one day I might catch on, but I didn't.

On the last day of school, Mrs. Foster asked me to stay after class, which I did. It was the last day of school, and I couldn't wait to get free of the place. I had a few surprises coming.

“Next year, Charles, you'll be going to junior high school. It will be a lot different. You'll have a lot of teachers, and a lot of classes. If you listen, and do what you're told, you'll be OK,” she said, as if this were important to her. “You can go now.”

What she was actually telling me, I was graduating from elementary school with the other kids. I'd been passed along every year, to the next year, and the year after that. I was waiting to be failed by one teacher or another, but I hadn't been failed yet. I was sure I wouldn't be able to cut it in junior high school. Once I failed, I didn't know what came next. Teachers knew I was stupid, but they didn't know what to do about it.

A week after graduating from elementary school, I left the house one morning just before nine. I had my summer laid out in front of me. I was going to do the one thing that I was good at, roam. There were construction sites galore in the growing communities that were spreading out from the DC line, a mile away.

I went straight up Iverson St., heading for the strip mall and new housing projects abounded. When I got to my elementary school, the one I no longer attended, there was a sign over top of the front doors:

Open House 

What was an open house? My curiosity got the best of me, and I did something I'd never done before, I went to school when I didn't have to be there. I opened the unlocked front door, went down the empty hallway, following the signs to the open house, which took me to the auditorium.

There was no hint that fate awaited me just inside that door. I didn't have a clue that destiny was about to meet me. I didn't know what those words meant, and if I did, they'd mean nothing to me.

I swung the door open and there was bedlam inside. A dozen people were engaged in putting booths together. As I stepped inside, there was Vacation Bible School, Arts & Crafts, Camp Fire Girls, and almost a dozen things any halfway normal child would want to do.

Anything to do with being around other people, even other kids, was something I had no interest in. I turned around and was about to make my getaway, when a little man in a charcoal gray suit said, 'Sink the ball and win a prize.'

He was stationed just inside the double doors, and off to the left about five feet. The man held what I recognized as a putter. I'd seen Arnold Palmer employing one on the Wide World of Sports.

The man held out the club and said, 'Sink the ball. Win a prize.'

The man was an adult. He had spoken to me. I knew better than to ignore any adult who spoke to me. I was duty bound to respond to him, if I knew what was good for me, and I did, so I walked over.

“Here, I'll show you,” he said, leaning to place his one golf ball on a little rubber tee.

I'd seen miniature golf courses spring up around the area. His, was a single golf hole. It was made of artificial grass and ran for maybe twelve feet. There was a four inch rise, and the top spread out, impersonating a green on a golf course. The top was maybe six feet by six feet, and the hole was set perfectly in the center.

I was standing next to the man, as we looked down at the tee and the golf ball. He spoke to me, but he shouldn't have wasted his time. I watched but I didn't listen, and he swung the club back, gave the ball a good tap, and the ball ran the twelve feet, until it ran up the four inch rise, and it rolled right up to the lip of the cup and stopped.

“Here,” he said, handing me the putter.

He walked after the ball, brought it back, placing it on the tee.

“Sink the ball and win a prize,” he said.

I drew the club back and whack, I gave that sucker a good swat. The ball took off like a shot, and so did the man in the charcoal gray suit. As the ball struck the wall behind the hole, it careened into the middle of the auditorium, with the man in pursuit. As the little ball was about to disappear under the under construction booths, the man went into a slide. Just as the ball was about to disappear, he intercepted it.

Pretty nifty slide, I thought. Now, he's going to come back to tell me what a dope I was for running him all over the auditorium. I knew the routine. He'd yell for a few minutes, and then he'd tell me to take a hike, which is what I was doing, in the first place.

I braced myself as the man came toward me, brushing the dust off his pants from that most excellent slide he made to get the ball.

He wasn't yelling.

