A Name For People Like Me
by
Rob Zona
Smashwords Edition
Copyright 2011 Rob Zona
Smashwords Edition License Notes
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
* * * *
Cover Design: Guy Castonguay
All Rights Reserved
* * * *
Contents
A Combination of Strength and Beauty
Ask Me Questions, I’ll Tell You Lies
Pray for the Dead and Fight like Hell for the Living
The Summer of Wide German Shoulders
A Name For People Like Me
I knew from an early age there was something very different about me. I first became aware of it in 1970, when I was in kindergarten. During this time, my noticeably unusual nature made its public debut, having been drawn out by the seemingly innocuous classroom activity, Show and Tell. While my classmates used this time to drone on about their family trips to Plymouth Plantation, their autographed pictures of Boston Bruins star Bobby Orr, or their adventures while picking wild blueberries on Cape Cod, I preferred to use my time in the spotlight to radically alter the hearts and minds of my fellow classmates.
My Show and Tell presentations usually led to controversy. On one particular occasion, I greatly misjudged the intellectual maturity of my classmates and nearly sparked a riot. It began innocently enough. I took the chair in the center of the group and took several, deep calming breaths. Before speaking, I searched the faces of my fellow kindergarteners. I tried to make eye contact with each and every one of them to impart upon them a sense of just how life-altering my presentation was going to be. When I gazed in the direction of our teacher, Mrs. Marsh, her face began twitching. Apparently, just my stare was enough to elevate her anxiety level.
When I was through establishing contact with my audience, I lowered my head for a moment. The effect lent a certain gravitas to the room that was otherwise decorated in boldly colored flowers, smiley faces, and pictures of multi-ethnic children playing together in what looked like a scene out of Sesame Street.
I started my presentation. “We’ve been lied to,” I boldly proclaimed.
Before I could continue, Mrs. Marsh sternly interjected. “You’re not going to talk about President Nixon again, are you?”
She had ruined the moment. “No,” I replied defiantly, “I’m not going to talk about that asshole.”
Mrs. Marsh’s eyes nearly popped out of her head. I wasn’t quite sure what asshole meant, but since my mother had used it to describe Nixon, the only man that seemed to frustrate her more than my father, I figured it wasn’t very nice.
“What’s an asshole?” someone asked.
“It’s not important,” Mrs. Marsh hastily answered. “Just forget you heard it.”
“Asshole, asshole,” a group of students momentarily chanted.
Mrs. Marsh glared at me. “Would you just get on with your Show and Tell. It’s almost snack time.”
I needed to regain the attention of my audience. I needed to recreate the mood. “Why do people lie to little children like us?” I asked sweetly. “Have we done anything wrong?”
Mrs. Marsh buried her face in the palms of her hands. My classmates leaned in forward, eagerly anticipating what I would say next.
“Our parents, our older brothers and sisters, the manager at Dody’s Bargain Land Toys, and even our teacher, Mrs. Marsh, have lied to us.”
“Just a minute...”
Cutting her off mid-sentence, I continued, “They have told us that a fat, jolly man who lives in the North Pole brings us presents each year if we’re all good little girls and boys.”
“Santa Claus,” my classmates shouted gleefully.
“Right. Santa Claus. A man who’s making a list, checking it not only once, but twice, to find out who’s been naughty or nice.”
“Because he only gives presents to good boys and girls,” shouted out a naïve five year old.
“Makes it really convenient for our parents,” I sneered. I leaned my head in forward and spoke in a hushed tone. “So, this guy is looking at us all the time. Not only when we’re awake but when we’re sleeping, too. Think about that tonight when you’re trying to go to bed. There’s a creepy, old guy staring at you.”
Mrs. Marsh stood up. “Well Show and Tell is over,” she announced. “That was a nice story.”
“It’s a lie!” I shouted. “A lie to control our minds. A lie to make us follow rules so we’ll get rewarded with presents once a year. Can’t you see it?”
My classmates grew panicky. “What’s he talking about, Mrs. Marsh?”
“I don’t get it,” said others. “Is Santa Claus brainwashing us?”
“Don’t listen to him. Show and Tell is over,” she said as she tried to shoo the students away.
“There is no Santa Claus,” I protested. “Grownups want us to believe in him so we’ll follow stupid rules. I explained further, “Your parents put the presents underneath your trees. Not some overweight, cranky old man with a checklist. SANTA CLAUS IS A FRAUD!”
My classmates were stunned. I could tell they were uneasy with their new found knowledge, but I was proud of myself. Having conveyed a harsh reality so unflinchingly and with such eloquence, I felt I had given my classmates their freedom. I had just unlocked one of the many cages society had entrapped them in. Now, they could live as they wanted—free from the fear that if they didn’t brush their teeth one night, Santa Claus would pass over their house.
