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THE CAR
SMELLS of square fish and french fries. Jared
has made a reasonable effort to keep the paper packaged food balanced
on his lap, with, I must say, better than average results. I
steal a french fry. When he feigns mock anger, I laugh when it
becomes obvious to us both his mouth is too full of fish sandwich to
voice anything but an offended grunt. A large soft drink sweating
between his legs is raised to the task, and soon after, we are exiting
off the freeway in the direction of the airport, with Jared feeding me
the rest of his fries one by one, faster than I can chew and swallow
them. He's done this before. It amuses him, I think.
At 12-and-a-half, his thin lanky frame is showing signs of rapid,
turbulent changes, and soon I suspect, I'll no longer reap the benefits
of his small stomach, which has never fully lived up to his extra-large
fast-food eyes. Soon I'll be lucky to lick the wrappers.
We've been making this trip off and on since I met him, nearly six
months ago. As usual, we appear to be the only ones around as we
leave Richardson Road, and pull into a narrow street, then immediately
into a short access driveway leading to a field blocked by an old rusty
gate. It is just before five in the afternoon. In the
evening there are often others parked on the street across from the
North/South runways, and near where we are now. We park at the
foot of the gate protecting the field where nothing grazes, and nothing
grows. Jared is already up on his knees, leaning into the back
seat, getting the binoculars. I half wince, half smile as I
notice the crushed fries on the seat between the knees of my
blue-jeaned friend. I say not a word. He always tried so
hard.
Minutes later we are out of the car. Jared steps a few feet away
to pee into a bush, instructing me not to look, and then throwing a sly
smile and a glance over his shoulder to see if I am. I pretend
indifference as his hips sway to and fro, painting leaves and branches
in boyish amusement. Soon we are both searching the southern sky
for incoming planes. Three have already passed overhead since
we've arrived. Soon they'll be landing roughly every three or
four minutes, a little less than half a mile from where we are watching
them come in.
We sit on my car's hood, our backs against the windshield, faces aimed
toward the sky. Using the binoculars, the giant passenger jets
look positively terrifying as they drop out of the sky and sweep
directly above us in deafening, thundering consistency. Even
without the field glasses, the planes are nearly on the ground as they
fly over our spot. We've only recently taken to using them on
these afternoon trips, and the effect is incredible.
I watch Jared now as he spies, then follows in, the next 737; mouth
slightly agape, and sockless feet stuck in penny loafers clicking
together, giving away his excitement. He's never been in a plane
before. I wonder how his brain records these magnified silver
monstrosities. He's never, at least to me, expressed a desire to
fly in one.
We watch close to 20 jets arrive before Jared signals his restlessness
by covering the lenses of my binoculars with his hands as a jet rumbles
overhead. He slides off the hood of the car, stretches, and gets
inside. Soon after, I hear the radio leaking from the sun
roof. I get down myself.
Only three hours ago, we were at my place, immersed and entwined,
naked, forging pleasurable paths to blessed release. Me once, him
twice. Now he waits for me, reclined with seat back, and jeans
unsnapped, his hardness reaching skyward, straining against white
underwear.
The sun is pouring into the windshield as we drive up Price Avenue
towards Jared's neighborhood. His hand and mine share the stick
shift most of the trip back. We ride in contented silence till we
near his street, and yet another goodbye. I squeeze his
hand. He squints at me and grins. He is content with our
relationship. No worries. Can that possibly be true?
I pull into the church parking lot a few blocks away from his
house. He says he'll call me tonight. Jared opens the car
door slightly, unhooks his seat belt, and quickly gives me a kiss
before getting out and running the length of the parking lot and into
someone's backyard. An odd sense of relief and sadness washes
over me as I head towards home.
I love this boy. I am scared for us both. I miss him
already.
The Dream
[three weeks later] I am standing atop a sand dune, sparsely covered
with patches of grass. . . the twilight sky is
blood-red and purple as I stare in the direction of this great white
house on the beach; nestled between the sea and a ribbon of road that
is black and nearly invisible. . . Suddenly I see
Jared. He is running from the house. . .
running towards me in a long night shirt and bare feet, screaming and
crying. . . Now his father appears, leaning out of a
second story window of their house with a rifle trained on the boy,
taking shot after shot at his son. I scream at the top of my
lungs and wave my arms frantically at this man in the window.
"Shoot at me goddammit! shoot at me, not Jared!.” .
. I rush out to help him, and we stumble towards the sea, gasping
for breath and crying. . . Jared keeps falling.
I carry him into the water with his head on my shoulder, fighting the
waves until I'm too weak to hold him any longer. He is
dead. As I fall I close my eyes and allow the cold black water to
swallow us and take us, together, out to sea. . . and
I wake up. My alarm clock is ringing. I've got to piss, but
I don't move. I just lay there with my heart pounding in my
chest, swallowing hard, and stare at the gray ceiling as the dream
fades. . .
Summer
Jared is spending a month at his grandparents house near Lake Erie,
away from the South Carolina heat. Away from me. A ritual
of summer for him. A month of hazy loneliness for me.