I opened my eyes. He was placing the ball back on the tee. He didn't look the least bit perturbed by being run all over the auditorium. He brushed his pants some more.

“Give me the putter,” he said. “I'm going to show you again. I want you to watch me closely, and listen to what I'm saying. You don't need to hit it very far. It's only fourteen feet to the cup. You simply need to tap it. Now, I want you to watch me,” he said.

He may as well have been talking to the man in the moon. I was paying about as much attention as he was, but this wasn't just an ordinary man, and he recognized something he'd seen before.

“Are you paying attention?” He asked.

“Sure,” I said, oblivious.

This man was about to separate himself from everyone else I'd encountered. He had some idea of what to do with a boy who had no talent for anything but doing the wrong thing. He'd seen that vacant look before.

He took my arm in his powerful hand.

He was strong for a small man.

He shook me lightly.

“I want you to pay attention,” he said.

He shook me again.

“Are you paying attention?” He asked.

I was and I said so. I actually understood what he was telling me to do.

“Now, watch,” he said. “I measure the distance to the cup with my eyes. I look back at the ball, at the cup, back to the ball, and I tap the ball. It's not necessary to hit it hard.”

He struck the ball, and it rolled the twelve feet to the rise, ran up the rise, and the ball rolled to a stop a single turn from dropping in the cup.

“Now, you do it,” he said, handing me the club, before he went to retrieve the ball.

Not only had I watched, but when I looked down at the golf ball, I saw him doing the same thing in my mind. I discovered a taping system in my brain. I not only saw him getting ready to hit the ball, and I watched him hit it, and I saw the ball roll up to the cup.

Then, I realized that he hadn't quite hit it hard enough. No I wasn't going to draw back and smack that sucker again, but I would apply a tiny bit more force to my swing, and that's what I did.

The ball ran down the twelve feet of fake green grass, hit the rise, went up, and it rolled right up to the cup, and it dropped in. Plop.

“You did it,” he yelled. “You got a hole in one. You win a prize.”

Not only did he get excited, he jumped up and down, patted my back, and continued telling me what a fine job I'd done.

“You can go over to the table and pick a prize,” he said. “You did it. You win a prize.”

I'd rarely seen anyone get so excited over anything. I had no idea what it was, but I knew immediately, I liked it. Whatever was going on, I wanted more of the same.

I picked a prize that was like things you might find in the kitchen drawer. I didn't care about the prize. What I wanted was for him to get excited by what I did.

“Can I play again?” I asked.

There was no way he knew what a mistake it was to tell me, 'You can putt as often as you like, but if someone else comes in and wants to try, you'll need to let them try.”

Sounded like a deal to me.

As I went back to putt the ball again, I noticed that by thinking about what the man showed me, I could once again see it clearly in my mind. The way he looked at the ball, the hole, the ball, and then tapped the ball. By tapping it a slight bit harder than he did, the ball ran up, up, up, onto the second level, rolling up to the cup, and plop.

This time he danced a little dance, patted my back, told me I'd done it again, and we went through the same ritual of me picking out one of those useless prizes on the table with a dozen such doodads.

While I'm sure the man didn't believe his eyes, because I had trouble believing it, but I did putt the ball, and it did go in the hole.

I couldn't miss.

I owned that golf hole.

It was my day.

The ball had eyes.

And I had all the man's prizes.

“You've got to go now. You've won all the prizes,” he finally said, sounding a little miffed, because I'd sent him to the showers early.

I'd have stayed and kept putting that ball, if he'd let me. He could have his prizes. I didn't want them. I wanted to feel the way he made me feel, every time I succeeded at sinking that golf ball.

I'd never succeeded at anything before. I'd never been praised, had my back patted, or been told what a fine job I'd done.

He wasn't so mad that he didn't give me the box he brought the prizes in, and he opened the door to send me on the way.

