Boots, Dogs, and the Sea Sneak Peek

BecHavn Publishing and Production Group Copyright Š 2013 BecHavn Publishing and Production Group All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

First Edition.

ISBN: 978-1-304-04864-6 Also by Emery Walters Last Year’s Leaves Mending Rainbows Cabin Boy Out Is In Finding Avalon As I Am

Printed in the United States of America Cover Photo by Emery C. Walters Edited by Robyn Walters dba EmRob Publishing; Maui BecHavn.com

It was morning. It had been a long night, the longest night of the year, of the decade, of the century. I woke cold and cramped on the old rug on the floor. The fire had died out in the night. The girl was singing behind the curtain. The boys were barely awake. Outside the snow was melting in the rays of an unexpected sun. At sixty-seven, I was really too old to sleep on the floor, but as I sat up and looked at the boy, the boy with the bad cut on his leg and my humble attempt at stitching it together (I looked down at my own shin ruefully and had to smile), I could only shake my head. Fifty years between us; in his life he had never met me before, never seen me or heard of me or imagined me, and yet, he knew.

DEDICATED TO FAMILY: BIRTH AND CHOSEN Archie wrote: "I know they have families of their own to keep up with now, and live those lives. But you know what? My grand-parents were a part of my life when I was a child. I'm actually starting to be offended that my siblings are closing you out. This is what it is. This is our life. Hiding your child from any of this means they will seek it out and find other realities. Why not give them some truth? Family is hard. Give some truth. This is the world now, not what it was."

Boots, Dogs, and the Sea Emery C. Walters

TABLE OF CONTENTS Boots .........................................................

Chopped Liver ........................................

I Don’t Have a Problem .........................

Exit Plan ...................................................

Never Too Late........................................

It’s Only Human......................................

Third Floor, Ladies Lingerie .................

Knowing...................................................

Plaza Notes ..............................................

But Who Am I? .......................................

Mezzanine – Books and Music .............

Or Valley Low .........................................

Reservations.............................................

Spilling the Beans....................................

Good Enough For Now .........................

Dog Days..................................................

1 8 14 16 20 28 31 41 55 63 73 88 101 113 128 137

BOOTS I was trying to make myself as small as I could, but my long legs were not cooperating. I looked down at them, said the hell with it, and stretched them out like they wanted to be. There at the end of my black jeans were my boots. Those boots meant a lot to me, and now they were trashed. I guess it was worth it, but still. I was pissed off.

It was my own fault. I was supposed to register for summer school, yesterday, and I’d skipped it and gone to the beach. Before I could change out of my clothes, I saw some kid on an inflatable raft out in the water. She looked tiny from shore and was floating farther out as I watched. I could just hear her little voice calling ‘Daddy’ over and over. She didn’t sound frantic; she sounded like she knew better than to bother Daddy, but hell, she needed help badly. I knew that feeling. I understood both her mixed feelings and her fear. And then a wave knocked her off the raft. One minute she was there and the next all I could see was one little hand and a headful of dark, wet hair. I looked around the beach for ‘Daddy’, but nobody was paying her any attention except one old lady who was half out of her beach chair, pointing feebly and looking around like I was. She caught my eye and I groaned, but I was already running through the sand, my boots, jeans, wallet, everything still on me. I dove under the next wave and started to swim hard.

When I was above the water and could hear anything at all, I could only hear that tiny ‘Daddy!’ and then the old lady’s feeble call, “She’s to your left! Left!” and when I turned my head I saw her. If the old lady hadn’t called, I would have gone right on by her.

I turned and headed toward her. The water was already over my head, as I found out while treading water when I got to her. I pulled her up to catch her breath, and pulled her toward me with one arm so she’d know she was no longer alone. When she knew I had her and that she was safe, she shuddered a big sigh and curled her arms

around me as tightly as she could. She was so tiny, so light. I told her to get on my back, which she did, still holding on, and I swam clumsily to shore, hoping my heavy and soggy boots and jeans would not take us under.

When we got to the beach, I still had no idea which man was her Daddy and why he hadn’t answered her calls. At least he wouldn’t beat me up for ‘molesting’ her, ha ha. I set her down , and she said, ”Thank you!” in a shaky little whisper and ran straight up the beach to the shady area fifty feet away, and sat down on a pink towel near two men who were talking idly to each other, each one holding a beer.

They had never noticed a thing.

I stood there dripping and getting angrier by the minute. I’d never stood up to my own dad, but I was ready to go beat some sense into hers. I started toward them, but the old lady stepped out and took my arm.

I was breathing so fast, with my belly sucking in and out so hard, I thought my pants would fall off. I swear half my belly was hanging out anyway and my jeans were hung up only by my nearly nonexistent hip bones, but this old lady stood there looking seriously at me, holding me by the arm. After a minute I began to calm down and really looked at her. God, she was ancient! She must have been at least sixty, maybe even older. But she patted my shoulder and smiled.

“I’m so proud of what you did. That was absolutely the most heroic thing I’ve ever seen, and I’ve seen a lot in my life.” Her smile lit her eyes. “Don’t ruin it by killing that fucking asshole - he’s not worth it,” she added with a perfectly angelic smile crinkling her face and clear blue eyes.

So it was my own fault that my boots were ruined. And today I’d come straight to school. I had such mixed feelings about yesterday.

I was so glad I’d been there, but still. I was so angry that a father could ignore his child like that! But then, why should I, of all people, be surprised? Wasn’t my own father, wherever he was, the same way?

And I wished my stepfather would ignore me, but I wasn’t lucky there, either.

We kids in the classroom were all antsy, somewhat afraid to talk much or misbehave, and as we were a mixture of losers who had

to be there and smart kids who wanted to be there, we just kinda sat and waited for the teacher to show up. My jeans were still a bit damp and I wriggled around a bit, trying to get more comfortable. It was impossible. I was glad I was in the back; I always like the back. There, if someone was going to smack you in the head or something, you had a chance of seeing it coming at you first. I was still irritable from the close call the day before and from ruining my boots. I could have worn some old tennis shoes, I suppose, as I had some ratty ones that barely fit, but I didn’t want to. I loved my boots. They were cool. They made me feel cool. They also made me want to cry.

In case you hadn’t guessed, I wasn’t here because I wanted to be. I was told I wouldn’t graduate until I took history in summer school. Actually it was amazing that this was the only class I failed, after what I’d been through, and if it hadn’t been for this man I met, Russell, I wouldn’t have given one little shit.

The teacher came in. A man, and I knew him from somewhere but I just couldn’t place him at all. I had a bad feeling about him though, but no idea why that should be. He knew me though, and his face turned dark with hostility. He didn’t even know my name yet, and I could tell he hated me. I could tell I was going to flunk this class and not graduate no matter what I did now. Well, wouldn’t my invisible father and my too visible stepfather be proud. But then I thought of Russell. Damn it! Every time I feel suicidal or stupid or want to drop out of school he pops into my mind, and I remember some of the things he told me, and I feel like maybe I can, after all, go on.