I expected my fellow students would reward me with thunderous applause. After all, I had taught them to question authority. Much to my shock, however, my classmates booed and branded me a liar.
“There is a Santa Claus,” one ungrateful brat said. “I have a picture of me sitting on his lap.”
“And I’ve heard the reindeer hooves on my roof,” someone else chided.
“Santa Claus hates you,” spewed another classmate. “We all hate you.”
The verbal abuse continued all throughout snack time and well into nap break. At first, I was surprised Mrs. Marsh didn’t put a stop to it. Then, it became obvious she was enjoying my torment. At that moment, I vowed to get even.
The following week, I again raised my hand for Show and Tell. Mrs. Marsh pretended not to see me, squinting in my direction as if the alphabet chart in the back of the room was camouflaging me. When two other students raised their hands, she quickly chose them. Still refusing to acknowledge me, she practically begged for more volunteers. She insisted that students who actively participate in class usually grow up to be popular and successful adults. When no one took the bait, she made a growling noise and then reluctantly pointed to me.
After an insufferably tedious account of a duck family living in the pond in back of Roger Trotter’s house, it was my turn. I stood, smiled, and scanned the faces of my classmates. They were staring back at me icily. I remained cheerful and took a deep breath. “Your grandparents are old and will die soon,” I said casually. “Your pets will die too...so will your favorite baby-sitter.” I watched as my classmates’ faces grew ashen. “Mr. Rogers will die someday too,” I added. The sobbing began. Mrs. Marsh came bounding toward me. “And what’s even worse,” I concluded, “someday, you’ll all die too.”
Needless to say, I was punished. The school made me wash the desks every day for a week with a solvent that made me high, and my parents no longer allowed me to eat frosted pop tarts for breakfast. This was a small price to pay. Vindication was sweet enough. Oh, and all of my classmates’ parents got together and signed a petition banning me from ever again participating in Show and Tell.
As I made my way through the early elementary grades, I was continuously amazed at how underexposed my peers were to the world around them. It was 1974, and they still believed the world was a safe and just place. For the most part, Watergate meant nothing to them. Some, perhaps, even thought it was a water park in New Hampshire.
In addition, my classmates were like mindless sponges. They readily accepted anything that was taught to them. For instance, one day my third grade teacher, Mrs. Timolty, announced to the class that “stealing was the worst thing a person could do.” She felt compelled to make this pronouncement after Billy Canelli was caught for stealing Elizabeth Brock’s Josie and The Pussycats pencil case. Unfortunately for Billy, the case was bright yellow and could easily be seen sticking out of his desk.
“Stealing is a sin. There’s nothing worse than taking something that doesn’t belong to you,” Mrs. Timolty reiterated. Naturally, my classmates agreed wholeheartedly and vowed never to stick their fingers up gum ball machines again.
Unable to contain my dismay over Mrs. Timolty’s simplistic thinking, I raised my hand and asked, “So, if I was a starving orphan and I lived next door to a bread factory, I’d be committing a sin if I snatched a loaf?” Before Mrs. Timolty could answer, I lobbed another question at her. “And would it really be worse if someone stole your last can of Diet Fresca out of the teacher’s room than if they set your house on fire and murdered your husband?”
Mrs. Timolty flinched a bit. “The second worst thing a person can do is talk back to the teacher,” she said.
I admired her attempt to suppress the debate. “But isn’t that how we learn?” I asked rhetorically. “We ask questions and discuss all the possible answers.”
“Not in my classroom,” she snapped back. “You’re parents probably voted for George McGovern, didn’t they?”
“My mother did. My dad voted for Tricky Dick.”
“Go to the principal’s office,” huffed Mrs. Timolty.
I sat in Mr. Greeley’s office looking at all the filing cabinets. I couldn’t imagine why the principal of an elementary school needed to keep so many records. I wondered if he had a file on me.
When Mr. Greeley finished his phone conversation, he cleared his throat loudly and glanced in my direction. “Why are you in my office, young man?” I could tell he was more annoyed than angry.
“Because my mother voted for George McGovern,” I replied.
“People like your mother give the state of Massachusetts a bad name, you know.”
“My father blames the Kennedy’s.”
“I suppose I have to call your parents,” he muttered as he searched his cluttered desk for a pen.
I felt sad for Mr. Greeley. He always wore the same grey suit that was two sizes too small and a tie that looked like a clip-on. His thinning hair was forever in disarray, and his nose had a strange bump on it, like a mushroom was waiting to grow out of it. His appearance was devoid of any joy. He was like most adults I knew—grumpy and worn out.
After dinner that night when I felt certain Mr. Greeley had forgotten to call, my mother said, “Seems I get more phone calls from your principal than I do from my own sister.”