I didn't know how to tell him what I wanted. I never asked for anything. I never thought I'd get anything. I knew how bad and pathetic I was. I knew I was a disappointment to my parents, but I'd have loved to have stayed there and kept hitting that little ball.

It was one of those events that pops up, out of the blue, and when it's over, the memory of it begins to fade, the joy it furnished becomes less, and the exhilaration gives way to reality, the farther from the event I got.

Big whoops. I could putt a golf ball.

Chapter 8

By the time I got home, I'd lost the excitement I left the school hanging onto. I put the box in the middle of the dining room table. I'd tell my parents how I kept sinking holes in one, one after another, until I won all the prizes on the table, behind the golf hole.

He probably had a trunk full of prizes. As soon as I was out of site, he went out and brought in more prizes for the table.

What was the big deal? I sank a golf ball the way he showed me how to do it. Big whoops. I moved the box off the table. My father would simply yell, 'What's that junk doing on the table. It's dinner time. Put it somewhere else.'

Later that day, I moved the box upstairs and put it under my bed. No one cared what I did. It was a one time deal, and it was over.  I wouldn't bother to mention it to anyone. I'd never see the man again, and he'd never see me.

The memory of the day I couldn't miss, faded away by the following week. The only time I remembered what happened, was when I caught site of the box under my bed.

On a Thursday evening, after a day of roaming the endless job sites, I'd come in after five and before six. A few minutes after I got home, my brother came in. He always timed it so he had to spend as little time in the house as possible. He'd come in just before six, and he'd be gone by six thirty. We sat in front of the television, until my mother came home, and then we'd eat, but there would be a change on this Thursday.

My father came into the living room. He turned off the television. He was going to speak. This couldn't be good.

“Tomorrow, I want you both here at three o'clock. Granny and Pop have retired to Florida. They want you to spend the summer with them. Your Uncle Joe and I will drive you there. We'll be leaving at three o'clock, so both of you be here, and be ready to go.”

It's the way things were done at my house. Oh, by the way, the summer you'd planned, forget it. You're going to Florida, and we did.

I didn't understand the significance. It was something else I was told to do. I was told when to do everything, but going to Florida would mean, getting away from my parents for the entire summer.

No yelling, no beatings, no constant anger with everything I did. Two months of incredible bliss were on the horizon.

The last time I remembered taking a trip was when I was five, and my great grandmother died in Chicago. We'd gone there for the funeral. I loved being in the car. I loved being on the move. I loved being out of the house.

Leaving Friday afternoon, by noon on Saturday, we were in Florida. It was a different world. We drove down a long narrow road, with towering trees on both side, speeding toward Fort Walton Beach.  After twenty-four hours in the car, we pulled up in front of the house on Kepner Drive. Granny and Pop came charging out of the house. There were hugs, kisses, handshakes for everyone. The air was fresh, the day was warm, and big fluffy clouds lazily moved across the Florida sky.

My father and Uncle Joe ate lunch, and then they went to bed. They would get up late tonight, and make the drive back. As they slept, my grandfather came and got me. My brother split for parts unknown. I followed Pop into the backyard. There was an incredible garden beside a patio he built for cooking out.

“We'll pick vegetables for tonight's dinner,” he told me.

There were tomatoes, radishes, carrots, onions, celery, lettuce, and a dozen different things for a salad or a meal. He handed me squash, two huge tomatoes, carrots, and a host of spring onions. With our arms loaded, we took the food into the kitchen.

I'd never been so involved in what we would have for dinner. I had been eating food all my life, but I'd never picked what I was going to eat out of our garden before. Florida was definitely a new world, and I was no longer unseen and unheard. My grandparents treated me like they liked me being there. How cool was that.

I never wanted to go home, but I'd only been there a few hours.

My brother had a summertime friend picked out for him. John was a Florida boy through and through. He and my brother were constant companions from the first hour we arrived in Florida.