Last year, our social studies teacher made us do public service in order to pass the class. We had to draw slips of paper out of a basket. I got ‘patient sitter’ and had to go to a nursing home to visit old people. Well the home didn’t give me an old person, I mean, this guy was like in his fifties, so yeah he was old, but not in his nineties, you know? He wasn’t senile or dying of old age. He’d been in an accident and was partially paralyzed and lost his job and house and stuff like that. He had two kids, but they were grown and gone. I did notice, though, that they never called or visited, nor did he ever say he got any mail from them, not even on his birthday. He only got two cards

that day, one from his former travel agent and one from me. That was in October. Christmas was even harder. His kids didn’t come then either. They did come in January when he died, though. They came to his funeral and argued with each other over his ‘estate’. As far as I knew his only ‘estate’ was the glass paperweight I’d given him for Christmas. He’d given me the boots. They were just my size, brand new, shiny and the coolest and hottest thing I’d ever owned. He’d smiled and said something about wanting to live long enough to watch me fill them with pride, as if he knew I would. I get choked up just remembering how good that made me feel.

I was with him when he died. He looked at me and looked confused, and called me by his son’s name, before his eyes cleared and he smiled and whispered my name instead. I cried. There’d been no mistaking the affection – the love – in that look, and the way he said my name. I’d never felt closer to another human being in my life, and then suddenly, he was gone. I’d lost him.

When he passed out of his body into the air around me and then vanished, I felt emptiness fill the space instead. If my eyes had been closed instead of only filled with tears, I would have known the exact moment anyhow.

In a way, his life had been traded for the life of that little girl I’d pulled from the ocean. When I’d first known she was in trouble, I’d stood there frozen, hesitating, waiting for her parents to go get her.

Then when nothing happened and nobody moved, I’d remembered something Russell had said to me. He’d said, “A time will come when you have to grow past your fear, past the concerns of your conscience that keep you still, and you will be bigger than you ever knew you could be, and you will act.” As soon as those words had hit my brain, I had moved. I’d run into the water with no fear of drowning, no fear of not saving her or of looking stupid, or of her father being angry with me, or any other stupid thought that would have kept me still. When she’d said ‘thank you’ to me and looked into my soul with her tear filled eyes, I’d said my own thank you to Russell. It even felt like he knew.

The teacher caught my eyes again and I knew him; he was the little girl’s father, the one I’d wanted to kill. I could no longer meet his

eyes, and looked down, down at my soggy boots, and felt my eyes fill with tears. He’d recognized me, and I knew I’d never pass this class that I had to pass to graduate. There went any future I might have had.

I suppose it might have been worse, at least he wasn’t Russell’s son!

Oh he and his sister had hated me, not that I was in the will or anything, just told to be there by the lawyer anyhow. I hadn’t understood a word nor had I expected anything. All the man had was debts and a heart as big as the world. As I left, however, the attorney said, “When you are ready to go to college, call me.” He wouldn’t let me leave until I had promised to do so.

I tuned the teacher out as class went on. He did a good job I guess, at least, the other kids were paying attention and asking questions and all that shit. Me, I just sat there like a big guilty lump, waiting for the man to point at me and scream, “J’ACCUSE!” I guess I felt dramatic; no, hell, I was just scared.

Finally class was over. He assigned homework, a bell rang, and everyone left. Naturally, he pointed at me and told me to stay after class. Someone walked by and kicked my wet boot, saying, “Stupid homo-boy, you should have paid attention!” His friends laughed and they all left.

I thought about Russell and his courage and his ‘rise above’ statement, and I got up and walked up to the desk and looked the man right in the eye.

Shocking me, he said bluntly, “I was a jerk and you saved my daughter’s life. I’ve never even thanked you.” He stuck out his hand, then took me with his other, and drew me to him, holding me. When I sniffed back tears, he pulled back, searching my face, and then had me sit down next to his desk. He sat on the corner of it. “After you left,” he said, “That old lady you were talking to came over and talked to my daughter. I hadn’t even looked at her, my daughter I mean. I still had no fucking clue. The old lady asked her if she was all right, and Rebecca whispered, “I’m fine. I was only playing.” Her eyes shot at me and cut me to the core. My daughter was concerned about ME.” “’You almost lost her, you know’, the old lady said to me, patting my arm. ‘I know the ocean can be so deceiving… but you dropped the ball, you idiot. That kid saved her life. What on earth

were you thinking – Jacob?’” And I thought, she knows my name.

How the hell does she know – oh fuuuuck. It’s Mrs. Helmsly, old lady Hell-lady – my high school history teacher.

“I went to this school, years ago, and all the seniors told the juniors, year after year, ‘For God’s sake, take history in summer school! You don’t want Mrs. Helmsley’!”

I couldn’t take my eyes off this man. I still didn’t know his name, but then it jumped out at me from the blackboard where he’d written it earlier, Jacob Johnson.

Mr. Johnson was lost in his own little world, which was just the way Russell had been when he’d talked about his life, the things that happened to him. It made me soften to the man. When he went on, he said, “Then she stomped her cane on my bare foot, the same way she used to do to us in school when we didn’t know the answers. She’d bang her cane on our feet and believe me, shoes or not, it still hurt.

You’d have thought she was a Catholic nun with a ruler! Some of us began wearing boots for protection!”

“Is she all right? Your daughter – Rebecca?” I asked.

“She’s fine, but she’s still absolutely furious with me, as she should be. If it hadn’t been for you…” he sat there looking at me, shaking his head. “Your parents must be so proud of you.”

I didn’t know what to say. I had no words at all. I just sat there staring at him like a complete dummy, and then I started to cry. My heart was just rent, wishing I had a father, even one as inattentive as he had been – it only made him human to me. Not horrible, like my mother said my real father was, and not perfect like my stepfather said he himself was, and not – oh I don’t know! I just didn’t know. I just wanted it to be OK to be stupid some times (like my stepfather said I was – but was I?) This man had made a mistake, a bad one, and had acknowledged it and apologized for it. Isn’t that what being human was really all about? Russell had said love was all about caring for the person, the whole person, warts and all, that kind of thing. Now I got it. Even the courage to rise above things, it was the same thing wasn’t it? About being a whole human being, but trying always for the best side of yourself that you could manage. If it was courage, fine;

apologizing - fine. Forgiving – fine. It was whatever it was.

“You’ve given me so much,” Mr. Johnson said quietly, patting my back like he had no clue what else to do. “What can I give you?”

But he’d already given me what I needed most, the knowledge that it was OK to be who you were at any given time, warts and all, brave or afraid or stupid. Finally I was able to sit up and look him right in the face. I wanted to say something powerful like, ‘I forgive you’ or ‘You don’t owe me a thing’, even though suddenly I knew there was nothing for me to forgive. He had to forgive himself, and by telling me all this, I think he had already done it. Instead of being big and brave again though, I heard myself say, ‘boots.’

I knew I’d need good boots for college because I suddenly knew what else Russell had given me and why the attorney made me promise to call him – when I started college. I knew I was going to pass this class, knew I was going to graduate, knew I was going to college, I knew I had a future now. Boots may have been a funny thing to ask for, but it brought the world full circle. I knew Russell would be proud of me after all.

CHOPPED LIVER That moment – the one you want to die in, right now, as soon as possible, please God make the earth open up and drop me into its molten heart, or hell, even an icy cold cave, as long as I die or at least just disappear completely.

That moment when you know what? I wasn’t paranoid after all, they really were out to get me. I wasn’t just being silly or emotional, they really don’t like me. In fact, they do hate me. And I was so stupid to think otherwise.