My heart sank. I thought it was cruel of my mother to wait until the end of the day to bring it up. Thankfully, there was a Bruin’s game on, so my dad wasn’t particularly interested in the dilemma.
“Do you think I like getting calls from Mr. Greeley?” she asked.
“Well, more than you do Aunt Josie. You always say she never knows when to hang up.”
My father sighed. At first I thought it was because Phil Esposito was in the penalty box, but no such luck. “Why do you always have to be a wise-ass?” he asked me. “Would it kill you to answer a question with either a yes or a no?”
“Maybe,” I replied.
Since there was a break in the Bruin’s action, my mother took this as her opportunity to fill in my dad. “He talked back to his teacher. She was trying to teach his class why it’s wrong to steal, and he told her stealing wasn’t such a big deal. And, something about a can of diet soda and setting her husband on fire.”
My father pounded the table. “My father would’ve clobbered me if I talked back to my teacher like that.”
My father always made references to physical punishment whenever he was angry with me. He never actually hit me, but he made it known my actions were deserving of some brutish disciplinary measure.
“Is there anything else I should know?” my mother asked. “Did you encourage your classmates to tear up their school books and dance barefoot on their desks?!”
“No. But I told everyone you voted for McGovern.”
My father groaned. “You voted for McGovern?”
“Yes, and I’d do it again,” asserted my mother.
“Jesus, no wonder why every company in this goddamn state is leaving.”
I piped in. “Just so everybody knows, I never said stealing was okay. All I said was you have to put it into perspective. There are a lot worse things somebody could do besides stealing a pencil case.”
“Yeah. Like voting for a jackass like McGovern,” my father said.
My mother was riled now. “In case you haven’t noticed, Tricky Dick is only one indictment away from joining the rest of his pals in the pen.”
Soon my parents were bickering back and forth, and I was no longer the object of their scorn. My mom and dad argued quite frequently. Sometimes I wondered if they even really liked each other. They didn’t hold hands, greet each other with a kiss, or plan romantic nights out. They didn’t care all that much about their appearance either. My father never changed out of his mechanic’s outfit. He thought his grey work pants, black boots, and oily cotton shirt were suitable for any occasion. My mother wore outfits made entirely out of synthetic fabrics and considered chap-stick a cosmetic. I wanted my parents to be like television parents—attractive, witty, and fun.
“I’m so fed-up with you right now, I could scream,” my mother said.
It took a moment before I realized she was addressing me and not my father. Apparently, they had moved away from their political debate, and once again made me the target of their frustration.
“Other mothers don’t have to put up with the crap I do,” she said.
“How the hell do you think I feel,” added my father.
While it gnawed on me that my parents weren’t Mike and Carol Brady, they were equally distraught that I wasn’t Greg Brady. As their only child, they wanted a star. A winner. Or at least a boy who could throw a ball. Instead, they got Oliver, the freakish cousin who lived with the Brady’s for a couple of episodes. The one who everyone was slightly repulsed by.
Just as I was about to defend myself, I glanced out the window and saw the new boy in the neighborhood entering our yard. As he approached our front door, I noticed how dark his eyes were, almost black. His hair was the same color and seemed really shiny. He was tall too and looked strong. Also, he had one of those ‘dents’ in his chin that movie stars had. For some reason, I couldn’t quite take my eyes off him.
“It’s that new boy next door,” my mother said as she looked out the window. “He probably wants to play with you.” She looked over at me and frowned. “He seems like a nice kid. Please don’t scare him away.”
“That’s like asking The Red Sox to win a goddamn pennant race,” commented my father.
My father was right. I didn’t have many friends in our neighborhood. It was partly because I didn’t want to play the same games other boys did. For example, while all the boys in my neighborhood wanted to play Cops and Robbers, I wanted to play Fed up Secretaries on a Cigarette Break. As much as I tried, I couldn’t convince them non-competitive, verbally expressive games were more fun. I could usually get Cindy Salducci to play it with me, but I found her improvisational skills sadly lacking. I could go on for hours adlibbing about how my boss was a selfish bastard who was holding me back simply because I was a beautiful, liberated woman. The best Cindy could come up with was an occasional, “My boss doesn’t let me chew gum.”
Lost in my thoughts, an unusually long period of time must have passed, because my mother took it upon herself to nudge me into action. Feeling unsure but oddly excited, I opened the front door.
“Hi,” I said meekly.
“Hi,” smiled the new kid. “I’m Kenny.”
Kenny and I hit it off immediately. For one thing, he was a talker. He was the only other boy I knew who liked to share his thoughts and ideas. Most of the boys in my neighborhood only wanted to act out scenes from The Three Stooges or rattle off sports statistics. Kenny was far more advanced than that. He was intelligent and inquisitive and spoke in complete sentences. I think what made Kenny so unique was that his parents were divorced. He had been raised by his mother, Barbara, who was a professor at Brandeis University. She was an anomaly in our neighborhood. Nobody on our street had ever been divorced—or for that matter, intellectual.