John's brother, Avery, was my summertime friend, but as luck would have it, he was at boy scout camp, and wouldn't be back for a week. I'd be on my own until then, and that suited me just fine. I liked being alone, thank you very much.

My brother was Granny's favorite. I'd known this since we were little kids. More than once I'd seen Granny slipping my brother money, or giving him something while she thought they were alone. It didn't bother me. I didn't want anything. I didn't expect anything.

After we ate a wonderful meal, with a fresh salad, and garden fresh veggies, to go with Granny's meat pie, Pop told me to wait for him near the truck. Pop knew the score, and he didn't like playing favorites, but he wanted me to know I was OK with him.

Once things settled down, Pop told me, “Go get in the truck. I'll take you to the Gulf of Mexico. We'll watch the sunset.”

Cool.

Beside my grandfather, we drove out of our neighborhood, passing Choctawhatchee Bay, at the end of the next block. We drove around the bay to the right, until we reached Route 98, where we turned left, driving over a bridge that took us toward the Gulf of Mexico.

My grandfather parked facing the Gulf of Mexico, only a few dozen yards away. It was like totally green. It was beautiful, and you could see forever, and the sand was white as snow.

“You like pumpkin seeds?” he asked.

“I don't know,” I said. “What are they?”

Pop took a tin out from under the seat and we ate pumpkin seeds and we watched as the sun was setting in the western sky. Believe me when I say, this was nothing like Hillcrest Heights, Maryland.

Until Avery returned from Boy Scout camp, Pop kept me with him. If he left the house, I was with him, and I'd never had an adult want to spend any time with me before. I liked Pop, and he seemed to like me just fine.

One morning, Pop came into my room and to wake me up.

“Come on. We're going out.”

We drove down to Chactawhatchee Bay, made the right turn to go toward Route 98, and instead of turning left to go over the bridge, we turned right. We drove up two blocks, and he turned right and parked the truck on a side street.

I followed my grandfather to a restaurant. We stepped inside, and my grandfather spoke.

“Everyone, this is my grandson, Dick. He's staying with me this summer,” Pop said.

“Hello, Dick,” a chorus came from a dozen or so people seated around.

We moved to a both halfway back on the left side, and we sat down.

“What do you have?” A woman with a pad said, as she cracked her gum, chewing vigorously.

“I always get pancakes, Dick. They stick to your ribs,” he said.

“I like pancakes,” I said.

“Two short stacks, Mabel. You want coffee, Dick,” Pop asked.

“Coffee?” I asked. “Sure.”

I wasn't allowed to drink coffee, but if my grandfather wanted to order me coffee, I'd drink it. It took three or four teaspoons of sugar and a good amount of cream from the container, but once I got it right, it was the perfect beverage to have with pancakes. I loved it.

Florida was another world. For the first time in my life, I wasn't afraid all the time. I think I felt good, but what was good? The people around me, except for my brother, and he was hardly ever around, treated me nicely. Like they didn't mind me being there.

Avery was nothing like John. John was happy-go-lucky. He always smiled. Avery was somewhat more serious. He was smart, handsome, and he knew everything there was to know about Florida. We weren't inseparable, like my brother and John were. We were together a couple of times each week, and Avery knew stuff. I began to think of him as the doorway to adventure. Every time we did something, it was totally new for me. Avery took everything in stride.

I was accustomed to being alone. At the foot of Hollywood Blvd., one block over from Kepner, and two blocks down, there were some bushes and underbrush. My grandfather showed me a path that went through the undergrowth.

“Just through there, maybe teen feet away, is a beach, and the bay. You can swim there, when we can't take you to the Gulf. It's like a private beach, you'll mostly have to yourself,” he told me.

And it was. It was my private beach. For the first week I was there, I'd do my chores, as assigned by Granny. Take out the trash, do the breakfast dishes, or vacuum, and then I was free to go off on my own, and when I went off on my own, I was on my private beach.