Analytically it’s not just like a knife to the heart like I first pictured it; it’s more like a cement block to the whole chest, with the heart just bearing the brunt of it. It’s a bunch of trips to the bathroom with pain and diarrhea as soon as the gut gets the message.

I wasn’t wanted. I wasn’t invited. I was left out on purpose.

They don’t like me. They are laughing at me when I walk away. They are rolling their eyes when I’m not looking. How could I not have really-for-sure known? But then what was I, chopped liver?

Emotionally it’s death, or at least, being shoved forcefully into a dark cavern with just possibly, who knows, a tunnel on the far side that might lead to somewhere else, some when else anyway, where there might be light again, or laughter – but hey, possibly not.

Remember those old dreams or ‘stinking thinking’ when you were a kid? They don’t like me. I won’t fit in. Dad hates me. Mom loves my sister better. My clothes aren’t right. I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I don’t belong to this, or that, or them, or here, or anywhere. Heck, if I died, they wouldn’t even miss me, and then, they’d probably be glad. I’m probably adopted, anyway.

I don’t know, man. They say God doesn’t make mistakes, but then, there’s me. I’m here. How can I be a mistake? But if I’m not, why don’t they like me?

What is it that is wrong with me?

Fuck them. Maybe they’re all wrong, all of them, everyone in the universe… yeah, right. There I go kidding myself again.

There’s so many examples that I could go on for hours, but I’ll cut it short. Since I was ten, I knew I was different. I had a great time before that, except for my dad, but that was the only problem. When I was ten, my uncle moved in with us… I won’t go there, I don’t want to talk about it, and you don’t want to hear about it. I told my mom once and she slapped me and called me a liar, so let’s just ignore all that as just figments of my evil, wicked, dirty, malevolent – imagination, OK? Like. She. Said. Back up to my dad’s temper/coldness/disdain being the only problem.

Oh, where was I? Sorry for staring off into space like that, but, it’s just... well, let’s just take today, instead. Just today. Like on the bus this morning, I found out that my best friend, Teddy, had taken this girl I like and he knows I like, Maureen, to a dance she had told me she wasn’t allowed to go to. I’d already asked her and she’d said no, she couldn’t go. I‘m sure I wasn’t supposed to find out about it, but of course people had to tell me, and don’t think I didn’t see them smirk when my eyes went wide, too. The kid that told me? He laughed and told all his friends. Then he told me he personally saw them kissing and that they got yelled at by Mr. Smithson, the history teacher. And of course, they wondered what the heck I was interested in a girl for anyhow, because, you know…

(If it was just the one thing, you know? Everybody has something, some shit to deal with, and I could deal with it, I suppose, but I won’t ever know because something like this happens every fucking day to me.)

And what’s with this being called faggot and gay before I even knew I was gay? How does that even happen? They couldn’t have known. And the coach, cuz this most often happens in gym class, he winks at them and says, “Now boys,” and ignores it other than that.

Tacit approval, isn’t that what they call it?

Another thing from this morning – I go into English class. I love English; I love reading, and I especially love to write. I pop out stories all the time, and I’ve started a novel. I think I’m good at it, but I don’t know, and I won’t ever know from this teacher, Mr. Hayes. He hates me for some reason. He thinks I ‘plagiarize’ all the time. Then this morning he said it again, “Nice work, Mr. Morgan,” (that’s me).

“Too bad it’s not your own work.” He gave me an ‘E’ and everyone was silent – except for a couple of guys who snorted and a girl who literally said ‘tsk tsk’ like you read about in old stories. I wanted to defend myself, but he had turned away already and was smiling at some girls who were, frankly, terrible writers but had big boobs. It was all I could do not to cry, and then some moron in the back threw a piece of chewed gum at me, and it got stuck in my hair.

Then they all laughed. I stood up, grabbed my books, knocked one on the floor, and walked out of the room as stately as I could go, leaving the book open on the floor. The hell with it. I had to get out of there because I was going to burst into tears right there, otherwise.

At least I had the bathroom all to myself. I was going to have to go to the office and report myself, but the hell with that, too. Once I stopped crying, maybe I could do it then. If the teacher had to do it you got an automatic detention. While I was in there I went ahead and peed and then washed my face and tried to pull the gum out, which when it didn’t come easily, pissed me off to the point that I pulled and yanked and swore like my dad did when he read the paper, or, didn’t have his dinner right away, or… well. I had a good teacher there, didn’t I? My tantrum only made me cry harder and soon my face was as blotchy as one of the bully’s acned faces, the bastards.

I did finally quiet down. Thank God nobody had come in! This close to lunch, most of the idiots waited to smoke at lunch.

On the way to the office I wondered what I should do. Should I kill myself like I used to think, you know, back when you’re young and you think, that will show them. They’ll be sorry then. Now I knew better. Now I figured living well, well, outliving at any rate, would be the best revenge, and who knows, maybe I would live well. It could happen, right? And if not, at least I wouldn’t be dead wondering if everyone was saying, yeah, he was always such a loser, we knew this would happen.

Contrary thoughts huh? But they worked. I wouldn’t give anyone the fucking pleasure. Oh hell no. Besides there was always the woods and the ocean and music. I could live if I only had those three things from time to time. They buoyed me up and lifted my spirit well away from this sordid planet and my own wacky and misbehaving

body. And I had my writing. If I had to do it all on my own, well, so be it. Many authors did, right? And so could I. Even though I was supposedly still just a kid, I’d lived long enough to know that things do change, and not always for the worst. That’s just natural. You had to hang in there, that’s all.

Went to lunch after the office, got detention anyhow, but oh boy it was lunchtime – whom would I sit with now? There was no freaking way I’d sit with Brad, that fucking friend-even-if-she-was-agirl stealing bastard. My short lived bloom of joy (thinking of music and writing etc.) left as if it had been an imaginary balloon poked by an only too real sword. (OK you’re wondering why, if I’m gay, did I want to take a girl to the prom? Well, maybe I wasn’t 100% gay, or maybe I was and just wanted to dance, or have everyone say, see, he’s not gay after all, and stop calling me names. Besides, like my cousin Archie once said, “Everybody likes boobies.”)

Shit, piss poor timing, my middle name. As I got in the lunch line half my English class piled in behind me and they started in on me. I tried to hide my puffy face. It was so obvious I’d been crying and now there was this bald patch where I had yanked out my hair as well as the wad of gum. I tried to just watch my feet shuffle along and pretend I could hear nothing that was said. I grabbed a tray and shuffled forward, shoved from behind, shoved back from whoever I bumped into in front. I only looked up so I could take the food the lunch ladies were handing out.

This one woman – I think it was Myrtle – what a name, huh?

She was older than most of the others and looked it. But she saw me and her eyes narrowed, then arrowed in on the boys behind me. She looked at me again, and deliberately spooned a double helping – strictly against all the rules – onto my plate and smiled at me when she handed it to me, like it was the best gift anyone could ever give another person. Her smile said it all to me. I smiled back; I couldn’t help it. My head came up, my shoulders straightened, and I smiled my heart and gratitude at her. It was like she knew me, I mean really saw and knew me and loved what she saw – I can’t explain it, it was just – a moment out of time. We connected on some, I dunno, higher plane.

It was like I was worth double everything, and all she could do was let

me know that by giving me a double portion. Screw the rules. She knew. She could lose her job over that, it was such a strict rule! But by doing so, she transferred some of her own inner joy to me. That’s the only way I can put it. I guess my face showed my gratitude.