I spent most of my free time at Kenny’s house. We would spend whole afternoons pouring through the stacks of books his mother had collected over the years. Her eclectic, little library contained books on world religions, Appalachian folklore, corn husk art, and women who hated men. I was particularly interested in her books on Buddhism. Reading about Karma and reincarnation, I was always a bit worried God might hurl a lightning bolt my way. Like every other kid with Irish ancestry in Massachusetts, I was Catholic. But, my parents weren’t exactly strict. For instance, they still allowed themselves to get drunk, gossip about our neighbors, and eat a bologna sandwich on a Friday during Lent. We usually made an effort to go to mass every Sunday, unless of course it was too cold, hot, rainy, or we found out a visiting priest known for giving long sermons was conducting the service. One thing my parents would not waiver on, however, was my attendance of CCD. CCD, also known as catechism, was basically Sunday school for Catholic children, except it was more likely to happen on a Tuesday afternoon in someone’s musty paneled basement.
Kenny wasn’t raised in any religion, which made him seem very mysterious. Up until that point, Protestants had seemed exotic to me. Regardless of his undefined religious beliefs, Kenny liked to read as much as I did. He preferred books about different cultures. He was forever showing me pictures of women with rings around their elongated necks or Eskimo children chewing on whale blubber. He was particularly fascinated with American Indians. He knew which tribes lived where and whether or not they were hunters, fishermen, or farmers.
One night, Kenny’s mother was throwing one of her infamous parties. Her parties were branded as such because she never invited anyone from the neighborhood (except for me) and because her guests consisted of people who would not normally set forth on our street—people who were interesting. They were bohemian types—artists, writers, people who wore berets and tight jeans with narrow legs.
After Kenny and I helped his mother set up for the party and the guests had arrived, we retreated to his bedroom. He had his favorite Miles Davis record on, Birth of the Cool, and frequently prompted me to listen carefully to certain complicated trumpet segments. I nodded after each piece and continued reading about the Four Nobel Truths of Buddhism. When the album was finished, Kenny carefully placed it back in its sleeve and returned it to his collection. “Are you hungry?” he asked. “My mother made babaganoush.”
“It’s not something weird, is it?” I asked. “Like ground up cow’s tongue?”
“How did you guess?”
I laughed. “No, thanks. I had it for lunch.”
Kenny smirked. “It’s roasted eggplant mixed with tahini sauce.”
“You’re still joking, right?”
Kenny flicked me on the shoulder with his thumb and forefinger. “Trust me. You’ll like it.”
When Kenny opened the door to leave, I heard snippets of party conversation. I liked hearing the different accents and the frequent peels of laughter. When he left, I began searching through his album collection. I was a little jealous, because his taste in music was far more sophisticated than mine. He had records by Thelonious Monk, John Coltrane, and Billie Holiday. My record collection consisted of ABBA, John Denver, and Barry Manilow.
As I was pondering my underdeveloped appreciation for music, I suddenly heard a faint wisp of a voice say, “I’m on top of the mountain. Look at me.”
Upon hearing this elfin voice, my first thought was that Kenny was playing a joke on me. He must have rigged up speakers somewhere.
“Beautiful here, but cold,” the tiny voice continued.
When I realized the voice didn’t sound anything like Kenny, I was a little freaked-out. In hopes of solving the mystery, I jumped off the bed and slowly made my way to the bedroom door. I opened it just a crack. I thought for sure I’d find one of Barbara’s oddball friends standing in the hallway, reading really bad poetry aloud. This wasn’t the case, however. The hallway was empty. I shook my head and closed the door.
“I think I should come down now,” the voice said.
This time I could tell the voice was definitely coming from inside the bedroom. There was no doubt about it; I was not alone. Terrified, I felt like I was a character in a horror movie. I could practically hear the menacing theme music.
“Snow angels,” squeaked the frail, bodiless voice. “How are you my pretty snow angels?”
I made my way over to the closet. I grabbed a metal bookend off Kenny’s desk to use as a weapon. Trembling, I reached for the closet door and flung it open. Expecting to see a ghost or at least an escapee from a psychiatric ward, I was relieved to find the closet empty.
I closed the closet door and sat back down on the bed. Finally, I asked out loud, “I give up. Where are you?”
“On a goddamn mountain top,” the voiced barked at me. “Help me get down.”
And then it hit me. The voice was coming from under the bed. I sprang to my feet. My heart pounding, I got down on the floor and slowly lifted the bedspread up off the floor. At that moment, I came face to face with a slender, grey-haired woman dressed in a 1920s flapper outfit. She stared at me blankly.