It was maybe fifty feet wide and ten feet of sand. I'd come through the brush and toss my towel on the sand. I'd sometimes go swimming right away, depending on how hot it was, and then I'd lay out on my towel, listening to the bay waters lapping at the sand.

Granny knew where to find me if she wanted me. She'd drive to the end of Hollywood, toot the horn, and I knew to run for the car. If she was going shopping, or somewhere cool, she'd take me with her. I didn't mind, because no one seemed to mind me being around. It was a change from what I'd been used to, and I knew I could get to like it.

In the back of my mind, though, I knew at the end of the summer, I'd return home and to the insanity, where I lived. I tried not to think about it, while I was having such a good time. I never thought peace and quiet could be such a nice relief.

 I didn't know there was anything but the craziness at my house, until my grandparents retired in Florida.

“You were like a butterfly, emerging from a cocoon,” Carlton said. “You got your first breaths of fresh air in that small Florida town.”

“Yes, I suppose I did. I'd been imprisoned within myself. I'd known fear and trepidation, and little else.”

“I didn't mean to interrupt you. It's just that I could see this beautiful butterfly, making his way clear of the cocoon. Go on.”

“Being in Florida for the summer, with my own assigned special friend, who was supposed to entertain me, I suppose, filled my days with adventure. I never knew what Avery would have us doing the next day, and we weren't together every day, but several days a week, he'd be at Granny's and Pop's first thing.”

As I spoke, Carlton leaned forward in his chair, as if he didn't want to miss a word. I hardly knew what to tell him, and what to leave out. It was as clear to me as if it happened the day before. It had been a little over ten years, since that first trip to Florida.

Avery never told me, what we might do next. We were usually busy, having so much fun, I never thought to ask about what came next, but in a day or two, after the last time we parted company, Avery would come charging in through the front door, the screen door banging behind him.

One morning, Avery had been in an obvious rush.

“Come on, Dick. Joe's waiting for us at the end of Hollywood. We'll be back later, Granny. Joe's waiting for us,” Avery told Granny.

“You going in his boat,” Granny asked, knowing more than I did.

“Yes, we're going water skiing. Probably be back by two or three,” Avery explained, as the screen door banged behind us.

Joe was the local doctor's son. He had a sixteen foot Lonestar speedboat, baby blue and white. I remembered, as Joe grew up, one summer he'd come tooling up to Granny's in a baby blue and white 1955 T-Bird. It was a classic.

That morning I saw the Lonestar for the first time. A kid, not much older than me, had his own speedboat.

We boated from one side of Choctawhatchee Bay to the other. As we returned to our side of the bay, Joe pointed the boat toward the Destin Bridge, and the Destin Pass, that emptied into the Gulf of Mexico.

If you stand on the Destin Bridge, which loomed on the skyline, directly across from my beach, you could see the different colors where the bay met the passage way to the Gulf, and the water in the pass was turquoise and green. The Gulf was a lighter green, and it was a rainbow of colors in that short distance. It was beautiful.

We didn't go all the way to the Gulf. We turned around, while still in the passage, and rocketed back into the bay. The wind in my hair felt good. Avery sat beside Joe in the front. I sat in the back. When they talked, they had to yell, and even then, I couldn't hear them.

Joe drove the boat directly toward my beach. I wondered if the day was over, but about half way there, maybe five or six miles away from the bridge, Joe cut the boats engine down to an idle.

“It's time for water skiing. Can you water ski, Dick?” Joe asked.

“Hardly,” I said. “Not much water, where I'm from.”

“We'll teach you, if you want to learn,” Joe said. “Can you swim?”

“Not much water where I'm from,” I repeated. “I'm not afraid of the water, and I'd love to learn to water ski.”

Joe and Avery laughed.

“It's a start,” Joe said. “We'll have you up on skis by day's end.”

He was a lot more confident than I was.

After the boat was still in the water, Joe came back to where I was sitting, putting two water skis up on the side of the boat.