There was total silence behind me. An immutable rule had been broken and by Myrtle, the oldest person anyone here had ever seen, their mothers and grandmothers personified! There was no sound, unless a smile made it.

I walked out of that serving line and sat down by the window where the pretty girls usually sit. The hell with them. They could join me or sit somewhere else. I no longer felt like an outsider or a jerk or a queer – maybe I still was but I didn’t care. So fucking what? It was all outside of me now. I was no longer held captive by what other people thought of me; nobody should be held a prisoner of their own thoughts, let alone others’. Why had I believed all this incoming bullshit? Why hadn’t I shoved it out sooner? I guess I had to have been shown how, and Myrtle had done it. I wondered if maybe she had a gay kid or something? I had no idea. I just thanked God that she’d been there today.

One of the nicer girls sat down beside me. She didn’t even look around for somewhere else first. She had been in my English class too.

She said, “Mr. Andrews is such a prissy bitch, isn’t he? He’s a jerk.

Don’t let him make you feel bad.”

I couldn’t believe she was talking to me! Or that I was going to answer her. “He made me feel like chopped liver!” I laughed ruefully.

Then she snorted with laughter, looking embarrassed but still... and we both looked down at our trays. Yeah. You know what was on the plate I had doubles of, right? Chopped liver, with onions. When I looked up again she was smiling at me, her eyes crinkled and her hand reaching over to mine. “All you can do is laugh, you know?” she said, smiling. “By the way,” she added as another girl sat down beside her,“This is Annette, my girlfriend.” They smiled and kissed each other warmly. “And we’re definitely not chopped liver either.”

“Although, what’s wrong with chopped liver? This has onions and mushrooms in it and it’s fucking delicious!” laughed Annette, her mouth full.

And all I could do was smile, because you know what? She was right. Chopped liver can be delicious when it’s served with love – and onions – and I had two new friends as well, and, best of all, I knew I was no longer alone.

I DON'T HAVE A PROBLEM WITH ALCOHOL In memory of Bill B., 1934-1994

Hi, my name is Bill, but I'm not an alcoholic. I have a problem with speaking to you all tonight because I had a couple of strokes a while ago, and now I slur my words, but I don't have a problem with alcohol.

I've got a problem with my job. I got a DUI, and now they won't let me drive a truck anymore, and I really loved driving a truck... but I don't have a problem with alcohol.

I've been living in shelters and on the street and at the YMCA because I got drunk at my aunt's house, and she kicked me out, see. So I went to my sister's house, but she said she didn't make enough money to support us both; so I had to leave there too. So I guess you could say I've got a problem with housing, but at least I don't have a problem with alcohol.

I know I have a problem with relationships, too. My wife took my kid and left me for no reason. I have a grandchild or two that I've never seen. My kids' lives are all screwed up. Nobody in my family invited me over for the holidays last year. There wasn't anywhere for me to go; so I just stayed in my room at the Y and drank. Heck, why not; I don't have a problem with alcohol.

So hey, I used to have a lot of problems, but now I don't have them any more. There's only two exits from the alcohol highway; one is sobriety and the other is death. But since I didn't have a problem with alcohol, why would I choose sobriety? With all my problems, why wouldn't I want to drink? Besides, nothing bad could happen to me, and if it did, so what?

Hi, my name is Bill, and I died Monday, October 10, all alone in

the hallway of a YMCA in a city where I didn't know a soul.

So now I don't have any problems at all. But I swear, honest to God, I never had a problem with alcohol.

EXIT PLAN A piece of acid metal music saved my life. Dammit. I had it all planned out. My name is Jess. I’m a guy; I’m seventeen. And a half.

And I hate my life.

In a different world, I’d be perfectly fine – I think. Maybe there’s nothing wrong with me – maybe it’s just everyone else and everything else, but it doesn’t matter, does it, because I, just like you, have to live in this world.

I just couldn’t do it anymore. So I made my plan – my exit plan.

I got in a fight at school last week. It was the last straw. I thought this guy, Marc – they called him Merc, short for Mercury, because he was the star of the track team. He was also on the boxing team and the baseball team and well, you get the idea. Frankly, I thought he was overcompensating for being a big fag just like me, only he was too chicken to admit it. And if you want a second opinion, he wanted me. He had a twisted way of showing it, though.

I kinda liked fighting with him, I mean, the body contact part anyhow; the punches and kicks not so much.

Oh yeah, back to the plan.

So yeah, I’m still a virgin. Anyhow, after Marc got through beating me to a pulp to prove how not-gay he was, I just laid there, and I started to cry. I was busy trying not to piss my pants after those kicks to my kidneys; so I really didn’t pay much attention when someone took my hand and helped me to my feet. I could hear Marc and his posse laughing at me, but my eye was swelling up, and I couldn’t really see them.

I sort of came to myself in the bathroom with someone washing the blood off me, and holding a cold wet paper towel to my eyelid to stop the bleeding there.

The bell rang and he said, “Shit, I’ve got to go. Are you going to be OK? I have to get home, my bus… my dad…”

I didn’t really know the boy helping me. I’d seen him around but he was like a shadow, living in the background, no friends, never

speaking up.

I managed to focus on him and nodded. I had no idea if I was going to be OK or die, but he looked so worried, I had to let him go.

He reached toward me like he wanted to caress my face – it made me shiver – but he dropped his hand and left, casting one glance back over his shoulder from the doorway, backlit by the bright hallway. I saw something flare in his eyes, something I recognized, but could not then name.

When the acid rock started, so slow and deep a bass, I knew it had been yearning that I had seen in his eyes. I knew because I’d seen it in the mirror many, many times.

It stabbed me to the core. And it reminded me of his name.

Asa. Merc and his pals called him something else, though.

I guess he made his bus, but I missed mine. After he left I went into a stall and threw up, then I peed. I peed blood, and I almost fainted when I saw it.

Finally I staggered out of the stall, washed my face again, and left the bathroom.

The hall was empty and dark. Everyone had gone home. If only there’d been one person left, one nice person, with a car, I might have been OK, but of course there was not.

I pulled out my cell phone to call home and found it dead.

Shit. I remembered that I’d been kicked hard in that area - my front left pants pocket – if my phone hadn’t been there, it might have been OK, but then my dick would have been broken instead. See? There’s always a silver lining if you look hard enough.

I had a three mile walk ahead of me. I’d run it some days, and others I’d enjoyed the walk, but this time I could only limp along, trying not to make the pain worse.

Halfway home I just gave up. I quit. I threw up in someone’s bushes; I felt pee – or blood – run down my leg. And it started to rain, a slow, cold drizzle that would have done November proud, except this was early May. I had to dash into the woods twice as worse things than – never mind. I had cramps, OK? By then it was raining so hard that if I had crapped in my pants no one would have ever been able to tell anyway,

but I was so ashamed already. Well, enough about that.

I wanted nothing more than my mom or dad’s arms around me, a hot shower, a handful of aspirin and my bed, but when I got home the house was dark. No one was there at all.

Going in the back door, I stepped into the mud room and started peeling my dripping wet clothes off. Stepping into the kitchen naked and shivering, I flicked on the light and saw a note on the table.

And then I remembered. Today was my dad’s 50 th birthday and we’d all been going out to a fancy dinner. I was late, and they’d gone ahead without me.

