Gay Boy Running
By:
Rick Beck
(© 2016 by the author)
The author retains all rights. No reproductions are allowed without the author's
consent. Comments are appreciated at...
beck@tickiestories.us
I was born the year I turned twelve.
Who I was, previously obscured, peeked out. A powerful force collided with my life. Thus began a journey, always moving too fast for me to understand. Being knocked off balance by an encounter with the first stable adult I’d ever met, meant considering him.
Our first meeting meant little in the greater scheme of things, but the events surrounding our first meeting left an impression on both of us. It was a chance meeting that set me on the road to discovering my identity. I didn’t know I didn’t know who I was, because I’d never dared to consider myself beyond my family. I still wonder if this was fate, destiny, or an accident. I still don’t know.
Before twelve there was no me beyond the labels I wore, bad, lazy, and defiant. The other frequent label that I most identified with after beginning school, stupid.
At twelve life grabbed hold of me, or I it, and all I could do was hold on for dear life. Changes came so fast I stayed off balance. But the start was slow. At first it was a singular event unrelated to anything else. I can see how the chance meeting was related to other changes that took place in my life and in my mind. This confluence set my unfocused life in motion without me having any idea where I was heading.
As is true of most twelve year olds, I was going through puberty as I was about to enter junior high school. These didn’t seem like they’d be huge deals at the time. There was one change that came out of the blue to furnish me with the first happiness I ever knew.
My grandparents had retired to Fort Walton Beach, Florida, and I was going to spend the summer with them. It would be the first time I was away from my parents. This is actually deceptive. I spent as much time away from my parents as I could get away with. I lived in their house and I stayed in my room when I wasn’t lost in the tube.
Among the other events, I accepted I was a homosexual and I had an experience that made it clear that my feelings were real. When I went to my Baptist minister, the only man I trusted enough to ask for advice about such a thing, he said, ‘you’re a very nice boy. It’s a shame you’re going to hell.
I hate it when that happens? I liked the summer heat but this seemed a bit extreme.
These were the highlights of the summer I turned twelve. It was like being born, but it was just the beginning. My entire identity was being formed without me being all that clear on it. I had survival techniques that worked well and kept me isolated from much of the craziness that lived at my house.
By the time I was twelve I had no desire to fit. I trusted no one and suspected everyone, especially adult types. It made my encounter with Mr. Q interesting, but hardly life altering. If I explain the events it doesn’t seem to mean much, except it left an impression on both of us. The fact it left an impression on him caught me by surprise.
It was no big deal once it settled into my past, but it turned out to be the biggest deal of my life. To best explain it I should start this tale before the year I turned twelve to gain some perspective on where I was coming from.
You can’t become twelve without being eleven but it was when I was ten my ignorance was highlighted. Ten wasn’t a banner year but I was defined by it. It’s not so much what I was, and it isn’t even what the teacher said I was. She merely asked me a question, which started the ball rolling, and in my family if a ball got rolling, look out.
Teachers either were astounded by my incredible inability to perform, or ignored me for the same reason. My fifth grade teacher was a bit more direct when she asked, ‘Are you stupid?’ In her mind it must have been a legitimate question. I wasn’t qualified to answer but she asked me anyway. She was the teacher. Shouldn’t she know?
It wasn’t the first time the subject had come up. I didn’t mind. I felt like I must be stupid or the question wouldn’t have been asked.
In sixth grade something unusual occurred. Mrs. Foster, a purple haired teacher, liked me, and I became the ‘teacher’s pet.’ I usually took a desk in the furthest corner of a classroom, believing out of sight, out of mind. Mrs. Foster moved me front and center in the desk closest to hers.
Imagine that. A teacher actually acknowledged my existence beyond the first two weeks of class. Mrs. Foster could often be seen turning the pages of my textbook to get me on the same page with the rest of the class. She never raised her voice or called me names. She was the first teacher who attempted to make me part of the class. It wasn’t my idea but I didn’t mind. She was very kind.
It was my third elementary school since 2nd grade, and I was dizzy from moving and being forever on the outs. Sixth grade was my best year in school. I still couldn’t read, which was a handicap, but Mrs. Foster was pleasant about it and never asked me if I was stupid or not. Of course she was the teacher and I was always on the wrong page, so I think she knew.
Graduating elementary school was cause for celebration at my house. I wasn’t the first member of my family to make it out of sixth grade, but I was least likely to. I didn’t get too excited realizing junior high school wasn’t that far off.
I graduated on my twelfth birthday and thus I was born. There was no me before twelve. I was a series of nerve endings, responses, waiting for the predictable stimuli, at which time I’d jump. I was a bit like the dead frog in those experiments and by attaching little electrodes to their tiny dead legs you can make them jump by giving them a little jolt of electricity. I’d been jumping my entire life, but at twelve the jolt brought me to life.
I jumped when I was spoken to, because I knew what happened if I didn’t respond quick enough. At times this made for good fun. I’d sense what my parents wanted, I’d jump into action at the first sound of their voice, and they’d laugh because that’s not what they wanted at all. If I was lucky that was the end of it. I’d always done things too fast, too slow, or I didn’t do what I was told the way I was supposed to do it. It was all bad and rarely did I please anyone. As I was growing older, I did nothing, until I was threatened, and then, making sure it was precisely what they wanted me to do, I did it. The insanity came on the days I was asked to do something I was punished for doing a few days before. If you want to drive your kids crazy, that’s how you do it.
My parent’s rules were in a constant state of flux. I wasn’t clued in until I had run afoul of one. When I protested the illogic of it all, I received a backhanded reminder never to talk back. When I understood I could never win, I lost interest in trying. This could explain my lack of motivation.
*******
By the time I turned twelve I was oblivious to it all. It was the way it was and I couldn’t do anything about it. I’d developed a strategy by then, or maybe it was more a disappearing act: when I knew it was coming, I disappeared. I was there but I wasn’t there. I zoned out, didn’t feel, hear, or fear anything. There were key words to tip me off when it was over, and I came back.
My disappearing act was a mystery to me. I can’t remember when it was first employed or what brought it on, but by twelve the technique was perfected and it was worth whatever toll it took on my brain by requiring it to remove me out of a certain scene. At twelve there was no direct link to anything outside myself. I had isolated myself from anything unpleasant.
I didn’t suspect it had something to do with my stupidity. My ability to simply tune out anything unpleasant or boring flipped on and off at will. I could zone out for hours in class. I think I discovered self-inflicted ADD.
I didn’t zone out when I roamed. I roamed a lot and in places where I about to encounter adults. My best thing was roaming so I wanted to do it well. It was best when done alone with no one to cross me. I had little love for my fellow man and having someone around to insult me or to make fun of me didn’t interest me. I learned at an early age the value in being a solitary man.
It was while roaming that I walked past my old elementary school one morning on my way to nowhere. I knew what to do. I’d keep on walking. I never went to school when I wasn’t required to be in school, except this time something caught my eye.
*******
‘Open House,’ a sign read.
*******
Without knowing what it meant and before I had time to think it over, I found myself in the hallway with the red lockers lining the wall, following the arrows to the ‘Open House.’
The arrows led me to the familiar wooden auditorium doors. I stepped inside and found a couple of dozen adults constructing booths where they’d peddle their particular idea of summer fun. Organized activities were a certain way for me to have no fun. Adults meant trouble, and so I did a quick about-face, intending to make my getaway.
As I was about to open the door a little man said, “Sink the ball and win a prize.”
It was original and I fell for it. He got me to come over to where he stood next to a make-shift miniature golf hole about twelve feet long and three feet wide.
I knew better than to ignore him. He spoke to me, and that required me to give him my attention. I measured him up as I walked to where he stood. Maybe I could take him?
“Sink the ball and win a prize. Here, I’ll show you,” he said, seeing the vacant look in my eyes.
The fastest way to handle such situations was to appear to cooperate, while looking for the first opportunity to escape. In the mean time the little man set a golf ball down at the front part of the fake green grass. He looked at the ball, the hole, the ball, the hole, and he hit it with enough force to get it to go up a three inch-rise, continuing to roll until it came to rest an inch in front of the cup.
“Here, I’ll set the ball down for you,’ he said after retrieving it. “Take the club and see how you do.”
I took the putter and looked at the ball at my feet. I looked at the hole, not drawing any link between the two. Without hesitation, I wound up and gave it a good whack.
Whack!
The ball hit the three inch rise in the make-shift golf course and kept rising, going up and over the back board that marked the out of bounds.
As quick as I hit the golf ball the little man took off in hot pursuit. He knew it would bounce off the wall a few feet away and he charged out into the middle of the shinny wooden auditorium floor. The ball skittered just beyond his reach, heading for parts unknown with the little man close behind.
Just about the time it should have disappeared under one of the booths being constructed, he slid on one side of his neat charcoal gray suit and intercepted the little white ball. It was the kind of move that would make a football player proud. He stood, brushing off his suit and he began walking back toward me.
I knew what was coming. I’d done enough screwing up by that time that the end result was predictable. I would take it like a man and get out of there before doing any more damage.
“You only need to tap it. Watch me again and I’ll show you.”
Bracing for the yelling, I didn’t understand what this guy’s game was. Didn’t he know the rules? No one had briefed him on the getting angry part when a kid failed to do as he was told.
This was when the little man separated himself from the rest of the adults I’d known. Seeing my space-cadet eyes, he took a hold of my upper arm, shaking it gently as he spoke, “I want you to watch what I’m showing you. Are you paying attention to me?”
I can’t explain the result of his treating me with respect. This got my attention immediately and I wanted to show him I could do what he asked me to do. I’d been alive for twelve years and no one had ever taken the time to show me where I’d gone wrong and how to do it correctly. If I didn’t do what I was told quick enough to suit the teller and in a fashion they liked, I caught hell.
“You look at the ball and get your club face ready,” he said, checking to be sure I was looking. “Look at the hole, the ball, and back to the hole so your brain can calculate the distance and the amount of force necessary to get the ball to travel that distance. You tap it, keeping your eye on the ball and the club face flat. This allows you to process the amount of force you used and if you miss you can make whatever correction is necessary.” He spoke softly before tapping the ball.
It ran up the rise, dribbling to within an inch of the hole, stopping in almost the same spot as the first time he did it.
“Here,” he said, handing me the putter, as he went to get the ball.
He set it down for me to duplicate his example. It was my turn and he didn’t go through the steps again. He not only explained how to putt but how to get the result he was after. I didn’t give a hoot about the prizes. I wanted to show this man I could follow his instructions. It was the kind of challenge I’d never been given before.
I had never hung around grown-ups long enough to see if one might have something to teach me. My experiences told me that my best bet was to steer clear of them all. There was something different about this guy. For one, I’d been there five minutes and he hadn’t yelled at me.