“Here's the plan, once I'm ready, I'll reach up, and you'll hand me the rope.”

Joe handed me the plastic handle of the ski rope. After putting the skis in the water, Joe went in after them. A minute later, with the skis now on his feet, he reached up for the rope, and I handed it over.

“OK, Avery. Take the slack out of the line,” Joe said loudly.

Avery waved me up in the front seat. He eased the boat into gear, and gave it a tiny bit of throttle. The boat eased away from Joe.

Joe yelled, “OK.”

Avery moved the throttle firmly forward. The nose of the boat came up, and I couldn't see anything in front of us. So, I looked back to see Joe coming out of the water, riding over top of the smooth surface. He made it look easy, as he zigzagged, from one side of the wake to the other. Each time he passed over the boat's wake, he went several feet into the air, landing with a splat I could hear over the engine noise.

Avery cut the speed back a little, and we did a wide arc out into the bay. I couldn't imagine being where I was, doing what I was doing. This was a different world. Everyone was friendly, and both Avery and Joe could do a lot of good stuff. I couldn't do anything.

For quite a while, Avery drove the boat, and Joe followed behind, making the most of his water skis. After two big arcs around Choctawhatchee Bay, Joe waved, and Avery waved back. Joe let go of the rope, and he sank in the water. Avery brought the boat around, until we were idling right beside Joe.

It was time for Avery to ski. Once Joe was in the boat, and behind the wheel, Avery got into the water, putting on the skis. I handed him the rope, and went back up to sit beside Joe.

We took another tour of the bay. Joe steered the boat in a different direction than Avery took, and while the scenery on land changed, I was mainly interested in what Avery was doing. He was more athletic than Joe, and quite capable on the skis. He loved to race out to where he was almost up beside the boat, and then he ran  across the wake, until he was skiing on the other side of the boat.

He put on a good show. The sun was high in the sky by then, and it was a warm, perfect day.

Avery finally waved, and Joe cut back the speed, and the boat idled, as we drifted up beside Avery. He handed me the skis.

As we sat together in a tight circle, eating sandwiches Joe's family's maid prepared for us, we talked about the beautiful day, the perfect temperature for both the water and the air, and how much fun it was being 12 and free as birds.

Avery was cool. I'd never met anyone as alive as he was. Joe was cut from the same cloth. It was about having fun, and not an unkind word was uttered. I knew this was temporary relief from my life back in Maryland, but I intended to make the most of it.

“Want to give it a try, Dick,” Avery asked.

“Sure,” was the proper answer.

It's what two Florida boys expected another boy to say, and as unsure as I was about what to do, I'd seen both of them do it. They made it look easy. I wasn't going to make it into something hard, I was in Florida. I was determined to do what Florida boys did.

We drove the boat close to an island a couple of miles from my private beach. I could see it from where the boat stopped.

The boat idled. I jumped in. I could feel the bottom. The water was maybe three or four feet deep. Then, Avery jumped in beside me, standing up, he took one ski and than the other ski from Joe. He let them float beside us, as he turned his attention to me.

“We came into the shallows, because this is your first time water skiing. You'll be able to feel the bottom, as Joe takes the boat out to get the slack out of the ski rope. It'll be easier for you to feel what you are doing that way. I'll show you what to do,” Avery explained. “Can you put these on?”

He indicated the skis, and he held one as he floated one over to me. It was awkward at first, but by bending my knees, I got the first ski on. He let me have the other ski, and I was able to balance myself on the bottom, while I put the second ski on.

“Now, drop your butt between the skis, until it touches the sand.

All you need to do is keep the ski tips up, Dick. Keep the rope between the skis. That keeps you balanced. If you let one of them dip under the surface of the water, when Joe hits the throttle, you'll plow the water and end up with a face full of the bay. By keeping the ski tips up, they will be at the proper angle for them to pull you out of the water. You don't need to do a thing, except keep the tips up. Keep your arms straight and firm, not rigid. You need to be relaxed. The power of the boat will pull you right up on the skis. Two seconds after Joe hits the throttle, you'll be riding on top of the water.”