I just went to bed.

Well there’s plenty more but let’s just leave it that I was grounded forever, passive-aggressived to death, given That Patented Mother’s Look of Disappointment, and told that ‘fighting was wrong’.

No kidding.

I can’t tell you exactly when I mentally turned that final corner, but it doesn’t really matter. I was so pissed and so hurt that I took my parents’ brand new car, to, you know, do it in. Kill it along with myself. That way if they didn’t mind losing me, they might at least miss the car.

I’m speeding down the highway, angry, hurt and sobbing. I flick on the radio, still set to the salesman’s stations, and this song came on. Slow and moody and then speeding up, a desperate guttural deep bass beat of drums like my heart and acid like my tears, and I had to wipe my eyes. It was hard, like life; it was dark, like my thoughts, and I loved it. It stirred me matched me explained me understood me and for some reason, I knew I was not alone. The song was long, and I passed the cliff I was going to drive over, and then when the song ended, I saw that I was almost home again.

I turned the radio back off, wiped my eyes, felt my heart slow down, my sense of self come back. I turned into the driveway and parked, turned off the engine, and sat quietly in the silence.

When I looked up my dad was standing there, angry but smiling and shaking his head. He had no freaking clue. I loved him for it.

I thought about Asa and that last, yearning look he’d given me,

and I wanted to find out what it was he yearned for. I thought that tomorrow, at school, I’d ask him. Maybe, like me, he just yearned for a friend.

Sighing, I got out of the car and my dad enfolded me in his arms.

Instead of an exit, I’d found an entrance. I was home.

NEVER TOO LATE I know it’s nobody’s fault but my own that I did not have a good day today. One of my teachers is always spouting that you make your own life, you’re as happy as you want to be, and you chose your family and your life before you were born for the spiritual lessons… oh my dear god, just shut her the heck up.

It really hurts to think anyone would say I chose my life, my parents, my hardships. I mean, everyone has problems, so they say, but when you look around and you don’t see anyone else with anything currently on their back, it’s really isolating. I know maybe someone will get hit by a truck later or get cancer, but for now? It’s hard, OK? Don’t tell me to stop my whining, Coach. Don’t tell me to suck it up, Mom. Don’t tell me I’m a big baby, a hypochondriac, a sissy, a faggot, a loser.

Here’s what happened today. Got off the bus, stepped right into a giant puddle. No problem, so did half the other kids, but I was the only one who got laughed at and accused of pissing down my leg to make the puddle. I laughed it off, or pretended to. On my way to my locker a kid grabbed my books and ‘accidentally’ knocked them to the floor. He and his friends laughed at me and booted them around the hall way yelling ‘monkey in the middle’ at me as I tried to pick them up. Right after that the biggest jock at school, Ricky Corrigan, who was always on me, grabbed me in a headlock and pretended to drag me into the boys’ room to give me a swirly to go with my mudstained books and shoes, and all of his friends laughed at me. Ricky was constantly teasing me, calling me names, throwing things at me - I hated him so much. Then the bell rang and Ricky just kind of dropped me to the floor. I banged my knee hard, and they all took off. It made me late to class, and then once I got there, I got in trouble for letting my history book get wet and dirty.

I refused to think about what happened before I left the house.

It was always better to just forget everything from home, and today was, well, never mind, let’s just say worse than usual.

I zoned back in to hear the teacher, Mr. Dugan, aka Mr. D., talking about heroes and role models. He was going to go around the room, asking each of us who our heroes were, who they were for us. I had none. I had never had one. Oh shit, here we go. Ricky said some badass football player who was always in the news, either for his great plays, or his many and varied crimes. Then the guy in front of me had just said ‘Jesus Christ’, and I was next.

I felt like James Dean, bringing my gaze up slowly to look at the teacher. I drew in a deep breath and let my mind stop roiling and spoke what I truly believed. In my innocence, I thought the truth was what everyone was saying. I am so naïve sometimes. “Myself,” I said firmly, for it was true. Not because I was a good role model or a model anything, but because I was all I had.

“Explain,” the teacher demanded, his left eyebrow raised high.

“When I don’t know what to do, I have to look inside, or listen to that quiet voice you’ve spoken about before. Sometimes I have to discard the first few things that come into my mind” – here I stared at Ricky and projected wanting to beat him up or kill him – “but then something just feels right; so that’s what I do. If I’m wrong, I’m wrong, with nobody to blame but myself, but I don’t know what else to do or where else to look.” That last part sounded completely pathetic, even to myself. I think my chin quivered, and I had to blink back – something; something was in my eye.

That damn Mr. D. said, “Give us an example.”

My breath caught in my throat. I think I whimpered. I said, “Well, like this morning,” and Ricky interrupted saying, “When you couldn’t decide whether to wear your Hello Kitty panties or the My Little Pony ones,” and the whole class laughed out loud. I started shaking and tears ran down my face, I could feel my eyes just flooding over and blurted, “I found out my mom’s boyfriend is cooking meth in the basement and I don’t – I didn’t – I have to go!” and I leaped to my feet. It was like I was standing back watching an actor; I didn’t know what that actor was doing as me or what he’d say next, but I could feel he – I – was hyperventilating.

Mr. D. looked shocked, and asked, “Where are you going?” like the dumbass he sometimes was. All I could answer was, “I’m

going into the woods to walk into the pond and nobody can stop me!

I’ve had all I can take of you people here. I’ve had all I can take at home. My mom sits there and uses what her boyfriend is making, and she doesn’t give a shit about fixing dinner or taking care of me or my brother. She tried to get some guy to… I can’t… I don’t know what to do! I never know what to do! You all laugh at me and call me a faggot, and what if I am? What if I’m not? What if Ricky is? What if your brother or sister is? The Hell with all of you! You can kiss my ass!”

Yeah! Who was this idiot? Me? I hiccupped and tears snorted down my face. I said loudly, not expecting it, “Oh fuck. Who’m I kidding.

My life sucks, I’m the only faggot in this whole school, and I’m the world’s biggest loser.”

Behind me someone laughed, and across the room I saw Ricky, the captain of the football team, nudge his friend and they both made faces like they were going to puke. None of the girls were laughing, as far as I could tell. I could feel heat rise in my face and knew I was blushing, but I was angry and lost. They all acted like I was acting, really acting, like I was on a stage, but I was deadly serious. I felt so small. I wanted to kill Ricky, and before I realized what I was doing I lunged for him. I had no idea what I was going to do. Ricky jumped to his feet. Mr. D. started toward me. I pushed into Ricky to knock him aside, or kill him, I don’t know! But as I started toward the door he wouldn’t move. He just grabbed my arm, and I swung at him, but he grabbed my wrist, turning my arm aside, stopping it. I tried to get away but he held onto me, then pulled me toward him as I cried out in anger. Then I went for his throat, but he got my other arm and just held me away from him. I must have looked like a complete fool, swinging feebly and crying and cursing. I thought he was going to laugh at me.

I was getting dizzy, hiccupping, sobbing, only half conscious, but I went on, “My house – there’s always beer – dope – people coming in all night – drunks on the floor – way too much Sudafed and Drano around.” I hadn’t meant to say any of that!

“My brother’s always in my room with the door locked, crying.