“Remember how I did it,” he advised softly.
I did remember. It was imprinted in my brain. Lord knows there was nothing in there to get in the way. I stood over the ball, looked at the hole, at the ball, the hole, precisely as he’d done for precisely the same amount of time, tapping the ball the way I’d seen him do it, but adding a slight more force than he used, making the correction for him.
The ball ran atop the fake green grass, up the rise, and plop, right in the center of the hole. It was a hole in one. It was beautiful. I’d done it.
“Yes,” the little man celebrated as he patted my back and I nearly dropped the putter. “Yes, you did it. Go over to the table and take one of the prizes. That was very good.”
Hell with the prize. Oh, that was cool, but having someone make me feel good about myself was so strange that I kept hearing him repeat, yes, knowing he meant me.
I came from a “NO” world. I’d done something right. In the same week I turned twelve, graduated elementary school, and had an adult be tickled by something he taught me to do. The world was certainly weird.
Leaving well-enough alone was on my mind. It couldn’t get any better than this, except if I did it again. It might be worth trying. I wasn’t a risk-taker but I couldn’t resist the idea of seeing the little man tickled all over again.
“Can I try again?” I asked hesitantly, figuring I’d get my no.
“Sure, but if someone else comes in you need to let them take a try, but you can try as often as you like,” he said, making his first mistake.
Plop! Plop! Plop! Plop!
The ball had eyes.
I couldn’t miss.
I was on my game.
I was in the groove.
I was in the zone.
I was on fire.
I owned that hole.
Well, I may not have owned the hole, but I did own all the little man’s prizes.
The biggest prize was the man telling me how sensational I was. The prize was in having someone believe in me. The real prize was in how he had made me feel more alive than I’d ever felt before. I was magnificent. I was a winner on a day when I couldn’t loose.
“That’s it. Game’s closed. You’ve cleaned me out,” he said, removing the club from my deadly accurate hands and leaving my final putt in the cup where it ended up.
For the first time there wasn’t the compliment, the pat on the back, the bragging about my performance. In fact, he seemed a little ticked that his day had just begun and his game was already out of business. I’d sent him to the showers early.
A better kid might have offered to give the prizes back, but I’d won them, and I wanted to take them home and line them up on the dining room table, so that when my parents came home and they asked me, ‘what the hell is all that junk on the table,’ I’d explain about the Open House and the day I couldn’t miss. It played way better in my head than the event itself.
Before I left he’d gotten the box in which he’d brought the prizes. He loaded them back up, handing it to me, and opening the door for me to leave. It was a couple of blocks to my house and I more floated than walked. I kept hearing the little man’s compliments, thinking of how good he’d left me feel. It was a life altering experience for a kid who’d never been very good at it.
Chapter 2
Junior High
School
1
3 4 5
6 7
A week after my celebrated golfing debut, I was told I was heading to Florida. My grandparents had retired to a house near the Gulf of Mexico and I was to spend the summer. I was packed into the car and we were off without much notice. It was how it was done. I had no desire to leave my world, but what the hay, it would be an adventure. Maybe there would be places where I could roam there.
The ride was long and we were on a schedule. It was a thousand miles there and my father had to be at work on Monday morning.
Travel was right up my alley. I’d never been more captivated by anything. Nights were cool as the lights flipped past, giving a partial view of whatever was there as those lights reflected off the car windows. What was hidden behind them excited me. My attention stayed focused on what was outside of the speeding car.
Florida was sunny. The sand was white. The Gulf waters were green, and that excited me. When you stared out at the Gulf you could see forever, maybe to the South Pole. It was all sky and water and clouds and boats and it was massive.
My grandfather took me out the morning after my father left for home. We went to a diner a mile from the house to have breakfast together, Pop and me. He pushed open the door and announced to a dozen people sitting inside,
“This is my grandson, Dick.”
I didn’t know these people, but Pop knew them and they knew him. We were served coffee and I felt grown up. I had pancakes. People stopped to speak to my grandfather as they came in or left. I’d never had an experience quite like this one. I knew Pop was glad to have me with him. I hated the coffee but I drank every drop and told him it was wonderful.
This was my first time away from my parents since recorded history began, mine anyway. Summer in Florida was like a cool breeze on a hot day.
There was a tiny strip of beach down at the end of our block that no one used but me. When I was done with breakfast and chores, I went there. It was my beach, my spot, and the languid days drifted by one after another as I baked in the sun and basked in the fresh clear water. I sweat once I stopped moving, I lie on a towel on the white sand and sweat. Each tiny breeze was like a gift from the gods. It was perfect. It was my spot.
I had a designated friend, Avery. He was at Boy Scout camp when I arrived. That was just what I needed, some boy scout to keep an eye on me. Maybe he didn’t know about my beach. He lived two blocks from my grandparents, over not up or down.
*******
At the end of the first week, while lying on my strip of beach at the foot of my grandparents block, Avery came tripping down through the bushes and brush that hid the beach from the street.
“I’m Avery,” he broadcast. “You’re Dick.”
Are you sure, I wondered? He was very sure of himself. What if Dick got ate by a whale and I’m just a kid that came here to lie on the towel his grandmother supplied him?
At twelve Avery was everything I wasn’t. He was smart and he knew everyone and everything about everyone. He was handsome, popular, and fit in wherever he went. I tagged along wherever he went, because it was what I was told to do.
It was the first time I’d taken up with anyone on a daily basis, but I knew nothing and he knew where the adventures could be had. He nearly got me drowned, took me fishing in the Gulf, where we caught eighteen fish in 45 minutes. I went water skiing with him and his family as well as with him and his friend Joe. I stepped on a stingray—not the Corvette—and barely escaped the barb I felt under my foot when I jumped from the boat. I went straight up and back into the boat, defying gravity while doing it, as the beast turned over to be recognized by all aboard before disappearing to do what stingrays do when they aren’t scaring the b’jesus out of me.
I came out unscathed. My twelfth year was a charm in a lot of ways. Even when I screwed up it turned out fine. I got up on water skis on my first try, but once I tired I let the rope pull me forward and bounced my adequately thick noggin on the tip of a ski. It left a bump on my head but nothing to write home about.
It was all fun all the time. I never thought of home or missed my parents. I’d would have just as soon moved to Florida and never gone home again, but being a kid, my options were limited. There was no circus in the area and I didn’t know anyone that might take me in, so after two months of bliss, I was homeward bound.
It would never be as bad as it had been. My absence let my parents have a break from me and they were never again as crazy as they once were. I’d stopped wetting the bed in Florida, which tickled them no end, Granny too, although she never mentioned it. The source of my misery and the beatings and constant conflict within my house—all were removed.
Within a week of returning home I was waiting for a school bus to take me to junior high school. Nothing had changed with my brain. I knew that instead of getting past one teacher a year, there would be six or seven. Turning on the charm for one was bad enough. Junior high would require a regular charm offensive if I hoped to pass, but I didn’t expect to pass. I hadn’t expected to for years, and each year I passed. It surprised me more than anyone.
Seven courses and seven different teachers sounded harsh. I spent the first morning trying to figure out where my classes were. I went early to match up the list on my schedule with the classrooms that lined three wings of a one-floor school. My last class, which I thought was my best shot at success, was gym. I didn’t have any difficulty finding the gym, and I tucked my toes up safely on the red line as per instructions. The red line marked the boundaries of the basketball court.
The basketball court filled the gym and Mr. Romeo, the gym teacher, stood in the middle of the court giving us the rules.
Rules? What kind of rules did you need for gym? I was handed a three page list of them. How in the hell could anyone figure out a way to make gym complicated? It was a letdown to learn that you couldn’t play ball, run and romp, without rules. Lord knows we wouldn’t all want to float away by mistake.
I made every effort to listen to the gym teacher so I didn’t run afoul of the rules. One after another he read from the pages. I listened intently, watching him closely, making sure I missed nothing.
That was when I noticed something coming between me and the law-giver.
I stretched to keep Mr. Romeo in view, but the more I leaned, the closer the obstacle came, until there was a little man’s face pressed up to my face with our noses about to touch. So much for paying attention. Who was this idiot? Couldn’t he see I was busy?
“I know you,” he said at last.
I didn’t think so. How could he know me, but he could distract me as I gave up trying to pay attention to the man in charge.
“I know you from the golf game I had over at Hillcrest Heights Elementary School. You’re the kid that cleaned me out.”
Of all the gyms in all the world, why did I have to walk into his?
“You’re a pretty good golfer,” he said with an air of appreciation I didn’t feel I deserved.
“I’d never played golf before,” I confessed, still being unsure if he was the little man from the elementary school.
“I know and that’s why you’re good. You picked it right up. I’ve never seen anyone pick up anything as fast as you figured out how to putt the ball into the hole.”
What do you say to that? I didn’t say anything. I knew I was supposed to be listening to that other guy and I was afraid if I missed anything I’d get myself in trouble, but how do you tell an adult to get out of your face?
“My name is Mr. Quattrocchi, but you can call me Mr. Q.”
Thank heavens for small favors. I’d have never remembered that other deal. I never heard about any more of the rules, but I didn’t need to know anything but Mr. Q. He shook my hand and thus started a relationship the likes of which I’d never known.
Each morning when I arrived at school, my only goal was to get to gym where I’d get my daily dose of ‘atta boy’ and ‘nice job, Charles.’ I was to become Mr. Q’s golden child.
In the first week they tested us on running, jumping, and climbing. It was all right up my alley. The standing broad-jump had me with one of the furthest jumps. Mr. Q was watching when it was my turn, and he took me off to one side after my first jump.
“Okay, watch me,” Mr. Q said, showing me how to rock my weight backwards and then by bringing all my weight forward, holding it until I was about to fall on my face, then you jump, letting your weight pull you further forward.
He watched me watch him the first time and when he came back to repeat it, he took my upper arm as he’d done the day in the auditorium. He shook gently and said, “Watch me.”
This had me focused in on him, listening to every word, seeing his every move, and with that he’d found a way to cancel out my malfunctioning brain. I taped everything he told me into my brain.
“Get back in line and tell Mr. Romeo to give you another shot,” Mr. Q said, more sure than I was that it was a good idea.
My second jump was the longest of the sixty boys taking gym that day. Mr. Q did a little dance and patted my back when he called me back over to give me what I’d come for.
“You’re a natural athlete,” he bragged, smiling and looking at me with admiration.
How cool is that?
It’s how it was for me in seventh grade. I never dealt with Mr. Romeo no matter what we were doing. I was Mr. Q’s boy and Mr. Romeo knew it. I jumped, and ran as good as anyone and better than most. Any time there was anything that took the smallest amount of technique, Mr. Q explained it to me, demonstrated it for me, and let me loose to excel.