Avery turned and took the rope from Joe.

“Remember, hold your arms straight out. Allow the power of the boat to pull you up. As you feel the boat pulling you, don't bend your arms. You'll immediately come out of the water. Keep the rope between the skis. Got it?”

“I got it,” I said.

Avery signaled Joe to begin taking the slack out of the rope.

I'll wait here, and Joe will bring you back to this spot, once you've had enough, and he'll steer the boat close enough for you to let go of the rope, and ride the skis to me. Once you let go of the rope, the skis and your momentum will keep you on top of the water long enough to be sure you're in the shallows. and I'll be waiting for you. Got it?”

“Got it,” I said, ready to get the show on the road.

Avery raised his arm and dropped it quickly. Joe hit the throttle. The engine roared in my ear.

I was as ready as I was going to get. Hold my arms straight out. Keep them relaxed. Keep my tips out of the water a few inches, and in two seconds, I was gliding across the surface of the bay. If there was wind sitting in the back of the boat, being out in the middle of the bay, fifty feet behind the boat, the force of the wind was blow-drying me in no time.

I stayed directly in the middle of the wake, and was a little afraid to venture out over the foot to eighteen inch high wake on either side. As we began to arc around the first time, not getting too far from the islands, where I'd started, I did what I'd seen Avery do, pulling some rope toward me, grabbing it firmly, I used the leverage to propel myself  out over the wake, getting airborne, and the skis slapped against the considerably smoother water, outside the wake, beside the boat.

After maybe 15 minutes, Joe waved. I waved back. He pointed toward the islands. I waved again. As he went in closer to the first island, I swung out over the wake, let go of the rope, sailed up to within ten feet of Avery, and I sank into the water, touching bottom.

I felt absolutely fantastic. I could water ski. While doing it, I got the kind of sensation of speed, I'd never experienced before.

Avery was immediately collecting the skis.

“How'd you like it?” He asked.

“I loved it,” I said. “It was great.”

“You did a lot better than most guys do the first time out. You didn't fall. You came right out of the water. I'm proud of you.”

“Thanks,” I said. “I'm kind of proud of myself.

I thought to myself, now there are two things I know how to do, putt a golf ball, and water ski. Was there no end to my talent?

I'm sure my smile was as big as all outdoors.

We handed Joe the rope and the skis, and we got back into the boat. I was still beaming from my adventure, but Joe had more for me to do.

“Want to drive the boat?” He asked.

“I wouldn't know how,” I said.

“You know how hard it was to water ski?” Joe asked.

“It was a piece of cake. I did what Avery told me to do,” I said.

“Driving the boat is even easier than that,” Joe said.

With a little bit of instruction, I sat behind the wheel, thinking of how many ways I could screw this up, but Joe told me what to do, and he was right. There was nothing to it. The breaking system left a little bit to be desired, but we had the entire bay to stop in, so it wasn't a factor.

Just the same, I was happy to turn the driving over to Joe, after I took the boat on a tour of Choctawhatchee Bay.

I'd driven a boat for fifteen minutes and I didn't run over a thing.

Joe took us to the Cinko Bayou channel. It emptied into the bay, and it was only a few minutes from the islands. Moving at a slower speed, in about ten or fifteen minutes, Joe pointed at a big old house that was surrounded by a dozen blooming magnolia trees.

“That's my house,” Joe said. “I park the boat at the pier.”

The pier was maybe twenty feet long and there were places to tie up several boats. What a great place to live. It was a big house.

After we tooled around a little more, Joe dropped Avery and me at the bottom of Hollywood Blvd. on my beach. I was tired and hungry, but I could water ski, and that made me feel good.

To be continued...

Posted: 10/02/2020