Mom’s previous boyfriends sold my guitar – broke the couch – put holes in the walls – backhanded my brother – shoved me.” This latest

boyfriend was careful not to hit my mother in front of me, but my brother told me… I couldn’t go on. I pulled away from Ricky and glared at everyone, furious. “Then there was one of my mom’s friends last night, he put his arm around me like we were great buddies, and my mother was smiling, saying, “Go for it.” And until I thought about it later, and even then, I didn’t really know for sure just what she meant. So don’t be calling me a faggot when I’m just fucking clueless!”

The room was silent now, and suddenly my knees gave out beneath me. I could hear myself crying and telling Ricky to let me go, but he held on, then he had me from behind, his arms around me, holding me up against him, all the other kids staring, some saying ohmygod and some starting to get up and then everything went gray and I could feel Ricky’s heart pounding through his chest, against my face, and his shirt was wet with my tears.

Dimly, I could hear the class shouting and some girl crying and Mr. Dugan saying, “Ricky, take Devon in my office.” I could hear Ricky saying quietly to me, “I’ve got you, I’ve got you; I’m not going to let you hurt yourself.” And I could hear myself crying, like a baby, and I was so ashamed, but at least nobody thought I was acting anymore.

I dwindled down to babbling, “Please let me just go. I need to – need to…” and I must have fainted at last because everything turned black.

After a while I became aware of a dim light, and in the quietness that now surrounded me came muted voices. I realized I was in Mr. D.’s office, on the sofa, with an afghan over me, and Ricky was sitting beside me, rubbing my shoulder, saying, “Sleep, shhh, everything’s going to be OK now.”

It made me angry. He had no way – no knowledge of me or what my life was like! He had no business – “Leave me alone!” I cried, trying to push him away. He merely took my hand in his and held on, as if I were a kitten swatting at him in play. “You hate fags, and you hate me!” I shouted, gasping for air. “You’d like it if I was dead!”

His face turned ashen, and he rubbed his thumb on the palm of my hand. Tears came into his eyes. He blurted, “No, honey, don’t say that! It’s not true at all!”

We were caught in a moment of stillness so intense I could hear the kids in the classroom murmuring. Backlit, I could just make out the glimmer of Ricky’s dark eyes and his hair tousled like he’d just run both hands through it. I could see him bite his lip, and he continued shakily, “I – I have something I want to tell you.”

The look in his eyes – I realized he had just called me ‘honey’ – I stifled my next, vicious retort and just hung there in the moment.

Ricky said, after a false start, “I – I’m gay too.”

I shook my head. What? “I don’t believe you,” I snorted. “I don’t know why you’d lie about a thing like that. It hurts me – maybe that’s why! You hate me because I’m gay!”

He shook his head, the tears running over his lids and making streaks down his cheeks. “No, that’s not true. I love you because I’m gay.” His voice was shaking with emotion.

“No,” I replied, confused and even more upset. “Quit saying that. I still don’t believe you!” Why would he hurt me like this? I didn’t think I could be any more distraught.

Ricky swallowed hard, and rubbed the back of his hand across his face. He sobbed once, which shocked me, then he added desperately, “Well, believe this then!” And then he kissed me.

I felt his heart racing, his lips so firm and yet tender on my own, his breathing so fast; my own heart slowed, with my body believing his actions faster than my brain could accept. But I believed then, oh yes, I believed. When he pulled back from me, his eyes shining, my lips felt lost. I had no concept of myself as the hurt and martyred victim of half an hour ago, five minutes ago. I watched him. I saw the real him come out over the top of the role he had forced himself to play. He said softly, “I didn’t want to be gay. I had this crush on you for so long, and I hated what it made me know about myself – there was no way I could be gay. Look at me – I’m six feet tall, solid muscle, I look like what I am – just a big, dumb jock. There’s no way… but I am. I admit it. I never meant to hurt you, just distance myself, but I can’t hide it from myself or you or anyone else any longer. I love you; I think I have since the first time I ever saw you. I just didn’t want – didn’t want – but oh, now I do. Now I’m glad.” He had to gasp for a breath after that long and emotional a statement, but

then he put both arms around me and held me against his chest, where I clung, listening to his heart begin to slow its frantic pace, just as mine had done a moment before.

I must have relaxed so much I dozed off again. The next thing I knew, there were another voice, which woke me up. I was still on the couch, curled on my side, with the blanket tucked in around me. The desk lamp was on, and I could just make out Mr. D. sitting there talking to someone on the phone. I didn’t see Ricky anywhere now, and I felt lost without him there. That was odd, but now that I understood him, I realized he had made me feel safe.

Mr. D’s voice was low, it was intense, and I had no trouble making out what he was saying. “Jesus, Tom, the cops went to his house after the principal called them and apparently his stepfather was cooking meth in the basement, and it blew up. The whole house went up with the guy in it, and they don’t know where the woman is, and it turns out the kid brother wasn’t in school today. All we can do is hope he was skipping class.” Mr. D. listened for a while, then said, “All right, Tom, I’ll bring him home with me. I love you; we’ll be there in half an hour. See you then. And – thank you, sweetheart.”

I can’t believe I hadn’t really put it together that Mr. D. was gay. Everyone knew the music teacher, Mr. Profit, was. He was so out it was funny. But it had kept me going, knowing that you could be gay, act gay, be that obvious, be safe and happy and successful, even though you were gay. I think Mr. Profit was the only reason I’d made it this far. That dawned on me as Mr. D. helped me sit up, find my shoes, and walk out to his car with him. It was dark, and the school halls were empty and dim. That would explain why Ricky had left. I felt like a zombie. If I were dead, I wouldn’t have to worry about my folks, would I? It was amazing to let myself be taken care of by someone who could really take care of me. I wasn’t used to that, but it felt right. Of course then I had to start crying again, didn’t I, thinking about Mr. D. and his partner Tom and of course, Ricky... Big fat tears just rolled down my face, not making a sound, but I guess Mr. D. knew anyhow, cuz he put his arm around me and hugged me close. I wanted to wail but managed to only hiccup.

A little ugly voice deep inside me said, “If you hadn’t yelled at

your brother for skipping school last week, he might still be alive instead of burned to a cinder.” Another one chimed in, “If you had let that man…” but I blurted out loud, “NO!” Standing by Mr. D’s open car door (he had a great new Chrysler with a moon roof), Mr. D. shook me gently and looked right into my eyes, lifting my chin to do so. “This is not your fault. None of it.” And I was instantly a child again, so willing to believe him, so wanting to be innocent, although there again was a little voice deep inside, this time telling me that what I wanted with Ricky would not be too innocent. I told that little voice to shut up.

The drive to his house was silent, except for something classical on the radio. I really liked it; it was peaceful, and I was able to glue myself together, something I badly needed to do. I kept repeating what he’d just said to me, ‘This is not your fault’. I needed to keep hearing that, keep thinking that. Around me the car was filled with shadows; my mother, my brother, embarrassment at having broken down in class. The other kids, the one boy I thought might be gay who looked stricken when I blew up, his eyes wide and hurting; would he ever speak to me now? Would I ever have the guts to speak to him?

Did I even care anymore when there was Ricky? Ricky…

Mr. D. pulled the car into a dirt driveway that climbed up a ridge and into a circle of trees. The space opened out and the buildings shone in the light of his headlights. There was a house, a garage, a barn - man, they lived on a farm! The air was so clear, and off in the distance you could see the mountains, and here in the open there were the buildings, a long split-rail fence and all that other farm stuff that you would expect, like old machinery and small outbuildings.