Life was good.
Being Queer
with the Boy Next Door
1
2 4 5
6 7
While I was away in Florida, Bobby moved in next door. Bobby was 15 and went to the high school, so we never crossed paths, except whenever I came and went from my back door, he’d be watching me from his kitchen window.
Bobby scared me in a way no one else could. It wasn’t an external fear. I could take a beating with the best of them. I wasn’t afraid of anything, but something inside me went off the first time I saw him watching me. Was it instinct, gaydar, a sense of what he was after?
I took to taking my steps two or three at a time and I could be up my steps and into my kitchen faster than he could get the door open to ask, “What’s up doc?”. This also kept him from getting a good look, which to me seemed important. When I came out I did the same thing in reverse, being off the porch and gone in a couple of seconds.
This was going to require an extra effort by him. He was fifteen and capable of having his own plan. I was a not too bright twelve year old, except when it came to perception.
One evening on my way home from a neighbor’s house, I found Bobby sitting on his back steps, checkmate speedy.
“Hi, I’m Bobby,” he said, standing up to shake my hand and speaking in a deep mature voice. “Want to see my fort?”
Do I look like a fool?
What the hay, I’d go see his fort. He took me down the stairs into the laundry room and opened the door to the storage area. Inside was piled up a load of junk that he’d fashioned a hidden space out of by unrolling a rug over the opening he created in the piles. I wasn’t impressed by the fort but the fact he had a key impressed me big time. I didn’t have a key to anything, and he had a key to the apartment building’s storage room. What else did he have?
“Want to play strip poker?” he asked, sensing I didn’t have a lot of time..
“Sure,” I said, knowing that wasn’t the answer.
My heart was racing from the first time I heard his voice. I was excited by him and he could see the bulge in my pants as easily as I could see the one in his. Bobby and I were birds of a feather, only I wasn’t sure I was ready to fly yet.
I was scared. I should have excused myself and gone home, but I was twelve and destiny had me staying when I knew better. Being stupid didn’t mean I wasn’t aware of who and what I was. I also knew what Bobby was.
When I was ten I’d looked up the word homosexual with a great deal of difficulty because I couldn’t spell it. I’d always felt different and I knew this word was the key. It had explained the turmoil of feelings inside me and I knew I was to hide these facts to keep from becoming even more of a pariah. I did not fear what I was or what I felt, knowing I was already bad, did this make me worse? Did this mean I should be even further shamed and humiliated? I didn’t know the answers but I knew what I was.
I knew what Bobby wanted and I was unable to break away before he got it. Like anything else, I knew better, but what I knew had nothing to do with what I felt. And so we played cards in his poor excuse for a fort. I could do better than that and I couldn’t do anything.
It was obvious he was double dealing me, but my desire to see where we were going was greater than my sense of fair play. When I was sitting naked, he could see my excitement and he made sure I was aware of his before he raised the stakes to get us to where we were bound.
“Okay, you got nothing else to lose. If you lose again you’ve got to blow me,” he rubbed his bulging pants in a slow and pleasurable way, watching me watching his fingers.
He was dealing before he stopped speaking, realizing he could object to my objection by saying the hand had started before I opted out, but I didn’t say anything. I lost the hand and he stood in front of me and unzipped his pants as I wanted for the moment of truth.
Bobby was no doubt a man and the warm odd flavor he offered me was strange and different, but exciting without being the least bit offensive. I felt the head swelling as I accepted his offering. He eased forward as I failed to object and the sound he made indicating he had gotten where he wanted to go.
Once we agreed I’d given him enough stimulation for the moment, he sat down, let’s stretched out, cock stiff and shinning with the tip leaking as it twitched as he dealt. He knew where my eyes were and didn’t obstruct my view by playing with himself as he’d done when it was hidden from me.
Each time he stood I opened wide and let the warm hard flesh slip deeper into my mouth. It took to pulsing while I held on to it. There was an extra taste that might have been the liquid that was coming from the tip. It was nothing like piss and probably excited me more, but I’m not certain if it was the act or the response.
Bobby wasn’t talking and seemed delighted to have his excitement enhanced by my willingness. We continued like this until my name came floating through the night. He stood up to help me retrieve my clothes, feeling my erection, and requesting he give me some of what I’d given him.
I’d done what I’d come to do and I didn’t need a reciprocal arrangement. Bobby was there to get what he thought I’d give him and I was there to give it to him. I had nothing else in mind as it was as far as my mental capacity had taken me. I did stop to take a last look at the still wet pulsing erection before I left it behind. It was a testimony to what I’d done and wouldn’t do again for years.
I didn’t feel like a victim. I knew the right answers and I was capable of giving them. Those weren’t the answers that would lead to my understanding of what it was I felt and what it meant. I didn’t have any control over my life and so when I got the chance to go where I needed to go, I went.
I wouldn’t soon forget Bobby standing and shaking, quivering each lime I lost the next hand. The hypnotic scene we’d created next to the laundry room was the most powerful minutes in my life. I suppose in some way it defined me at a time I was just discovering there was a me.
*******
“I’ve got to go,” I said, yanking on my clothes as I took one last look at the excitement still protruding from his pants.
I was twelve and I knew what I felt. I knew what to say to Bobby. I knew not to play strip poker. I knew my fear of him was because I knew what he wanted and as long as I could stay away from him I could resist. In a half hour, he’d told me all I needed to know. The fear of him was gone, but I had never been afraid of him. I was afraid of how he made me feel. Even before we ever spoke I knew he stirred something inside me. Bobby was always nice to me, and when I’d found out what I wanted to know, there would be no repeat.
I didn’t know much but I did know about me. I would never play cards with Bobby again, although I went with him in his car, played in his house when other kids played there, and besides little hints he’d give me that he wanted a replay of the night in the storage room, we never mentioned it again.
Bobby and I were never friends. We were birds of a feather and I felt that as well. He was mostly a shy and pleasant fellow but the first time was the last time for me. It was so intense that I sensed I was not ready for more. He had allowed me to face up to facts and I was glad I knew what I was.
In a time of great change when I didn’t have a clue about what was going on in the world I lived in, knowing the fact about something inside of me was more of a comfort than a trauma. Being an outcast meant I didn’t have far to go on that end of things.
The very next day I went to my church to talk to the minister about my feelings. I knew what was inside of me, but I had never been able to trust adults enough to talk about my feelings. My minister proved to be a prime reason why. The first thing I wanted to be certain of was the conversation would stay between him, me, and God.
When I asked if the conversation was private, he said it most certainly was. I told him about Bobby and my feelings and I was there to ask his advice. He’d always said that’s what he was there for. I attended his church each Sunday, but my parents didn’t. They preferred sleeping in on Sundays, so I didn’t figure they spoke. Once he listened carefully to my accepting the feelings I wasn’t sure about before, he sat thoughtfully. He did squirm a little.
What I got was his, you’re going-to-hell advice. I did what I always did in such instances, headed for the exit as soon as I got an opening. I thanked him, which was the custom of the day.
I didn’t buy it. I knew I was your basic good kid, not too bright perhaps, but meaning no harm, helping those I could when I could, and from what I knew about the Bible, I was way ahead of most. Going to hell for what was inside of me was a foul ball. At twelve and with a flawed brain, I knew it was a fraud.
In two days I’d made two of the most important discoveries in my life. I was homosexual and men who claimed to speak for God, lied. This left me with two bits I was given to put in the collection plate each Sunday. I went to People’s Drug Store on Sunday where I drank my troubles away with Fountain Cherry Cokes that were as close to heaven as I was ever going to get.
I suppose I learned the art of deception resulting from the fallout. The two bits deal bothered me, but discussing why I no longer went to church wasn’t a conversation I’d have with my parents. They said, go to church. I went.
I lived in a house where for twelve years I wasn’t acceptable. I was a pretty pathetic kid. I was fed and clothed out of my parent’s kindness. There was no more to be had. I knew better than to lie or deceive them, but in this case I made an exception. If they wanted to think I was going to church on Sunday, who was I to ruin it for them.
It was a couple of years before Dr. Franklin Kameny was fired as a government astronomer for being homosexual. This story was repeated on television news casts. His name or the word homosexual would always get my attention. It was then I learned that the being homosexual was illegal. My distrust of the forces that could make this stuff up was enormous. It made absolutely no sense. I put this here only to mention that not only was I bad, useless, and a homo, I was also a criminal, which boggled my mind.
I suppose the rage that surfaced from within me every now and again was enhanced. It was almost always exercised only on inanimate objects, or if another kid got up in my face, at which time all bets were off. I was tempered by beatings and constant punishment and no midget was going to scare me. Other kids were of no interest to me. I didn’t them to do what I did.
At junior high school I hung with hoods. Not because I had anything in common with them but because they knew me as another illiterate and all that was required to belong was the ability to sneer and grunt, while stationed near the entrance of school in the morning, until the bell rang.
These were the guys I knew from elementary school and felt most comfortable around. They weren’t a lot brighter than I was but they had a need to assert their presence by menacing others. I never subscribed to this part of hood dumb persona.
I leaned and guarded my own space, unless one of them got near someone I found interesting, and then I’d grunt my protest, which was all it took to warn one of your kind off. It was part of the code, I guess. I had no desire to bully anyone.
It’s as close as I got to joining anything. My athletic ability was noticed by the hoods in my gym class. This gave me a little more physical credibility. Excelling in gym class was not inconsistent with my usual poor performances in other classes.
Having Mr. Q educating me on things I could make my body do was neat. No one but Mr. Romeo seemed aware of the attachment we shared. Toward the end of my 7th grade year, we were playing softball behind the school, when I caught a fat pitch, hitting it from the lower softball field up over the upper field and into the woods.
Mr. Q came running and shouting from the sidelines, “No one touch that ball. No one touch that ball.”
The fielders came back from climbing the hill as Mr. Q disappeared into the school. He returned with a tape measure, measuring from the plate with me holding the other end of his tape. It was a fifty foot tape and took us five measurements to reach the 212 foot homer.
This was my achievement alone. He’d never taught me anything about hitting. He was mightily impressed, putting his arm over my shoulder as we walked back to where the mere mortal boys were playing. The hit might have been mentioned by a few guys to a few other guys and it would have been son forgotten. Mr. Q’s measuring the hit made it legendary.
It was a good year, 7th grade, but not if you looked at my report card. Being stupid was a bit of a handicap, but I loved going to school and getting to gym class each day.
Twelve, all in all, wasn’t bad, but thirteen was going to shake the confidence Mr. Q’s attention had given me. In fact it was the eighth grade teacher of CORE—social studies, English, and geography—who would become my teacher from hell.