I am laying in bed, drifting somewhere between sleep and consciousness
when the phone rings. The machine picks it up, and I'm suddenly
wide awake as I hear the voice of a telephone operator tell my caller
that he has reached an answering machine, and asking him if he would
like to try again later? I scramble out of my bed and fall onto
the receiver. "I'll accept!" I scream at the voice. "I'll
accept!"
"Hey," he says.
"Hey!" I say back. "You remembered!"
"Yep."
"Did you have any trouble calling collect?"
"Well, I didn't remember the area code, but the lady knew it when I
told her where you lived," he said.
"Damn! It's good to hear your voice! Can you talk- I mean-
is anyone around?"
"They're out at some flea market with my sister. I just got up."
"Watcha been doin?" I ask.
"I dunno. Nothing really. It's boring. My friend
moved."
"Your friend?"
"Yeh, you know- the kid who had the go cart- David."
"What about your bike? Didn't you tell me there's a shopping
plaza near there?"
"Yeh," he sighs, "but it's boring."
"You sound lonely buddy. Are you?" I ask.
"Maybe a little. I dunno."
We talk for nearly an hour. I learn he's been agreeably lent out
to various neighbors by his grandfather for lawn work, which had thus
far netted him about 70 bucks, minus the 20 he said he's spent on video
games at the plaza. I also learn his grandpa lets him drive his
old Ford up and down the long driveway while he watches on the
porch. Suddenly I am a little less lonely for him. For
me. At some point, I tell him I miss him, and in an embarrassed,
silly-sweetened tone, he tells me he misses me, too. A verbal
disguise he can't pull off, as sincerity leaks through. I
abruptly need to be there with him. I don't mention this.
Instead, I remind him he'll be home soon, and we spend the next few
minutes making plans, and this makes us both feel better.
He tells me there is a picnic table under a weeping willow tree deep in
the backyard where he masturbates sometimes when his grandparents are
watching the news in the late afternoon.
When I inquire into what I'm guessing is a lack of privacy in his
sleeping arrangements, I'm told matter-of-factly: "I do it then, too,"
as if I should have known. Suddenly, he wants to go, with
promises he'll call again. I understand. Both of us soon to
find and touch each other in the rapturous erotic imagery of our
memories, alone in our beds, or perhaps, for one of us, under a weeping
willow.
Blue Flash Dots
(approximately a year and a half later)
A steady cold rain continues its relentless assault as I pull into the
Quik Mart parking lot, already crowded with customers anxious to get
off the road for awhile. Jared is standing near the pay phone,
huddled against the ice freezer left unused by customers more
interested in hot coffee and soup-to-go on this dreary winter
afternoon. Dressed in a sleeveless parka and bright yellow hooded
sweatshirt underneath, he still looks cold. When he sees me his
face brightens, and he quickly gets in with muddy heights and jeans --
a testament to his journey to here from his house. Soon I am
watching him rush around in the store, money in hand, buying himself a
pop and some cheese crackers, and surprising me with some bizarre
beverage for myself, as is our routine. Returning to the car, I
am offered my change without comment. He never asks to keep it.
Jared just wants to drive around. He says he's got to be home
early, as his family is having "a stupid portrait made" for a Christmas
present to his grandparents. He wants to meet again tomorrow, but
I tell him I've got to work, and can't make it. This is met with
silence. Since we live so far apart, and since Jared has to call
me because I can't very well call him, our schedules have frequently
clashed. We've both made sacrifices. That hasn't always
been easy. But it's always been worth it. Now it's getting
harder, especially for Jared.
"I'm hungry," he says.
We stop at a little dumpy fish place we often frequent on our way back
to his neighborhood. Shrimp for me. Fish sandwich for
him. He plays a video game while I wait at the table for our
order. He returns as the food is delivered.
We eat in silence, listening to the chatter at the lunch counter.
We share a smile as we listen to the moronic prattle drifting from a
couple of bored waitresses parked on stools that have seemingly
disappeared under them.
"Jared? Is something wrong?"
"No."
"Come on, man, what's buggin you?"
"Nothing.” He looks at me long enough to see this hasn't
satisfied my interest. "Nothing!" he says again, flashing an
annoyed smile, as if to appease me.
"Is there something you want to talk about?" I ask, not giving up.
"No. That's not it.” Both of us knowing what "that"
is. "That" is to us the embodiment of existence. Our status
in the world -- questioning the rules over the phone. Learning
each other's fears in whispers under the covers in quiet moments after
making love. "That" is being safe, while affirming each other's
right to exist in this wonderful yet often grotesque world.
For months I've put off seeing Jared has changed. His yearnings
are now that of a young man; his world expanding, while I remain static
and stagnant in his eyes, trapped in the slower-moving existence of
adulthood, now terrifyingly close to his own evolving experience.
This is going to be hard, but I've got to ask.
"Jared? So you want to let things slow down between us for
awhile? You know, like, take a breather or something?"