“Do you want to play in the snow with me?” she asked.
Just as I was about to let out a shriek, Kenny came through the door. He saw my expression, put the plate of food down, and knelt on the floor right next to me. Together we peered at the face of the strange lady hiding out under his bed.
“Kenny,” my voice trembled, “What the fuck is. . .?”
“Don’t worry. I know her,” Kenny said reassuringly, “I’m sorry she scared you.”
I looked at him as if he had three heads. Did Kenny have a grandmother who was kept hidden by day?
“Gretchen,” he said to the woman. “Do you want to come out from under the bed?”
“No,” she replied warily. “But I do want to get off the mountain.”
“You will,” he told her. Next, he put his fingers on her wrist. “Okay, your heart rate is good,” he said sounding like Marcus Welby. “I’m just going to check your eyes now.”
Kenny got up off the floor and rummaged through the top drawer of his bureau. He pulled out a small flashlight and crawled back down on the floor. He shined the light in each of her eyes. “Your pupils are dilating. You’re fine, Gretchen. Do you understand?”
Gretchen nodded her head and said, “I think I’m coming off the mountain.”
“Good,” replied Kenny. “We’re going to leave you alone now. Come out when you’re ready.”
Gretchen smiled and pulled the bedspread back down. She began describing her descent down the mountain and waving goodbye to her snow angel friends.
Kenny turned to face me. “All the babaganoush was gone, but I managed to scrape up some pad thai.”
My mouth was wide open but no words were coming out. I was so utterly confused by what I had just witnessed I wanted to cry. “Kenny,” I finally said, “Why is there a crazy woman hiding under your bed?”
“That’s just Gretchen,” he laughed. “She’ll be fine in another hour.”
“What’s wrong with her?”
Kenny looked at me like I was a child. I wasn’t used to being in that position. “She probably took some pills or ate some mushrooms or something, but she’s tripping. You know, on drugs.”
“Is she a hippie?” I asked astonished.
“No. She’s a Philosophy professor at Brandeis,” Kenny answered. “She probably wandered in here when we were helping my mom.”
“So, she’s going to be okay?”
“Yeah. She just needs to wait until the drugs wear off. It probably won’t be too long.”
Kenny must have sensed my concern. “Don’t worry,” he said tenderly, “I checked her out and she’s fine. Sometimes people take drugs at my mother’s parties. One time, I found a guy hiding in our laundry hamper.”
Kenny put his hand on the back of my shoulder, leading me out of the bedroom. “You don’t think I’m a freak because of my mother, do you?”
“Partly,” I answered playfully. “But you deserve some credit for it too.”
As a boy, I was supposed to like sports. Just the mere sight of sporting equipment was supposed to leave me salivating and marching towards the nearest basketball court or baseball diamond. As sure as God was in heaven, real boys were hell-bent on sports. Unfortunately, I just wasn’t wired that way.
My lack of interest in all activities involving hand and eye coordination hadn’t been a problem when Kenny and I first started hanging out. More than a year into our acquaintance, things began to change. Kenny began expressing interest in joining the other neighborhood boys in dodge ball or street hockey. He even started reciting the batting averages of Carlton Fisk and Jim Rice. In desperation, I tried to memorize various statistics in the sports section of the newspaper. I found I couldn’t make the information stick. Oddly, I had no problem remembering that Greer Garson was the biggest female box-office draw in 1945 or that Olivia de Havilland and Joan Fontaine were sisters.
One day, Kenny finally wore me down and convinced me to join him in a game of whiffle-ball with the other neighborhood boys. I felt uneasy about it, especially after Kenny and I were chosen to be on opposite teams. I didn’t want to compete against him. I felt like I would be betraying him. Kenny didn’t seem phased by this rift of alliances at all. In fact, he confidently declared he would be the pitcher for his team.
I had no idea which position to play and was finally designated to play right field. Apparently I walked too far out into the field because some kid yelled, “This is whiffle ball, retard, come in closer.”
Mercifully, in the first few innings, only a few balls were hit my way. In almost every instance, the kid playing first base ran in front of me to make the catch or throw it to another baseman. I was astounded by his coordination. It was as if his legs and arms were robotic. He always knew exactly where the ball was going to land and had no problems throwing the ball back to the pitcher. When I tried to hurl the little plastic globe to another player, I either underestimated the distance or threw it way over the person’s head. Kenny, on the other hand, was proving himself to be an ace pitcher. He had the whole movement down. He looked at his batter intently, hugged the ball close to his chest, turned his body, brought his arm back at a 45 degree angle, stepped, and twisted his body as he hurled the ball. His movements were precise, just like the 14-year-old Romanian gymnast, Nadia Comaneci. And just like Nadia, Kenny didn’t show an ounce of emotion after rendering a perfect strike-out. If I had a placard, I would have written a big “10” on it and held it up every time he struck someone out.