You can only fool all the people some of the time and some of the people all the time, but you couldn’t fool Mr. Warnock even for a minute. I’d never met a teacher more aware of his class or more determined to teach them everything they needed to know. He wasn’t fooled for a minute by the tricks I’d learned to hide my ignorance.
*******
This chapter tells you how I came to be a writer. The first story I wrote to send to a publisher was the short version of this chapter. It was bought by Scholastic Inc. in May, 1994, and this set me on the journey to learn my craft.
There’s A
Brain in There
1
2 3 5
6 7
I regretted leaving school at the end of my seventh grade year. The attention I got from Mr. Q had me missing him and looking forward to when we’d meet again in eighth grade gym, where we’d continue to expand my athletic skills.
Going to Florida for the second summer in a row took the sting out of leaving behind my mentor. Getting out of the house was especially satisfying and each time I left, things improved somewhat by the time I returned. Perhaps absence makes the heart grow fonder, or maybe I was getting too big to constantly be disciplined. Maybe it was getting old, or maybe something else led to the peace inside the house of dread I’d always lived in.
No matter the forces at work, I hadn’t changed. I escaped at every opportunity and stayed out for as long as possible. I gobbled my food to leave the dinner table nightly, zoning out in front of the TV or up in my room. After twelve years I was set in my ways and the patterns of my existence were already well established.
Turning thirteen didn’t represent anything earthshaking. I was a year older and a teenager but it felt a lot like twelve without the highlights. The entire year of twelve had altered what went on inside me. Mr. Q was my hero and I lived to impress him.
Avery was close at hand as quick as I arrived. He’d grown in a year, his voice had gotten deeper, and he was even more handsome than ever. Avery had a knack of making me feel special, simply by including me in his rounds. He was the expert on the area and I was with him.
I must say I’d never seen a kid who could handle adults the way Avery handled them. No matter the circumstance or location, when Avery showed up at your door it was a game changer. Kids being punished were only allowed out with Avery, who promised to keep them out of trouble and deliver them safely home.
Avery was a sweet kid, but he had a little devil inside him. It didn’t matter to me, because if I was sent to my room for failing to complete my chores satisfactorily, Avery could spring me in a minute. If Avery didn’t my Pop did, so I had it easy in Florida. Even when I was being punished, it was like being on vacation.
Avery’s friend Joe had a ski boat and on planned mornings I ate breakfast, did my chores, and told Granny I was meeting Avery and Joe. Joe’s dad was the town doctor and Joe was the neatest fellow you’d ever want to know. No one objected if I said I was going to meet him.
I’d walk to the end of Broadway, slip down through the bushes, and if Joe wasn’t there he’d soon arrive. I’d wade out into the water to meet him in his blue and white Lone Star boat with the 40 horsepower Mercury engine that could pull one to four skiers. Usually it was two of us at a time with one of us driving the boat.
Yes, at thirteen I took a giant step into self-confidence among boys to whom driving a boat came naturally. This was another world surrounded by water, adventure, and happy-go-lucky boys who liked having me around. Being only summer friends, I went along for the ride, not being threatened in the least.
Without hesitating Joe told me, “Just make sure you’re going in a straight line. We’ll put up our arms when we are ready. Go immediately to half throttle, which will get us moving, then do full throttle as quick as you see our ski tips rising out of the water. It’ll pull us straight up and just check now and then to see if we’re still there. Nothing to it.”
Joe didn’t ask if I could or if I wanted to, he told me what to do with no doubt I could do it. Of course with a brain that malfunctioned a lot I wasn’t good at picking up new stuff. I never tried anything if I might embarrass myself by doing it. In Florida the rules weren’t so set in concrete. Even though I was scared I’d mess it up, I couldn’t say, ‘I’m too stupid to do this.’
There was the bay, the boat, the boys, and miles and miles of water, what could go wrong? Nothing did.
Driving the boat liberated me in an odd way. The concept of controlling something was new to me. There was a feeling of power that came with driving the boat. Even though I loved skiing behind it, I never passed on a chance to drive to let my buddies ski. This was the best thing yet and I could do it without embarrassing myself.
There were days Avery had things to do and so I met Joe at the end of my block and the two of us explored the waterways around the bay. There was a kind of freedom that went with this that was infectious. I didn’t know how lucky I was to have grandparents who not only retired to Florida, but who wanted me visiting them each summer. I’d never been lucky before, but this would qualify.
Some days we’d stop at Joe’s house for lunch, parking the boat at the pier a hundred feet from his backdoor. We walked up the path through the huge magnolia trees with their huge flowers.
Joe’s family had a maid. She called Joe, “Master Joe” and me “Master Dick.” Any connection with ‘Gone with the Wind’ was lost on me. It was all quite pleasant and when she wasn’t on duty, they shared a cordial relationship that kept me laughing. Needless to say, this was a part of the old south I knew nothing about, but I didn’t know much about anything.
Summer flew by. No sooner had I arrived than it was time to leave. Both Avery and Joe came to see me off. No one came to see me off when I left home. I didn’t know anyone and had no desire to, but in Florida it was a different world, and my life was good and I never thought about it ending until it did.
I was back home facing 8th grade. I’d managed to pass all my courses in 7th grade and knew that sooner or later I was going to be found out as someone without a brain, which was often on my mind, but there was Mr. Q to soften the blow. No matter what the situation I knew I could go to him for advice and he’d give me a square deal.
Gym came right after lunch in 8th grade. This provided for a vacation in the middle of the day. We got forty-five minutes for lunch and then a period of gym. CORE, my biggest hurdle, came on first, second, and on some days, third period, followed by lunch.
Mr. Warnock, CORE teacher, was unique. He was a no-nonsense teacher who had everything under control. You best not let him catch you slumbering on his time. His stern style was my biggest nightmare.
It took me until the second day to figure out he was calling on each student in order of how we were seated to read. I’d raced to each class the first day of school to lay claim to the last desk in the last row in each. It was the rear seat next to the window, which gave my brain plenty of room to roam.
Watching as each student stood to read meant I would be last and my seating arrangement gave me plenty of time to think it over. I was lost in the textbook because of my lack of reading skills and I was about to be found out. I’d been at this for eight years and never once had a teacher started with the first student in the first row to work his way around the room for each student to read. Was he going to get a surprise when he called on me.
There wasn’t much that scared me, not threats and not being batted around, and not driving a ski boat, but the idea of humiliating myself in front of a class full of kids terrified me. There didn’t seem to be any escaping the inevitable. I was always considered stupid but no one mentioned it to me. I’d always found a way to deflect a teacher’s need to include me in class work.
“Charles, stand and read from where she left off,” Mr. Warnock said.
Not recognizing my name came first. It almost always worked, but even an idiot would know I was the only student left who hadn’t read yet.
“Charles!”
I look sleepily up from my desk. Seeing his determination to run his class on his terms and before I had time to act like I was looking for the place, he was swiftly scooted between the desks, stopped at my desk. Seizing my textbook, his stubby finger stabbed the pages, which made a ripping sound as he turned to the proper place. With a loud thump he slapped the book on my desk, holding his finger at a spot on the page.
“Here, read from here,” he said, holding his finger in place until mine moved to the same line on the page.
I slumped forward, leaning my head down closer to the words to see if I could recognize the first one.
“The… con… gress is…,re… res… re…,” I stuttered hesitantly.
“Responsible,” Mr. Warnock said.
“Res… Responsible for… passing leg… legi….”
“Legislation,” Mr. Warnock corrected.
I stuttered, stammered, stumbled, sweated, shook, and pulled each word agonizingly slowly out of the book. I made three words in a row one time before he had to correct me. The class laughed. Mr. Warnock hollered, “Shut up! Go on, Charles.”
I read twenty-four words, one paragraph, and it took just short of forever. By the time I sat down my face was burning, my stomach was churning, and the sweat ran off my face as kids took turns turning to get a good look.
At least he’d never make that mistake again. I’d always been stupid but I kept it to myself before. Now everyone in my class knew and they looked at me like I was the stupid kid, which jacked up my rage a few notches. I’m sure I gave off an aura of danger, because no one came near me from that class.
Being exposed in CORE did nothing for my disposition. I went to gym after skipping lunch and hoped Mr. Q could rescue me from what I felt. Mr. Q always beamed when I came into view. He always said, “Hi Charles.”
By now I knew his name was Andrew, but Mr. Q worked for me. As forgiving as he was concerning everything I did, I think one Andrew would have cancelled it all out. I’d never been that familiar with any adult and especially not any teacher I’d known.
The following morning as I returned to CORE class, it was with the knowledge I wouldn’t be doing any more reading and in time my classmates might forget the display of ignorance I’d given them. I still got stared at and I still hated it. Mr. Warnock was the teacher from hell as far as I was concerned. The quicker he figured out I wasn’t adding anything to his class the better off we’d both be.
“Get out your textbooks. Turn to page 27. Charles, read from the top of the page,” he said calmly.
This wasn’t happening, but it was. The first order of business in the first CORE period each day was laugh at the dumb kid time. I’d read. The class would laugh. Mr. Warnock would yell, and then tell me to continue. I’d disliked a lot of teachers in my time but I’d never hated one the way I hated him for making me humiliate myself in front of my classmates every day.
By the end of the second week I knew the first order of business each day was for me to read a paragraph. Gradually I was resigned to my fate. I kept thinking he had to give up sooner or later. Teachers don’t usually like wasting so much time.
First, the stuttering and stammering reduced. The sweating and shaking disappeared next. Mr. Warnock had to correct me less and less often. The kids found less to laugh at by mid-October. Slowly my seething anger eased off. I made a more serious attempt to sound out and pronounce the words on my own. If I hesitated for more than a couple of seconds Mr. Warnock said the word, and it took less time to complete my ordeal.
The rest of my classes were a piece of cake compared to CORE. Math was easy as long as it was about numbers. Science was interesting but mostly boring. Art & Music proved I had no talent for either. Gym continued to be where I excelled and Mr. Q was always there to give me a boost.
One morning something very different took place as I completed my paragraph.
“That’s very good, Charles. You’ve come a long way,” Mr. Warnock said, I was waiting for him to laugh.
It wasn’t clear to me what that meant. I tried to figure out what would make him say that. What was he up to? I finished out the week reading first thing each morning in first period CORE. I received a similar comment at the end of my paragraph.
Then, the following week, 1st period CORE class began without him calling on me to read. I was ready to read. It wasn’t even painful any more, but from that day forward he didn’t call on me to read any more often than he called on anyone else. I made no more mistakes than anyone else. He had no cause to correct me any more than anyone else did when I read. He never missed a beat or made a big deal out of it. We simply moved on.