Mr. D. stopped the car near the house, in front of the garage.

When we opened our doors, the air was so fresh and clean I could see the stars and a wisp of moon, shining so bright it was almost like day.

It was like being in another country, or another world. There was a light on over the door and we went in. The kitchen was yellow and warm, gold and sunny even though it was dark outside. Something must have been in the oven because it smelled wonderful.

Then in walked Tom, two dogs, five cats and something that I think was a miniature goat. Tom kissed Mr. D. then enveloped me in a

hug. It’s not like he needed to ask first, but it felt like he asked anyhow; I can’t explain it, but it was just right. It was clean and warm and welcoming. Food was cooking, pets were crowding my legs, I was being held and taken care of. Compared to my house – or what had been my house – this was heaven. At bottom – this was safe; this was family. I wanted to live there forever; I wanted to be their kid. I just wanted to belong – that’s all I’d ever wanted, my whole life.

“Dinner’s ready,” said Tom, and Mr. D. put his arm around me and drew me into the kitchen along with him. I felt like I’d come home, to a real home, and a real family as well.If I had been able to choose my family before I was born, I would have chosen them.

Maybe it was not too late after all, to make my own life the way I wanted it to be.

IT’S ONLY HUMAN 5/12/73

Little green men or big hairy monsters would not have been such a shock, science fiction being what it was, as those aliens who landed in the glen -- and for all Dale knew, other places too. They were different but similar, and it was more the similarities than the differences that made them so alien. They were taller, stronger, their eyes perhaps catlike, their faces shaped differently. What passed for hands were cuplike, and the four appendages to them were more flexible, and longer. Yet they stood and walked like humans, they talked through mouths, had two eyes, and hair on their heads.

Dale watched from behind the trees as they took control of the campground, easily, quietly. He could see no weapons, hear no threats -- the people merely did as they were shown and went where they were led. After a while, he backed off, to get help and to get away equal in his mind. His heart was thudding, his chest was tight. He wondered briefly if this was a nightmare.

Dale was 18 and had been on his own all spring and summer, though he sent postcards home at irregular intervals to his parents.

This day, he had seen the ship land while hiking toward the campground. He had gone closer in silence, and had seen what he had seen. No cameras, no directors, no lights -- just the silent, obedient humans, and the others.

Along the forest path, nothing moved but himself. No birds flew; no little creatures chattered. Even the air was still, oppressive in its August heat. Mixed with the terror, the primeval horror of it, was the awe and thrill of what he had seen. It must be unreal, Dale thought. I've read too much science fiction, but the memory of the burning eyes, the imperious gesture of one of the creatures, kept him moving, and made him look over his shoulder.

The sun set in its glory, unappreciated by the youth who kept up his steady pace. In the dusk, he heard a twig snap, whirled, and thought he saw a movement. This can't be real, he thought, I've dreamt

this before, running, and being chased. Don't the psychiatrists say it's guilt?

If it isn't real, he asked himself, why don't I stop here for the night? And he slowed not a step, but instead walked just a little faster.

There were no night birds anywhere, no sounds at all. Where was everything? Where had all the forest creatures gone? There’s nothing here, Dale thought, glancing around, I feel so lonely -- and yet, he drew a deep. determined breath, and then another, I swear I’m not alone.

And then the sound of a scrape; a brushing against leaves, behind him. A sound escaped him, and he ran, blindly, to trip and fall almost immediately, there in the darkness, with the stars, the alien, reachable, stars, above him. The wind was knocked out of him, his face hurt. Breathing harshly, he opened his eyes-- and there it was, above him; one of them, an alien.

Its hands, with their four appendages -- he could feel each one, hard and tight - were on his arms. It knelt-- if it had knees -- above him. Its breath touched his face -- its eyes glowed as they watched him. Dale's terror froze -- there was no more unknown. He was to die here or become mindless as the others. The moments intervening would pass, he need only wait.

Still the eyes bored darkly into his. He could not remove his gaze. He felt separate from his body, though he was aware of the pounding of his heart, the throbbing in his cheek where he had scraped it.

Time altered, abruptly halted its mad rush forward, to hang in abeyance, as the alien eyes burned into his soul.

The alien, without moving away, without moving his eyes, then touched him, everywhere. It was neither gentle, nor harsh. A hundred sparks in the depths of the eyes reflected whatever it thought, but Dale could not read it. Finally it touched his scraped cheek, and the eyes above him changed.

Dale could feel each centimeter of the scrape, its rawness and the firm reality of the thing's touch amid the blood and dirt. Part or its hand moved and touched a tear. Dale could feel other tears on his face, but only that one felt naked. He knew himself in total truth to be at the

creature's mercy, as vulnerable as his tear.

The eyes bored still further into his soul. Dale got out, so still against the frenzy in his mind, so useless and so human, one word, his only plea: no.

Above him, looking down, it heard the sound, and felt the tremor of Dale’s fear. It thought, the creature is afraid. I have frightened it, and it hurt itself, and yet I mean no harm. If it could only understand‌

THIRD FLOOR, LADIES LINGERIE The attic room was my escape, my haven, my place of safety.

Nobody ever came up here but me. True, both of my grandparents with whom I lived now were too old and decrepit to make it up the ladder/staircase to reach here. At first when I said I wanted to have that for my room, they were aghast, but they let me do whatever I want, within reason. Their only rules? Don’t pester, don’t talk back, don’t act like your father.

Believe me, I didn’t want to act like my father. Not that I’d ever really known him, but after all, he had – never mind.

This time of day was my favorite. The sun was just at that angle that sent its rays across my room, lighting all the dust motes as they danced through the breeze from the windows. The willow tree outside both sheltered and shaded my little aerie, and indeed, I felt like a bird, free as a bird anyhow, when I was up here – with the ladder pulled up behind me.

Grandma had cooked a nice dinner tonight. She didn’t know it was my birthday, but I pretended she had just the same. There wasn’t a cake or presents; their budget and their minds didn’t extend that far, anymore, especially not since they had had to take me in.

I hid my secrets up here just like they hid their pasts in the old cedar chest and army trunk under the other window, across the empty space of my haven. When I’d opened the trunk for the first time I’d almost leaped back in shock. There, inside, beneath the top tray, was my mother’s prom gown, supposedly the one she’d worn the night my father had raped her, and I had probably been conceived.

Seventeen – I was seventeen now, one more semester and I’d graduate and try to go to college. If I improved my grades, the counselor had said… if I got scholarships, my grandfather had said…

In the meantime, it was my birthday, and full of meatloaf and

mashed potatoes, I decided to dress up and eat my cake. No, gramma hadn’t made one, but on the way home from school I’d stopped in the grocery store and stolen a single slice of cake.

I stripped off my school clothes and put on my mother’s prom gown and petticoats, fussed with my hair, pretended to put on makeup, and curled myself around on the bed so I could put the cake on a silver platter from the old trunk, and eat it with a silver spoon from the old silver chest that also resided within it, where I had found it beneath the lilac colored gown that I now wore.

This was the secret I had kept as long as I’d lived here, that I liked to wear my mother’s prom gown. It was only because it reminded me of her and brought her back to me, the feel of the satin and lace, the faint scent of her that I barely remembered. Besides, it was all I had of her. Wearing it made my day bittersweet, a unique but special birthday for a seventeen-year-old orphaned son.