"I dunno," he whispers. "Maybe."
"Are you feeling ashamed about us?" I ask quietly.
"No! It's not like that! It's just -- I'm scared sometimes,
you know? Like, what if we get caught and then everyone finds
out? I mean, like, they won't understand. It ain't just
what we think, you know?" he pleads, looking up at me. There are
tears in his eyes. I don't know what to say.
We've talked about all this before, but now it has taken on a new
cathartic significance for him. He's right. His world has
expanded into the realm of standards and conformity and all the related
bullshit pressures of an intolerant society. He wipes his eyes on
his sleeve and waits for a reply. For me to make sense out of
this for him. All I can say to him is: "Yeh, I know.”
Suddenly he is embarrassed and even a little relieved, as our waitress
waddles over wanting to know if we'd like some dessert. After a
few moments of looking over the menu once again, we order pie and ice
cream.
We don't discuss it further, but a weight has been lifted from us both,
and our moods improve as we gobble the pie. We have taken a
turn. He knows now what I've never really been able to tell him
-- to explain to him. But now he also knows I can't explain away
the hate in the world, or take away the things he's afraid of. We
talk while we eat. Jared has already finished his pie and ice
cream, and reaches across the table to snatch my remaining fries one by
one. He tells me about a job he might get at a putt-putt golf
place in the summer. I sense he's been wanting to tell me about
this for awhile, but had hesitated. I realize he is cutting ties,
and I am waving from the shore, wishing him happiness on his
voyage. I want desperately to take this boy in my arms and hug
him tightly. Instead, I reach across the table and ruffle his
hair in a quick gesture, and get up to pay the check, with Jared close
behind carrying our coats.
We drive toward Spruce Falls and Jared's home. The sky's utter
grayness has enticed the street lights into premature fluorescence long
before dark. Traffic is slow going, and we drive in silence,
listening to the radio, content, yet strangely melancholy.
Suddenly, Jared wants to stop at a Walgreen's we passed less than a
mile back. Visibly excited, he won't tell me why, saying only
that it's a surprise.
We arrive minutes later. Jared runs ahead of me to the store
entrance while I jog behind, avoiding the larger puddles along the
way. Once inside, I understand, and quickly share, the source of
his excitement.
With Jared sitting on my knee, I fight to keep our balance as he pulls
the curtain closed, and feeds a couple dollars into the machine.
We wait, holding our breaths, for the first flash. The first one
will be my favorite I think to myself as I watch our reflection in the
black glass that hides the camera recessed behind. We made silly
faces, peace signs behind each others' heads, and even managed to stop
laughing long enough for a few serious shots, our eyes getting crowded
with floating blue flash dots as we record ourselves behind the dirty
brown curtain. For the last shot, Jared positioned his head right
next to mine, and using his hands like a vise, held our heads together
ear to ear, both of us smiling at the absurdity of our reflection in
the glass while the flash went off for the last time. Five
minutes and six dollars later, we have 15 little black and white
photographs on three strips. Some are blurry, but most have come
out pretty good. I use the scissors chained to the booth to
separate the pictures from their rows of five.
Out in the car, we continue to look them over. Without comment,
Jared takes the last one -- the one with our heads squished together --
and places it in his pocket, giving the rest to me, as if he knows what
I am feeling. As if he knows a week from now -- a year from now,
I will need them more than he. A gesture of understanding I don't
fully appreciate at that moment, and won't until later that week.
The rain refuses to let up as I pull into the church parking lot,
driving as close as I can to the edge of the blacktop in some vain
attempt to keep Jared from getting soaked any more than he's already
going to. I feel like crying when we say goodbye. He can't
look at me as he gets out of the car and begins his ascent into the
neighbor's brown wet grass. I watch him go, and he suddenly looks
back towards my car, just for a moment, before disappearing down a
gravel driveway. For a long while, I sit and stare through the
windshield, looking at nothing, and listening to the wipers squeak back
and forth in mind-numbing, comforting regularity.
Later that night, shortly before midnight, he calls.
"Hey," he says when I pick up the phone.
"Hey!" I say. "Are you OK?"
"Yeh. Are you mad at me?" he asks quietly.
"Mad at you? Why would I be -- no, no, Jared, I'm not mad at
you. I just -- I just want you to be OK."
"I'm OK," he chirps. "Really."
He seems content to let me do most of the talking. I tell him
things I wanted to say earlier today, now somehow made easier through
the blessing of telephone circuitry. We had talked often
throughout our relationship. About evolving needs he and I would
both have, and that things wouldn't, and shouldn't stay the same, no
matter how much we wanted them to. But somehow I knew saying
these things again was what he needed me to do. Before long he
was yawning, causing me to do the same. He promised to call again
sometime.
He did. Wanted me to drive him and a friend to a baseball card
shop one day over Christmas break. I was glad to do so, and
equally glad to see him. We had a good time looking at cards, and
later stopping for ice cream. They both thanked me for the ride,
and Jared said he'd call again.
He never did.
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