As I was humming “Nadia’s Theme” and imagining myself executing a stunning dismount from the parallel bars, somebody shouted at me. It was my turn up at bat. My pleasant daydream ended abruptly.
A nasty looking kid with a buzz-cut handed me the bat. As I made my way to the batter’s box, I heard the kids on the other team saying things like, “easy out,” “move in closer,” or just simply, “batter sucks.” I positioned myself at home base and held the bat up awkwardly. I knew Kenny would easily strike me out. His pitches came fast and even the best players were having a hard time getting a hit off him. I tried not to look at his face. I didn’t want to believe my best friend was about to disgrace me.
Kenny wound up. I stood frozen. When the pitch came, it was rather slow and sailed into the exact direction of my bat. Unfortunately, I swatted at it like it was a fly. My teammates groaned. Strike one. When the second pitch arrived in the same leisurely fashion, I managed to hit it with the bottom part of my bat. Unfortunately, it went foul.
“Stop pitching like a girl,” one of Kenny’s teammates grunted at him.
“Yeah,” agreed another teammate. “No mercy cases.”
Kenny threw his pitch. Like the others, it was headed high in the strike zone, perfectly aligned with my bat. This time I was able to hit it with top part of the bat and watched as the ball ripped passed the opening between second base and the shortstop. I flung the bat down and raced towards first base.
Safe on first, my admiration for Kenny tripled. I should have known he’d take care of me. He wasn’t like all the other brutish boys who wanted to win at all costs. Obviously, he valued my friendship far too much to see me strike-out.
A few plays later, I found myself on third base. After two strike-outs, Kenny had given up a double. I couldn’t believe I was in reach of scoring a run. I tried to concentrate on the game. I knew that since we already had two outs, I had to run home whenever the batter made contact with the ball.
My teammate on second base was distracting me, however. He kept pretending he was going to steal third, so I had to pretend I was going to steal home. I wanted to yell at him to just stay on the fucking base. In my opinion, he was causing us all needless tension. A few times, Kenny almost tagged him out.
After the next pitch was released, my brazen teammate moved ridiculously far off base. Seizing the opportunity, the catcher rifled the ball towards the second baseman. The second baseman caught the ball but then dropped it. This sent my teammate charging to third and left me with no other choice but to bolt towards home. My teammates cheered me on as I pumped my legs as fast as they could go. What I hadn’t seen was that the second baseman had managed to scoop the ball up and toss it to Kenny. When I was only a few feet in front of home plate and sure of scoring my first run ever, Kenny came slamming into me, tagging me out, and sending me flying into the air. I landed stomach first on the ground.
Feeling like the air had been knocked out of me, I stood up slowly. I began scraping dirt and mud off my clothes. “Did you have to run so slow!” my base-stealing teammate shouted at me. “That should have been a run, spaz.” He shook his head at me like an angry football coach.
I didn’t answer him because I was afraid I might cry. I felt like a wounded dog. The physical pain was minimal, but the realization that Kenny had practically bull-dozed me over was overwhelming. I felt betrayed, angry, and terribly alone. Kenny had been the one person who had never hurt me, who led me to believe I was a valuable person, who was like a father and a brother to me. Now, all I felt was a horrible void.
When the game was over, Kenny didn’t speak about the incident. He was acting perfectly normal, like nothing at all had happened. He didn’t seem the least bit sad for treating me so harshly.
Back at his house, we each drank a can of coke and ate an entire box of ice-cream sandwiches. He spoke about some new albums his mother had bought him and how he particularly liked a group named Santana. He suggested I stay and listen to the album and that his mother wouldn’t mind if I stayed over for dinner.
Off the ball field, Kenny returned to his regular self. Part of me was relieved and my spirits lifted considerably. Another part of me sensed that while Kenny and I had a lot in common, there was still some unidentifiable difference between us that would forever keep us apart.
A Combination of Strength and Beauty
I could never open my locker on the first try. I was halfway through sixth grade and still fumbling with my combination lock. I always seemed to forget when you had to completely pass the zero before stopping at the next number. Sometimes, I would even forget the sequence of the numbers in my combination. It generally took me at least four tries before I could liberate my locker.
On more than one occasion, I had to get the school janitor, Mr. Deeter, to cut off my lock with a giant, industrial-sized pair of pliers. I considered buying my own, because Mr. Deeter always grunted swear words at me whenever I needed his help. I was never quite sure what he said, but it sounded like a hybrid of fuck and shit. Fuh-hit.
One day, I managed to open up my locker on the very first try. Unfortunately, several books and an assortment of loose papers came catapulting out. I had a bad habit of tossing things in my locker without much thought. As a result, minor catastrophes often ensued whenever I opened it.