The unmistakable conclusion was, he’d taught me to read.
This was cause for a reassessment of my teacher. Maybe he wasn’t the villain I’d made him out to be. No one had cared enough to take the time required to teach me to read before. I felt no less stupid. Reading didn’t change my state of being. For thirteen years that was the one consistent element. I could now recognize words when I saw them. What did that change?
Once read I forgot it a second later. Reading a sentence correctly didn’t tell me what it meant. It didn’t change anything, except maybe I wasn’t as suspicious of Mr. Warnock and I lost my desire to punch out my fellow students in CORE.
I didn’t race home each night to read myself to sleep. I didn’t read anything except in CORE class and things from my science book, but mostly the teacher demonstrated and showed you what he wanted. My memory had always keyed in on what teachers emphasized. What they emphasized would eventually appear on a test. If you remembered those things you’d pass most tests. That’s how I passed until 8th grade. I didn’t need to read but I could.
It was all well and good and by November school was nothing more than the usual routine, except for one thing that was as amazing as Mr. Q, Mr. Warnock teaching me to read.
Thomas Robert
While enduring my ordeal of the words, there was a kid in the next row, one seat in front of mine, who never laughed once. In fact he watched me as I read, winced when the rest of the class laughed, and seemed to be living my pain. He continued to watch me, even after I sat down.
Tommy took to making faces at me or he’d do something totally silly, trying to get me to laugh. At first I refused to pay any attention to him, even after it became apparent he wanted to cheer me up. What did another annoying kid mean to me? Not a thing and I continued acting as though I never saw his contortions.
I didn’t want to smile. I didn’t want to let go of my anger and hatred, but there was this thing he took to doing, turning his head upside down and sticking his chin into his armpit. He’d then make a face, and it never failed to get a giggle out of me. What did he want?
My first slight little giggle had him delighted with himself. I suppose it took him a week, once he’d started his antics to find success. I was alone in a world that offered me nothing. I never smiled. I certainly wasn’t a giggler, but I was human.
It’s all he wanted. He’d go into his post reading routine each morning. Once I broken a smile, he was satisfied. He turned back to the teacher and forgot about me. I must admit he had me curious.
I began making myself available before class. When I’d once spent my time posing near the front entrance with the rest of the hoods, I began going to my locker and standing in front of Mr. Warnock’s room, where Tommy waited for first period. At first we nodded at one another, not having a lot to say. He was shy and I was aloof. Not much to build a friendship on, but there were his to ease my daily ordeal.
We began talking about this and that.
“Nice day?”
“Yeah.”
“They say it might rain?”
“Yeah?”
“I don’t think it will.”
“No.”
This led to the decision we’d meet officially before 1st period CORE to talk about the weather. Each morning when I off the bus, I made my way to the hallway where Tommy was always waiting for me. He lived just blocks from the street that dead-ended at the woods that were beside the school.
We talked about school but never about reading. He talked about his family. He told me about having four brothers and a sister, which were more people than I could conceive of living under one roof together. I never mentioned my family. They hate me. I’m stupid and lazy, which was the best of it. No, I wouldn’t mention my family, but I was keenly interested in his.
Tommy was not only friendly but he was energetic and naturally excited by the things in his life he loved. His befriending me was curious. No one had ever wanted to be my friend before. He wanted to be my friend during one of the most humiliating points in my life, and believe me, I knew humiliation.
George had tried to be my friend the last time I moved back to go to Hillcrest Heights Elementary. He was a very nice boy. He was interested in my cousin, Janet, which made his interest in me suspect. Besides, he lived a block away from where I lived. I’d never invite anyone into my house and the risk of having a friend so close didn’t interest me, but George was often at my elbow as quick as I got outdoors.
He loved to roam and didn’t know the area as well as I, because roaming was my best thing. He was always amazed by where I knew to go to find the best stuff, tiny little frogs hatching from the tadpoles still doting the pond, blue berries, blackberries, and other delicacies there for the taking, and especially jobsites. Houses were popping up all around our area. I knew the best ones, when there were antiques left behind by the workers, slugs and six inch spikes.
George had been okay, but too close for comfort. Tommy was a comfortable 3 miles from where I lived. Tommy was like no other kid I’d ever met. I began going home with him after school by November. I didn’t need to be home until six for dinner and I always walked home in nice weather, because I hated the bus and the noisy kids on it. I had to take it to get to school by 7:30 for the 7:45 bells, but after 2:45 we could romp, roam, play ball, and just be friends.
He never minded me being at his house, although his next to youngest brother often pointed out, you aren’t my brother. Actually I’d known that and while it offended me, I still went to Tommy’s house every day after school, except in really bad weather. We were best friends by virtue of spending all our spare time together.
That’s what Tommy was, my friend. Without even trying I’d made a full-time friend. It was glorious. I’d never belonged anywhere before, but I belonged with Tommy. Even more amazing, he wanted to be around me. I’d always gone to school close to where I lived and making friends meant explaining too much.
Word traveled fast and the only thing I could imagine worse than having no friends was losing one. My parents were certain to betray me. It was their best thing. I never so much lived at home as I existed there.
Tommy confused everything. My ability to be alone and like it that was had given way to my constant need to be with him. I trusted Tommy when I trusted no one.
I didn’t confess that I was homosexual. There were limits even with Tommy. I wasn’t afraid of it and it had nothing to do with the love I felt for my friend, but it could ruin it and while I had vowed never to associate with anyone who couldn’t accept me as is, I couldn’t risk it. I was happy for the first time outside of Florida.
When Tommy and I met, he was a tiny towhead and totally non-threatening in any way. I was far more impressive physically than I was intellectually, far bigger them him. My reputation was no secret, but Tommy either never heard about me or chose to ignore anything he’d heard.
On a very nice day after school one day Tommy took me to the garage where his father worked in Corral Hills. He popped in through one of the back bays and found his father working over the rear of a car that was up on the lift.
“Hey, Pop. What’s up?”
“Oh, I’ve got to get this rear together by closing time. Hey, I’ve got the tranny apart over in that sink. How about putting it together for me so I can get this car out of here before we close.”
“Sure, Pop,” Tommy said, and the little towhead friend of mine went about assembling a transmission.
“Come on,” he said, as I stood totally amazed by his genius.
I knew a wrench from pliers, I think. That’s where mechanics and I parted company. Tommy could do anything mechanical. His father was a mechanic and apparently he’d watched him and learned. He was adept at getting everything to fit together and there weren’t any parts leftover. It was like a jigsaw puzzle with a thousand pieces to it. It was no big deal to Tommy.
I don’t think I could have had more respect for anyone than I did for my friend. The biggest surprise was he liked his father and his father liked him. Not only did his father like him, he trusted him. I was in awe. His father always treated me like he didn’t mind me being around, even when I showed up on the weekend. My life was centered on Tommy’s house. For the first time in my life I voluntarily spent time with people. What a great life.
One Friday I got permission to stay over to go to the movie and my father was going to pick me up at ten o’clock. We were going to walk to the movies in Corral Hills. We had played ball up until it was time for Tommy to go in to get dinner, and I said I’d be back after he ate.
I was going to sit across the street to wait for Tommy to finish. Once we got to the movie, I’d get a large popcorn to fill my belly. It was a good plan until his mother got into the act.
“My mom said get your butt in here and eat,” Tommy said, coming to the curb to invite me to dinner his way.
There I was sitting at Tommy’s table with the brothers, sister, and his parents. They talked, laughed, and made jokes, and I did my best not to spill my milk or spit any food out when I laughed. I’d never felt more like I belonged, even though Gary was there to remind me, you aren’t my brother.
Tommy and his brothers ate and they were ready to go. I thanked their mom for what was a wonderful meal in many ways. We all headed for the door.
“You know we don’t have a lot of money,” Tommy told me as we walked together. “My parents have never let any of our friends eat with us before. I think they really like you.”
It was about the nicest thing he could have said to me. It was a good thing to, because I spent more time at Tommy’s house than I spent at my own as years went on. They became the family I never had, except for Gary. I can’t remember any better days than those.
At Tommy’s house there was always something to do. With four brothers and a sister, that meant instant teams for anything we wanted to do. Whether just throwing the ball around or playing softball with a half dozen of the neighborhood kids, it was magic. I kept close watch on the time and each afternoon by 5:15 I had to be on my way home to be at the table at six. It was three miles and I could walk it in forty-five minutes and just beat my parents into the house.
One Friday evening as I headed home, while walking across the parking lot at the Census Bureau, I began to calculate how I could give back to Tommy and his family some of what they’d given to me. By December, I’d never been happier or more satisfied with myself, and the coming holidays weren’t far away.
I was thinking of a particularly realistic science fiction movie I’d recently seen, and that’s when the idea surfaced. I’d write a science fiction story and Tommy and I and his brothers and sister would be the characters. In this way I’d show them all how much they meant to me, especially Tommy.
The next half an hour of walking went quite rapidly as I formed the idea more completely. Shortly after gobbling down my dinner, I asked to be excused, and that was the evening ‘Martian Disaster’ was born.
I retired to my bedroom. I removed my composition book from the pile of books on my nightstand and opened my creative mind for something other than play. Whatever I tapped into took over. My hand moved across the page in a continuous sequencing of words as the pictures ran through my brain.
I wrote all through the night Friday, stopping only for breakfast in the morning. I immediately went back to my manuscript, until late in the afternoon at which time I fell asleep. I woke up in time for dinner and went back to writing. I fell asleep some time late that night.
I announced for the first time that I wasn’t going to church and got no argument. I went back to my room and before noon ‘Martian Disaster’ was done. It filled my composition book. I set it aside with the books I’d take to school the following day.
I napped on and off Sunday, catching up on lost sleep. There was a feeling of accomplishment. I’d set out to do something I had no reason to think I could do and I did it. This was nice. I’d impress Tommy with the tale that told him how much I thought of him. It gave me a strange feeling with no idea anything could possibly go wrong with such a plan.
I didn’t meet Tommy in the morning as usual and purposely stayed across the school until first period CORE was starting. I made sure he was in his seat before I entered the room.
“Good morning, Charles,” Mr. Warnock said.
“Good morning, Mr. Warnock,” I replied, passing his desk with the prize under my arm.
As I scooted up the row to get to my desk, plop, I dropped the composition book down in front of my best friend. I continued on and sat down, waiting for the payoff.
Tommy turned his head and looked at me curiously. I formed the words ‘read it’ just about the time Mr. Warnock called his first period CORE class to order.
Tommy opened the composition book and read the title, taking one glance back at me. He began reading with his face down in the story. He turned a page and was immediately hooked on my tribute to our friendship. He turned another page.