Squatting down on the floor, I began collecting the scattered debris. Moments later, I saw two pairs of legs standing on either side of me. This troubled me. It seemed whoever they were, they were deliberately cornering me. When I had the nerve to look up, I saw two seventh grade boys hovering over me, grinning. I felt my stomach tie up in knots.
Without a plan, I just decided to pretend they weren’t there. This strategy worked for about three seconds until I went to reach for my math book. When I almost had it, one of them kicked it down the hall. I panicked. I didn’t know what to do. I had never been threatened so openly like this before.
I continued to feign disinterest in them. I got up off the floor and began to stuff some of the papers back into my locker. The other boy decided he was going fling everything back out again. Next, the two seventh-graders took great pleasure in using by books as hockey pucks and tearing up my papers.
By this point, I was just trying not to cry. I felt utterly defenseless and truly shocked. I didn’t know why they had signaled me out for this attack.
“Faggot,” one of them said.
“Pussy,” the other one added.
They kicked my books around some more and then headed off to the cafeteria for lunch. I felt like I had just been punched. I didn’t mind so much that my school things were strewn all over the hallway, but being called faggot and pussy ripped into me. Up until that point, a few people had called me weird or spaz, but that was about it. I could live with those comments, but being told I was defective as a boy was devastating.
As I gathered my belongings together and stuffed them back into my locker, I convinced myself that what happened was a fluke, a one-time violation.
Two weeks later, a scrawny kid in my class took delight in telling me I carried my books like a girl. He demonstrated by leaning his books on his hip rather than down by his side. “Faggot,” he said as he walked away cackling. Apparently, the most comfortable way for me to carry my books was not the way boys were supposed to do it. I wondered why I had never learned this unwritten rule.
Soon, I found out I did a lot of things like a girl. If I sneezed in class, sure enough someone would sneeze daintily, and the whole class would laugh. If I made a presentation in class, at least two boys watching would flap their wrists in the air. Even my walk was suspect. Once, when I walked out to the football field for gym class, a group of guys deliberately jumped in front of me and started wiggling their butts with their hands placed on their hips.
Each incident was a horrifying ordeal for me. I couldn’t understand what they saw in me. I was the same person they had known since kindergarten. I hadn’t changed. Sure, people thought I was unusual back then, but nobody ever wanted to attack me over it.
Then, one day, it hit me. As I observed a group of boys and girls in the lunchroom, I realized that they were the ones who had changed. It was as if a switch had snapped on in their heads, dictating that they now had to act in a rigid manner. The boys had to be even tougher and more competitive than before, while the girls had to be beautiful and suppress their urge to speak up or demonstrate their intelligence.
What was particularly astonishing to me was that most of my classmates eagerly embraced this gender split. Those who fit most neatly into their role as a boy or girl—with their distinctly differing interests and activities—were extremely proud of themselves and were the envy of every other kid. For those who fit the roles loosely, they worked hard to fill in the gaps.
For some reason, this behavioral split bypassed me completely. I still felt the same way I had since kindergarten. I didn’t suddenly develop an urge to whack my male classmates over the head with a trashcan or dump someone’s books in the hallway. I didn’t want to be cruel, just mildly sarcastic.
By the time I reached seventh grade, even more verbal taunts and physical threats were hurled at me. All of the attacks were aimed at my inability to conform to boyhood. While I had always known I wasn’t exactly like other boys, I had no idea there was something horribly abhorrent about me.
Thankfully, Kenny was still my friend. We’d hang out together after school, and sleep over each other’s houses. For some reason, Kenny didn’t seem to think there was anything too terribly wrong with me and didn’t mind being seen with me at school. Occasionally, he’d even stop some of the other boys from taunting me.
The worst part about the whole ordeal was that I felt defenseless. I felt weak and despised myself for being everyone’s target. I desperately wanted to fit in, but no one would make an opening for me.
When I reached puberty, it all became horribly evident. My critics were right. There was something pretty disturbing about me. I had a dark place in my brain that caused me to think incorrectly. It made me notice and focus on things that weren’t normal.
It showed itself every time I got an erection—so much to the point I dreaded having one. In contrast, Kenny told me he purposely made his penis big, because the explosion felt really good. I had no idea what he was talking about until the summer of 1978, when I was 12. I woke up in the middle of the night and felt something like a spasm, followed by an intense rush of pleasure, and ending with a sticky white fluid on my sheet. Later, as I tried to peel my penis away from the sheet, I wondered if I had experienced the explosion or if I had just stumbled on a new formula for Krazy Glue.
The next day, Kenny confirmed that I had indeed experienced the explosion. He told me I didn’t have to wait until night for it to happen either. He explained that I could jerk off anytime I wanted to. He told me he liked to think about Catherine Bach from the Dukes of Hazard whenever he did it. He imagined driving the General Lee while she was straddled on top of him, his body pumping into her harder and harder as the car accelerated ever faster. He assured me this fantasy always made his sperm shoot like bullets and that I should feel free to borrow it. When I pointed out that driving under such conditions would be nearly impossible, he looked genuinely annoyed.
I quickly changed the subject with Kenny. In that instance, I promised myself I would never jerk off again. If I climaxed while I was asleep, that was fine, but I certainly wasn’t going to think of strange thoughts and let it happen knowingly.
My vow lasted for half a day. Later that afternoon, my penis got hard, and I began thinking about Kenny’s fantasy. I remembered how he described it, and I could practically hear his voice reenacting it. The strange thing was that my brain kept editing out the part involving Catherine Bach. All I could concentrate on was Kenny’s body grinding and pumping, perhaps with sweat pouring off his body. With Daisy completely out of the picture, it didn’t take me long to shoot bullets either. Moments later, I felt horrible about what I had done and vowed once again to never jerk off.
Turns out I couldn’t stop it. My new adolescent body had taken control of my mind. It wanted to be satisfied, and it became excited by thoughts and images completely different than what other boys described. This worried me greatly, but I didn’t dare tell anyone about it—partly because I knew it would be considered unacceptable and partly because I didn’t really even know how to articulate it.
I quickly decided to bury my secret deep within myself, where no one, including me, would have access to it. I would lock it up in a vault and forget about it. It would not be a part of my life. I would focus on other aspects of my life. I would achieve something. I would become someone special. I would escape.
In the fall of 1978, I turned 13. I had read in the Sunday Parade Magazine about a girl my age who just starred in a movie. Her name was Brooke Shields, and in the film she played the part of a young prostitute. After reading the article, I was convinced I had found my life’s calling. I too would play a disturbing role in a movie and become a star. I believed by achieving fame I would finally be able to prove to myself, and more importantly, the rest of the world, that I was special.
Unfortunately, in the greater Boston area, there was only one road to stardom for young people and that was to appear on Bean Teen. It was a local show taped in Boston, hence the not-too-clever reference to baked beans. Airing all throughout New England, the show featured eight kids in their early teens. Basically, the show followed the same format each week. The cast would spend about ten minutes sitting around and talking about inane subjects like fun finger foods or why we should be extra nice to people in wheelchairs. The rest of show would feature the actors dancing around the stage with costume characters and singing really lame songs about energy conservation and world peace. Even though the show was essentially an object of ridicule for every junior high-schooler, we all watched it faithfully, and any one of us would have sold our grandmother into slavery to be on it.
When I read in the Boston Globe there were going to be open auditions for the show, I was certain my dream of Brooke Shields-like stardom was going to come true. Amidst the excitement, I suddenly realized I would have to convince my parents to take me to the audition. It wasn’t going to be easy. Even though we lived in Wrentham, a suburb of Boston, my parents were terrified of making the 20-mile trek into the city. For them, driving into Boston was like sailing to Bermuda on an inner-tube.
“Can’t you just mail them a letter with a picture,” my mother suggested as an alternative to me actually attending the audition.
“These auditions are for kids with real talent,” my father added. “Can’t you just sing along with the TV and pretend you’re on the show?”
For the better part of the week, they tried to convince me traveling into Boston was just too risky and my chances of actually being chosen to be on the show were akin to an asteroid hitting our house. I soon realized I had to take drastic measures to ensure my place in the sun. Inspired by The Exorcist, I began twisting my head back and forth and pretending I was possessed. This freaked them out sufficiently, and they agreed to let me audition.
As the commuter train creaked on towards the city, my mother frequently turned to me to let me know I shouldn’t get my hopes up too high. She’d remind me there were kids who had been groomed for this sort of thing all their lives, and I wasn’t one of them. Every time the train made a stop, she took this as her cue to reiterate her warning. She was able to relax only when I informed her I had long since given up any hope of anything positive ever happening in my life.
The waiting room at the audition hall was jam packed with over-emphatic kids, irritated mothers, and fathers who sighed loudly. The check-in lines were long and unclearly marked, there were not enough chairs, and the production assistants were unhelpful. Frustrated, my parents threatened to leave. Thankfully, they soon found themselves conversing with another set of parents. Feeding off of each other’s negativity, they bonded instantly. I heard my father tell the other dad he didn’t really think I had a shot but figured my impending failure would be a good life lesson.
After a two-hour wait, my name was finally called along with names of two other boys, Tyler Gavin and Brent something or other. Tyler and Brent were both tall, square jawed, and already developing muscles. As we were being led away, I was annoyed by how confident and self assured they appeared. They were acting as if success and acceptance was part of the everyday fabric of their lives.