With every great idea there is the flaw that never comes to mind. I’d written the story, planned on how I’d present it to Tommy, and he’d become engrossed from the first line. It was perfect. It had everything. It all unfolded exactly as I’d seen it, except for one little detail I’d left out: Mr. Warnock.
It took only a few minutes for Mr. Warnock to be standing at the head of the row of desks where Tommy was being less than attentive, head down, lips moving, his finger feeling the page under the words he read.
“Tommy?” Mr. Warnock said softly with no result. “Tommy,” he repeated a little louder as all eyes were now on him.
Being oblivious to the world around him, being lost in the world of my creation, my friend was in mortal danger and I could only whisper a warning.
“Tommy,” I said, leaning forward and shaking his arm.
He shook his arm out of my reach and kept on reading.
By this time Mr. Warnock was carefully and quietly easing himself between the desks until he stood over Tommy and my composition book.
“What are you reading?” Mr. Warnock quizzed, seizing the composition book and beginning to move back to the front of the class, reading as he went. Oh no, he had my story.
Tommy protested any guilt, turning and pointing an accusing finger at me, “It’s his,” he declared as soon as Mr. Warnock turned around to face us, composition book down at this side.
Tommy didn’t need to tell him. He knew my handwriting from the papers we turned in for him to grade. Being given up by my best friend was a blow. It was my own fault and all that work was lost in the hands of the teacher. That hurt as I watched him go back to the composition book while the class waited for him to continue with the period’s lesson on the Supreme Court.
Adults being adults, I wasn’t sure what would come next. Some punishment for disrupting class seemed appropriate. Certainly the loss of the manuscript was punishment enough. He couldn’t possibly know how much work went into the story.
Holding his finger in the book at the place where he stopped, he looked down at my desk, glaring in my direction as I slipped slowly down in my seat.
“Charles?” he said. “Did you write this?”
I sunk further. Maybe the bell would ring, but that wasn’t much help, we had three periods of CORE that morning.
“Charles, come up here.”
It was hard to ignore that. Was I going to the office? I deserved punishment but what did he have in mind?
“Charles, come up here, right now. I want you to read this to the class.”
“What?” I panicked.
How fitting, my private tribute to my best friend put out there for all to hear. It was only meant for Tommy.
I could feel all his ‘atta boys’ and compliments going by the wayside. I’d been making steady progress and Mr. Warnock seemed delighted with everything I did. Now, I was going down.
I stood as he stared at me. Every eye was on me as I took my time getting to the front of the class. Maybe he’d just send me to the office and not embarrass me any more by making me read it.
As I stood in front of him he handed me the book.
“Go ahead. It’s quite good. I want you to read it.”
Mr. Warnock ran a no-nonsense class. He was in charge and you dare not cross him. His punishment came fast and was harsh. I still wasn’t sure about what he wanted. I’d read a little, the class would get a good laugh, and then he’d send me to the office. Looking at his face gave me nothing to go on.
I took the composition book, looking over my shoulder at him as he dragged his chair into the far corner next to the windows. He sat down watching me as I held my finger on the first page waiting.
“Go ahead. Read,” he ordered.
“Martian Disaster,” I said, looking at the class looking at me.
I’d never stood in front of a class before. The closest I came was standing up at my own desk to respond to some question asked.
“The landing went badly. The craft would never fly again. The seven-member crew had survived but they were stranded. Whatever Mars offered would have to sustain them if they were going to stay alive until a rescue mission came.”
I looked up. First I looked at Tommy who was beaming from ear to ear. The class was silent, looking at me, and waiting. Mr. Warnock also looked and waited, and I took them on a journey to Mars.
I read for most of what was left of the period. Mr. Warnock stood to lead the applause. What had happened?
I wasn’t really sure. I was certain I deserved punishment, but how could that be it? I not only felt good about writing the story but I felt very better after reading it. No one held his nose.
“That was very good, Charles. I want you to write more stories and when you do, I’ll let you read them to the class.”
“Yeah!” the class approved.
As I walked back to my desk to hear about the Supreme Court, I found Tommy beaming. He looked at me with a pride I’d never seen in his face before. A few months earlier I was the class idiot and now I was writing stories and reading them to the class. There was no way for me to comprehend it. I just did it, because I could.
My relationship with Mr. Warnock had changed. His cautious demeanor had him saying good morning to me each morning when I passed his desk. After the ‘Martian Disaster’ he was warm and friendly. He smiled at me no matter what I did. Even my class saw me differently. Each time I showed up with a story, they got out of a class period when I read it. I’m sure it had something to do with the class being friendly to me. It was sure better than being laughed at me. They weren’t laughing any longer.
‘Army Buddies,’ and ‘Moon Shine’ came after the New Year started. They were spaced so I didn’t take advantage of a good thing. I was always writing in a composition book after that. I kept one for that purpose. This may not have happened had Tommy not gotten caught and if Mr. Warnock hadn’t put me on stage.
At the moment of truth, when he stood with my composition book at the front of the class, he was obviously thinking it over. He’d taught me to read, but this was totally unexpected. He couldn’t discourage me and so he did something I never saw him do any other time, change the lesson on the spot.
I wasn’t frightened by it. I didn’t hesitate to read it once he told me I had to read it. I was likely the only one who could read it, because my hand writing wasn’t all that legible, but once written, I knew what was there. My brain was pretty good at remembering.
There was no great charge that came from the response to the story. I did what I could do and found no particular joy in the idea others enjoyed what I wrote. There was one exception, Tommy. I set out to impress him by immortalizing him in my story. His reaction was priceless to me and our friendship grew because of it.
Mr. Warnock, being the teacher he was, didn’t stop there. He processed everything and had plenty of experience to give him a perspective no one else could have had about me. After ‘Martian Disaster’ and before the Christmas holidays, he told us that he was going to select a student who would present a synopsis of current events on Friday each week.
Besides being ignorant of what a synopsis was as well as what present might mean, I was my usual dissociative self. Everyone in the classroom but me knew who Mr. Warnock was going to select. There was a certain advantage to having no goals and little understanding about how things work. Why would he pick me?
I’d never been the least bit competitive. I didn’t compete with myself or push myself, because there’d never been anything to push. Tommy told me it would be me the first time it was mentioned. I laughed at the idea. I didn’t know this was Mr. Warnock’s next step for me. I’d learned to read. I’d become a writer. He was going to give me something to get my teeth into when it came to writing without knowing what I’d do with it.
Good teachers will use whatever tools they have at hand to get the most out of their students. A year and a half before a teacher had seen me perform the impossible. How could a kid who has never held a putter before, sink a dozen consecutive putts without a miss?
Then I showed up in his gym class, and he intended to find out what else he could teach me to do. Having never been challenged, I wasn’t limited by past performances. I was a clean slate. I sought to please Mr. Q and I did everything he asked me to do with gusto.
I was born a perfect zero at twelve. My only purpose until then was to survive and stay out of the line of fire, especially in school. Meeting men who were smart enough to recognize untapped potential meant they were looking for ways to challenge me with things I’d never tried.
No one told me sinking twelve consecutive putts was impossible. No one told me a mostly illiterate kid in September could learn to read and then become a writer by November. Perhaps there was some benefit in never having tried. For the great teacher it allows them to fill an empty vessel. All I am and ever have been was orchestrated by two very talented men.
After we returned to CORE in January I was selected to present ‘current events’ each Friday from that week forward. A booth with a microphone had been constructed right behind my desk in the far corner of the room. Speakers were set up in each corner of the room so I could be heard from my corner perch.
First I needed to figure out what current events were. I asked Mr. Warnock for tips and he suggested I go through the papers and watch all the news broadcasts. I went through all the DC papers and wrote my own script. I showed up on Fridays to present it to the class. I had the floor for as long as it took. I was in control of the class for most of an hour each Friday morning.
I can’t say I didn’t enjoy it; I did. I’d never read a newspaper before and now I knew everything that was going on locally, nationally, as well as internationally. The amount of respect that came from my classmates was worth all the hours I poured into my anchor position. Mr. Warnock sat silently by, thanking me each week after my delivery.
I even took to leaving Tommy’s house earlier some afternoons to go home to read the papers before dinner and the television had to be on for me to watch the evening news to get another slant on things. My parents didn’t know what to make of the athlete and scholar who’d suddenly shown up at their house. We rarely talked by they saw the newer more confident son that had come to stay.
I suppose that when everything is going great, and nothing has ever gone that well before, you need to start looking over your shoulder in search of the Grim Reaper. By the time eighth grade was in its final month, I’d never had it so good. My body and mind entered the same orbit as I stretched my potential far beyond any and all limitations I may have suspected were there.
I couldn’t get to CORE fast enough each morning and I was dressed for gym before the bell rang ending lunch. I felt better about myself because two teachers made it their business to make me feel better about myself. Where confusion once reined, I knew what I was doing for the first time. I no longer went to school dreading the sound of my name being called.
At the end of the third quarter of my 8th grade year, something rather strange had taken place. One morning after my bus arrived, Tommy met me to lead me to the bulletin board outside the office in the main hall. He stopped at the newly posted Honor Roll, and Tommy pointed out my name.
“You’re on the Honor Roll!” Tommy bragged.
“I am?” I said.
How does that happen?
The thought furthest from my mind, when the year started, was making the Honor Roll. When the year started I was still trying to hide my ignorance. After so many years I didn’t know I could do something about it. No one ever told me. This was a completely unexpected byproduct of what had been happening to me that year.
What did it mean?
At home it offered iron clad proof that something had changed, which had far more importance than I could have known when the Honor Roll letter arrived at my house. For years my report cards came marked with the dreaded, “Charles could do better if he tried.”
This had me under the gun, because it reflected on my parents. It was simply another part of why I was so undeserving of consideration in their house. I had always been a disappointment.
The Honor Roll confused my parents. My mother saw this as a validation of her parenting skills. Stupidity was mine alone but my intellect was a family affair. Whatever it was, it got me better treatment on the home front. I had never asked for anything and I didn’t expect much, but not being under constant pressure in my house, where I rarely was, helped me a lot.
My parents had heard about Mr. Q while I was still stupid, so it made no difference, but now they listened when I spoke about school. The tension was reduced but my routine was long ago established and it didn’t change. I went home to eat and sleep but none of my meaningful life was spent there.
On a cloudy and drizzly day in May Mr. Q intercepted me before I went into the locker room after class.
“See me before you leave for next period,” he said.
I wasn’t sure what he wanted, but I skipped the shower and headed for his office still buttoning my shirt.
“Yes, sir,” I said, standing in the doorway of his office.
“Come with me,’ he said. He pushed himself out of his chair as soon as he saw me.
We walked toward the front of the school and went out the door nearest to the office. He had his hand on my shoulder, which was unusual, as patting my back was as and a handshake now and then was the extent of physical contact. This change worried me.
We walked outside into the teacher’s parking lot and stepped on the grass divider that separated us from the road that circled around the athletic field and the high school.
I was confused. What had I done? It was drizzling rain and he was in a T-shirt and me in my street clothes.
“Charles, what do you see?” he asked, aiming me at the only thing I readily identified.
“The high school,” I said as we faced the huge brick building that dominated the landscape.
“What’s in-between here and there?”
“The athletic field,” I recognized confidently.
“What goes around the athletic field?”
“The track?”
“When you get up there, I want you to go out for the track team.”
“What?” I asked. “I’ve got another year with you first,” I explained to him, confident he was way premature with this idea.
“No, you don’t, Charles. The new junior high school, Stoddard, is opening near where you life. You’ll go there next year. This will be the final year I coach you. I want you to promise me you’ll go out for the track team once you get up there.”
“I don’t want to go to another school. I want to come here. I want you to be my teacher. I won’t go to the new school,” I protested in a way I’d never spoken to an adult before.
“I checked the list. Your name is on it. You’ll go to the new school next year. You don’t get to choose.”
‘I won’t go,” I protested further.
“Promise me that when you get to the high school, you’ll go out for track.”
We stood nose to nose much like the first day I’d come into his gym class. He was waiting and we might have stood there until school let out if I didn’t say what he wanted me to say.
“I promise,” I said, feeling like someone had just gutted me.
He smiled and put his arm over my shoulder as we walked back to the hallway we’d gone out of. I wanted to cry. The only place where I had ever belonged was being snatched away from me.
“If your teacher says anything about you being late, you tell him to talk to Mr. Q about it?” He said with authority as I tried to grasp what he’d just told me.
“Yes, sir,” I said, doing a slow withdrawal from the life I loved and was about to lose.
I’d rather have never found any happiness rather than to have it and face giving it all up.
As quick as the final bell rang I was waiting for Tommy at his locker. I needed his friendship more than ever now. I was losing his friendship, another victim of this cruel event.
“I’m not going to school here next year,” I blurted as he was exchanging books, not sure what he heard me say.
“Cut it out,” he said, laughing like he didn’t believe it.
“Mr. Q says I’m going to a new school near where I live.”
“Mr. Q. He could be mistaken about a thing like that. Let’s go ask Mr. Warnock. He’ll know,” Tommy said, feeling confident there was some mistake.
“Hi, boys, what can I do for you this dank and dreary afternoon?”
“Mr. Q says there’s a new school and Charles isn’t coming back here next year. Is it true?”
“Oh, I got something on that this morning. Let me look.”
Mr. Warnock opened his top drawer and pulled out a large envelope. Inside were several pages of names in alphabetical order. On the first page a third of the way down he came up with the answer.
“Yeah, here’s your name. You’ll be going to Benjamin Stoddard. It’s a brand new school. That’ll be nice.”
“I won’t go. I want to go here,” I protested for Mr. Warnock.
“Yes you will. Your name is on the list and that’s where you’ll be going to school next year. Nothing you can do about it, Charles. You’ll do fine.”
“I won’t go. All my friends are here. I don’t want to go there.”
“You’ll be back for senior high. You’ll make new friends. Going to a new school will be fun. You’ll like it once you get used to it. We’ll still be here when you come back for senior high.”
No, I would never like it. For the first time in my life I had friends to lose and teachers I could trust. Only 7th and 8th grade meant anything to me. Just as my life was turning around, the state of Maryland figures out a way to snatch it away.
Being forced to leave the first safe haven in my life meant I’d never like whatever was forced on me to take its place. I had the friend I wanted and while there would be people I could communicate with, I’d never like it or think it replaced what I loved. It was tragedy to join the tragedy of the life I’d known before 7th grade. I could only imagine what might have been had I been left alone to have another year with my mentors.
Losing it. Having it taken away would mean never really trusting anything can last. In a moment it can all disappear without any way to stop it. I’d avoid becoming close to anyone for twelve years for one reason, I didn’t want to be betrayed or face losing it.
Summer was on us and Florida was a safe place. It was temporary and there was nothing to lose in that. As with most things I could distract myself by wandering and keeping busy. I’d show up the first day of 9th grade with getting out of there the only thing being on my mind.
Tommy shared my gloom. We decided to make the most of what little time there was left for us to spend our after-school hours together. Even though there were still weeks left before the summer vacation began, my mood turned sour and went downhill from there. It would never be possible to have the same friendship once we spent a year apart. We were going to grow apart.
Once more my Florida summer helped to put distance between me and the difficulty that had returned to my life. I was able to keep my mind off of what was coming as my days were filled with activities, other kids, and a way of life that was far more relaxed than where I came from.
Seeing Avery and Joe was nice. We talked about waterskiing all the way to New Orleans and back as a way to raise money for charity. One of us would have to be up on the skis at all times. It was maybe 200 miles by water and at 30 mph, it would take one day. We never did it but we were 14 and the bigger the idea the better. We spent the summer exploring the islands in the bay and pretending we were pirates from past local history.
Nothing could hold back time, and Florida time went way faster than Maryland time. Avery was there to wish me well and send me on my way back home.
My voice was changing and I was growing bigger and stronger. Hair was growing in places where hair had never grown before. I had begun to shave irregularly but the fuzzy made for pimples and shaving helped. Life was changing.
*******
Benjamin Stoddard was impressive. It was built on one of my roaming trails in the forest next to the stream I once waded in. I never saw a brick put in place or visited the school under construction, because I spent all available time with Tommy. It had grown up there without my ever knowing it was being built. I did not associate with anyone I knew from my neighborhood, so word came to me through the teachers I’d leave behind.
I was back to being angry most of the time. I decided to renounce my body and athletics were off the table. I’d focus my entire effort into getting straight A’s. My life would be about my books and writing. I’d take gym as required but I wouldn’t make any effort to expand upon what Mr. Q taught me.
Of course this would be a lofty goal to reach considering the C’s and D’s that marked my report card in 7th grade. I’d been on the Honor Roll the last two quarters of 8th grade and I wanted to do my best to maintaining the streak as a way to occupy my mind. I knew what the Honor Roll was now and that was my goal.
I continued to write and my hand writing was improving, because I wrote more often. The first story I handed in for credit in 9th grade English got a B.
“You are a good story teller but you can’t spell and you don’t know a sentence from a clause. Your hand writing needs improving,” the teacher explained.
It was the pattern that discouraged me throughout the rest of my years in school. ‘You tell a good story but no one will ever be able to read them. Your spelling is terrible.’
I could memorize our spelling lists and get a perfect score, but remembering them for writing didn’t equate. Many times my brain froze up on easy words that I knew but was unable to recall as I wrote. Gone were the days of being celebrated by my class for getting them out of an hour of studying. My English teacher never asked me to read anything.
I still got an A in CORE, but the teacher didn’t like me. I became known as The Brain from the kids who had been with me in Mr. Warnock’s class. I remember how that class had started and how pathetic I was with everyone laughing at me. I’d been the clown most of my school career, deflecting the stupidity label with antics that mystified teachers and students alike. What a difference a year can make.
While I renounced my body, I couldn’t lose the rage. It was worse than ever and not as far from the surface. One day in the hall one of the school bullies, six foot forever and two hundred pounds, began pushing a kid I happened to like. Louis was small and no contest for the bully. I was no contest for the bully. I dropped my books and launched my body into the bullies at precisely the proper angle and at full speed.
I knocked him off his feet and sent him sliding twenty feet down the hall. This was never thought out. I just went off, hating to see anyone pushed. In a typical rage I’d have gone after him, landed on top of him, and I’d black out, only regaining my senses when we were pulled apart.
This turned out to be the final time I went out of control and It was somewhat muted, but I felt the rage boiling inside me and had he done anything different, I can’t say what I’d have done.
After pushing him from behind, I ran to where he came to rest. Standing over him, I pushed my finger into his face, “You touch him again I’ll kill you.”
He cried foul, asking his buddy to intercede on his behalf. His buddy replied, “You started it.”
The Brain had erupted in the hall, going back to my roots. All the old hoods I’d associated with were back in my corner, forgiving me my display of intelligence. They knew The Brain deal had to be some kind of mistake, because I’d always been dumb as a post.
The object of my rage became peaceful around me. He acted as if we’d never clashed at all. It worked for me. We weren’t going to break out in spontaneous smiles, but I was never intentionally looking for trouble.
Louis, who was in several of my classes, looked at me out of the corner of his eye from then on. I may have been defending his honor, but he wasn’t coming near me. Such is the cost of going off like you might be crazy.
School was school and I’d never enjoyed going to school again and I spent a lot of time not going. My parents were different people and while we talked no more than we ever did, it was easier. Thinking of what I’d lost and was no longer a part of didn’t cross my mind much. This was another world and it was the one I was in. Wishing and dreaming had never gotten me far.
My first report card showed some results with 5 A’s and a B. My Honor Roll run continued and my brain worked without my mentors being there to motivate me or orchestrate ways to challenge me.
It wasn’t easy to force myself to study so much but the idea of straight A’s became an obsession that seemed within reach, since the B came in Geography. With the previous year's exposure to current events, I could name all the countries, their capitols, major exports, and locate them on a blank map of the world, the one in my bedroom over my bed in fact. I knew the world upside down and backwards and sooner or later she had to give me the A.
Again the CORE teacher complained about my poor mechanics in English and yet continued giving me A’s. She was the geography teacher and even though I could teach the class, she continued giving me B’s, which was a source of frustration. Why was she giving me the A in CORE and not in Geography?
While retrieving a notebook to write in from the cabinet downstairs, I ran across a typing book my mother used a few years before to advance in her job. I opened the closet in the living room where I found the Underwood Typewriter she’d used. It was just keys and a carriage and you could see all the gears and mechanics of the thing, but it typed fine, except the ‘e’ was cockeyed and always appeared a little off kilter. It seemed fitting.
My new objective was to overcome my poor penmanship with typed copies of everything I handed in. By the end of the second quarter all my papers were typed neatly. It made my papers easier to read without doing a thing for my spelling.
“Who typed this?” my CORE teacher inquired.
“I did,” I said proudly, seeing the doubt in her face.
“Where did you learn to type?” she asked, still not convinced.
“I taught myself out of my mother’s typing text book. You said my handwriting needed work. I thought you’d appreciate receiving them typed.”
“You taught yourself to type because I criticized your handwriting?”
“Yes, ma’am,” I said, as she looked at me, looked at the paper, and shook her head. “You still don’t know a clause from a sentence. What you need is a dictionary.”
Mr. Warnock would have been announcing my typing skills on the loud speaker system at school. What a feat for me to teach myself to type. Mr. Q might have forced all the boys to learn to type. Mrs. Mazda simply shook her head looking at me like she wasn’t sure I wasn’t from outer space.
It was toughen up time at Stoddard. I could stand on my head and spit wooden nickels and I’d get called down for littering if anyone noticed at all. It was worse than I calculated it might be. Going from stardom to a zero was a long fall, after always being a zero before.
I didn’t teach myself to type for her. I did it for me and she wasn’t able to shake my feeling of pride at having done it. I suppose I was a bit obnoxious and no one likes a smart ass. I did things because I decided it was what I wanted to do. I bet she couldn’t type.
No matter what I did, each report card was a mirror image of the last, 5 A’s and 1 B.
I studied the geography textbook for any information that might have slipped by me to enhance my knowledge of the world. I neatly typed all my papers and even practiced writing better for in-class assignments. My grades on the pop quizzes in geography were almost all 90 or 95 on the 20 question quizzes in the final quarter of school. This time she couldn’t possibly justify a B in Geography. I was confident I’d finally get straight A’s.
And she didn’t; I got the same 5A’s and B to end the year, but she gave me an A in Geography and a B in CORE, then she averaged out my CORE grade to a B and my Geography grade to an A for the year.
I was madder than a hornet. She knew how hard I’d worked for straight A’s and she toyed with me in the end, denying me the only thing I’d set out to do that school year. School was a fraud and I wasn’t going to play again. It didn’t matter how hard you worked. The teacher held all the cards and I would never invest that kind of energy into achieving anything else in school.
I had to be there and I would be, most of the time but all bets were off. I’d started the school year angry and I ended the 9th grade even angrier, and my report card wasn’t the worst of it. The betrayals continued both in school and out.
How could life be so good and go so completely bad so fast?
My parents announced we were buying a house. My input wasn’t sought but I lobbied for the one a couple of miles from the high school that was a few hundred yards from the junior high where I’d learned about succeeding.
My parents picked out a house in another school district, which meant I wouldn’t be returning to the high school near my old junior high. This put me in a tailspin that had me doing something I wouldn’t normally do.
One day after leaving the house, with my father driving me to Stoddard, where they agreed to let me finish the school year, I made my pitch.
“I’ve worked all year keeping my grades up,” I said, floating out the bait to be considered.
“Yes, and your mother and I are proud of you,” Dad said.
“I wanted to get my grades up so I could run track at the high school. The high school I’ll be going to doesn't have a track team,” I argued, not knowing for sure, but it was the best I could do.
My father didn’t respond. This was predictable and I knew better than to push the issue. Like any good fisherman, you cast out your bait and you wait. He heard me and he knew what I wanted. This would not be something he’d answer without consulting my mother first. Rules were everything at my house.
Stoddard represented nothing to me. It was a building where I went to school. There was no attachment or connection once I walked out the door. I never returned there. In fact I probably figured that it was built in order to deny me access to the people I depended upon. I had no illusions about what life was. I had no great hope my request would be seriously considered.
While I’d brought a lot more skills with me to 9th grade, it didn’t account for much. No one encouraged me, except Mr. Rush, my gym teacher, who advised me to find a gymnastic program to get involved with. This being my year off from athletics, I thanked him and never looked into it. He was an okay guy but I’d made a vow to avoid using my body to make me feel better.
My attempt at getting straight A’s was met with resistance by a teacher who viewed me with suspicion. How could I be so smart and yet be so stupid. Spelling and the mechanics involved in writing well were absent my brain. She found it difficult to say anything nice without adding her critical caveat. No, I wasn’t as smart as she, but I was in the 9th grade, she was teaching it. Encouraging students should be part of the curriculum. Maybe a few tips about spelling would have been nice.
9th grade was done and when I went off to Florida I had no idea where I would go to school the following year. I’d put my bid in to return to Suitland for senior high school, but I was supposed to go to Surratesville. Nothing had been said since I’d made my pitch to my father and I wasn’t going to ruin my trip to Florida by worrying about returning to the people who meant so much to me.
Florida was a trip. My Aunt and Uncle had moved there, bringing a 35-foot fishing boat through the Panama Canal and up to Fort Walton Beach, where I would caulk its decks each morning before the heat of the day. One week we went to Houston to bring back two brand new diesel engines to replace the worn out pair that got it to Florida.
I got to SCUBA dive off the side of the boat, checking the hull for barnacles and scrapping same. With the girls from across the street from my grandparents and my two female cousins swimming close by on some days, I’d leave my post under the boat and swim up under one of them and grab them from below. It worked great the first few times but the surprise attacks weren’t a surprise after a while. I was 15 and having a good time.
Joe had a new T-bird for his birthday and I got to go with him a few times, but he was far too busy to do a lot of boating and water skiing. Avery and I hung around when I wasn’t working. It was easy to see he was maturing, growing, and sharper than ever. I think I had an attraction to him that summer. I’d had an attraction to a boy at Stoddard and he preoccupied me for a time.
I knew what attraction led to but I had no desire to go there. That would require way more trust than I was capable of finding. Life was far too fluid for me to become attached to another boy in some kind of sexual bonding that I might not be able to control. No, I admired Avery and that was fine. I didn’t need any more than that from him.
With Avery’s parents going north before summer’s end they offered to drop me off at my house. It would be the last time Avery and I were to see each other but we didn’t know it then. We shook hands and my summer friends were no more. Life was in flux again.
I was a little early getting back home this year and spent some time writing and getting better acquainted with my new neighborhood. When we moved in there was only one other house with people in it on our block, but slowly they were being filled and new houses were being built on the next block and the block after that. There were entire new wildernesses to explore.
One morning while sitting at the breakfast table reading the Wheaties box, my father shocked me to attention. It came like a bolt from the blue.
“I talked to your mother about what you asked me before you went to your grandparents. She agrees that you should be able to run track if you want. We’ve talked to Aunt Regina and she’ll let us use her address so you can go to Suitland, but I’ll have to leave you off at six each morning and I won’t be able to pick you up until six in the evening. It’ll be a long day for you.”
“Yes,” I said, almost spilling my cereal.
“You sure this is what you want?”
“Yes, sir,” I said elated.
It was everything I wanted and more. I’d be dropped at Aunt Regina’s at six each morning and I’d walk the two blocks to Tommy’s house in time to walk him to school. After school I’d get to stay at Tommy’s until six every evening. It had everything.
My parents weren’t people who skirted rules for any reason and the rules said I should go to the school nearest my house. Instead I’d go to a school eight miles away and I didn’t care a bit what rules had to be broken to do it.
I called Tommy that morning and told him what was going to happen. We’d both been in a funk about my departure and then the idea that we’d no longer be attending the same school, but he was as happy as I was about this turn of events. He was still my friend and we picked up right where we’d left off.
The first day I got to try out my new schedule, I raced down the hill to Tommy’s to meet him, and we were immediately on our way to the junior high school. Our first stop was Mr. Warnock’s room; he was just setting his briefcase down when we arrived.
“Ah, Charles, you survived your exile from us? It wasn’t so bad, now was it?”
“Yes, it was. I missed being here,” I said, coming as close to saying I missed you as I could.
He heard what I said and he looked at me carefully.
“Did you keep your grades up, Charles?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good, and Thomas how are you this fine day.”
“I’m fine,” Tommy said, always seeming like he was.
Reconnecting with Mr. Warnock made my life easier. I wasn’t in his class anymore but knowing he was there for me helped. We’d meet outside of school by accident a few times and it was always cordial and one afternoon in my senior year of school we met at the open house at Andrews AFB and spent some time exploring the exhibits together. I never lost the feeling that this man had rescued me from a life that might have been far less agreeable had I not passed through his class.
My second stop was at the gym and I stopped in the doorway of Mr. Q’s office. As soon as he saw me he stood, beaming, and he came to shake my hand.
“Charles, how nice to see you. How are you?”
“Fine, now,” I said, recognizing the man who set my new life in motion three years before.
The same was true of Mr. Q, whenever we met; it was instant cause for being friendly, warm, delighted. He genuinely cared about me and from time to time during my years on the high school track team, I’d see him standing down on the junior high school side of the fence, watching me run or practice. By the time I could break away, he would be gone, but it still made me smile.
I had achieved what I set out to do, and I was happy to be back near my friends. I didn’t care where I went to school, but I needed to be near the people who proved they were my friends.
Tommy and I spent more time together than ever. We roamed, talked, and enjoyed all the things we’d enjoyed before. I was another brother again, except when Gary got tired of my face,
but mostly I was another guy to play softball or football with. It was good to come home and see nothing had changed after a year.
High School was no big deal. Mostly I fell back on what I’d learned in 8th and 9th grade. There were no mentors in senior high and my stories received the same treatment as in 9th grade. Only Mr. Warnock appreciated the genius of an illiterate kid’s thinking he could write when he could hardly read and still couldn’t spell.
I’ve often wondered what could have happened had I been encouraged in 9th grade. I could have taken Journalism in high school and I’d probably have learned enough to make me want to go to college and study literature and creative writing. Instead I avoided studying as much as possible. I was never going to be able to learn the mechanics of English at this late date, and spelling was the bane of my existence. What I needed was a machine that could check my spelling, but who had ever heard of such a thing?
My life was about my friendship with Tommy and the occasional visit to the junior high school. On bad days I’d go see Mr. Warnock, and at times I sat in on one of his classes late in the day. It was my safe haven.
Mr. Q was a bit more problematic. I’d made him a promise and as much as I respected him I wasn’t sure I would go out for track. I knew he had forced the promise out of me, using his adult authority to get what he wanted, but what I didn’t know was why this was important to him.
What if I didn’t go out for track? Would he think less of me, smile less, act less happy to see me? There was another consideration besides not wanting to give up my time with Tommy. My parents went against their usual way of doing things to make sure I had the opportunity to go out for track. What would be the response when I didn’t go out for track?
I didn’t dare lie to them about anything that significant and yet, my desire to honor my promise to Mr. Q was the fly in the ointment. Why had I promised him? Why hadn’t I told my parents I’d get better grades at Suitland? It was my grades that had them agreeing to send me to Suitland in the first place, but I didn’t care about grades any longer.
Life is never easy. Mr. Q never mentioned the promise again. He expected me to do as I said I’d do. I could do what I wanted but the fallout might blow up my life.
For this reason I wouldn’t make up my mind what to do until the call came for, “anyone interested in joining the track team, report to the gym after final period today.”
The End
Posted: 07/19/19