Yeah, OK, I loved her, well, I loved my memory of my mother.

I loved what she meant to me, even if most of it was only in my imagination. I loved my grandparents, depended on them, and I could see how they depended on me, which was worrisome. At some point, as they became more dependent on me, would I be able to leave them?

To escape and have a life of my own? A life – it’s not as if I had any idea of how to lead one. I suppose I should give up my mother’s memory and hunt around for some real life role models so I could start growing up. That is, if I hadn’t already grown up without my even having had a childhood first.

I say that because as soon as I was able, my mom had me cooking, cleaning, and comforting her. I felt like she only had me so I could take care of her. I felt like this was somehow my fault. With no father around, I copied her… I didn’t have anyone else, any role models other than her – we didn’t even have a TV. Sometimes she had men over, but she made me go to my room. I could play, not that I really knew how, with the few toys I had, but I was to become invisible, and silent.

I did not go to kindergarten; it wasn’t required, and she didn’t have the desire to do without me during the days. Any money she had she spent on herself; my clothes were either sent by my grandparents

for gifts, or picked up at the thrift store.

In a hundred ways, my childhood wasn’t any different from any other poor kid of my decade, but in other ways, it was as if I had been raised on a different planet.

Anyhow, as the evening passed, my mood changed, and I was happy for a while, watching the sun slide behind the trees in the back yard, the same yard my mother had grown up in. The same wooden swing still hung out back where my grandfather had built it, decades ago. And just that fast, as fast as the sunset, I was sad again. I rose and took off the dress, hanging it up carefully against the wall. I wasn’t ready to put it back in the trunk yet, and I didn’t know then whether I’d ever want to put it on again.

I looked at myself in the old full-length mirror in its gilded wooden frame, looking at my naked self, wondering if there was something wrong with me. Was I transsexual? Did I want breasts and a woman’s body? I didn’t think so. Was I a cross-dresser? Is that what they called them? No, that didn’t quite fit me either. In the end, I guess I just missed my mother. I ran my hands over my chest, my belly, my arms… and more, grateful for what I had – a healthy body, a roof over my head, a dry place to sleep, food to eat. Clothes that I bought myself with money I earned around this neighborhood full of aging grandparents just like my own.

I mowed grass, shoveled sidewalks, watered lawns, walked dogs. I’d even babysat a few times. Of course I did everything for free for my grandparents even though nothing I did for them ever quite suited them. I tuned out the ‘we never did it that way befores’ and the ‘you forgot that piece of grass by the trash cans’. I’d never been good enough for my mother, either; so it was nothing new, though I yearned to please someone completely. That’s why I wondered if there was something wrong with me, if I was flawed somehow. This feeling went very deep. Even my report cards which my grandfather had to sign, ‘Only a 3.8 this time?’ he’d grunt. It made me feel ashamed. I had no idea that that was his way of showing approval. How could I have known?

I had one good friend at school, Aiden. I swear his being there every day was the only thing that kept me going, maybe the only thing

that kept me alive. And just today I’d found out his family was moving away… in a month, but it seemed like tomorrow to me. I was grieving and beset by tears when I least expected it. I admit I was somewhat in love with this boy, but I’d never let him know. It never occurred to me he might be gay – not the way he joked about the girls he dated, inviting me along on some as a double date but neither of us really knowing anyone to ask for me - certainly I didn’t! I wasn’t sure I could fake it even if some girl would go out with me.

He had a date for prom and wanted me to double date with him and his latest girlfriend, Lena. Lena was what we called a girl ‘who shopped at the big girls store’, but she was so funny and sweet it didn’t really matter. I hadn’t believed him when he told me she gave great blowjobs, but I got horny thinking about it, which was awkward.

I don’t think he noticed, but my God! What if he had!

Since it was the last time I’d be with him before they moved, I really wanted to take him up on it but was terrified to ask anyone.

And my heart was sore that I’d have to wear a suit; I wasn’t sure I could even afford one let alone dinner out or whatever. As I took off the prom gown and hung it up, I wished I could wear it to the prom – wouldn’t that be a kick? Retro was in and it would be perfect, except who the hell would go with me anyhow, even if I wore a suit. Shit.

As it was, I cried myself to sleep. I’m not sure why, the dress, losing my only friend, or it being my uncelebrated birthday, I don’t know. I do know I forgot to do my homework though. The undone homework got me detention after school the next day.

Everyone was leaving, and there I was heading for the detention room. I sidled in, hoping not to be noticed, and looked for a seat in the back. The teacher boomed out my name though and checked me off a list like I was a prisoner boarding the bus for jail.

Nobody laughed at me; they’d all been through the same thing minutes before, as did the few who followed me in. I saw only one person I knew, and oddly enough, she nodded to me and moved her papers off the other chair at her table in the back. I was so grateful I almost cried as I went over to join her.

Her name was Boone and I knew her from the six weeks auto shop class I’d been required to take. She was a permanent fixture

there, wanting to move on to motorcycle school after – if – she graduated. Talk about someone who shopped at the Big Girls Store, or in her case, the Big Boys Store! She was way more masculine that I was… which gave me an idea.

And so the next day I told Aiden I had a date for the prom. I did not tell him I was going as ‘the girl’ and my date was going as ‘the boy’. He’d find out the night of the prom, just like everyone else. It was hard to tell who was more excited, Boone or me, but I was downright terrified as well.

The next few weeks passed far too quickly. One day I’d been in detention and the next it was time to get dressed for my date. I put my mother’s old fashioned dress on over my bare body and the petticoats; the strapless top was stiff enough to stay up without me padding it with anything. Shoes were a problem; there was no way I could walk in high heels, but I’d found a pair of low heels in my gramma’s closet that, luckily, fit me, and ‘borrowed’ them. I had yet to tell them of my plans. All too soon I heard Boone’s motorcycle outside and slipped down the stairs, through the hall and out the door, unnoticed. Thank God for ‘Jeopardy’, my grandparents’ favorite. “What is fellatio?” I heard my grandfather roar, and my grandmother smacking his arm saying, “It’s ‘what is falsetto’ you old poop!” she hollered. I slid the door shut behind me and almost fell down the front stairs into Boone’s arms. He – shit, I mean she – stood there in a suit and tie, holding out a corsage to me.

Moments later we were roaring happily if somewhat crazily down the road with my dress flying up into my face, the flower superglued to my flat and luckily hairless chest, and both of us laughing our asses off.

We got to the school and Boone parked the bike and we climbed off. She stood there looking at me and I fluffed up the acres of lilac satin and lace, hiked up the petticoats, and blinked the exhaust fumes out of my eyes. “Your lipstick is smeared; let me give it a reason,” she said, and then she kissed me. I forgot she was a she and almost fell in love.

“Not too bad for a guy!” she laughed when she pulled away.

Then she straightened her tie and asked, “Ready? Oh wait! Not yet!”

and she reached into her saddle bags and pulled out a Girl Scout canteen. Drinking from it and burping, she passed it to me.

Minutes later, after my lungs and esophagus calmed down, we headed toward the door of the gym. “Gordon’s gin,” she said, “I get it out of my father’s liquor cupboard. Good stuff.”

I couldn’t answer - I was still trying to breathe normally. I was beginning to be less afraid, though. Good stuff indeed.

The teachers at the door smiled and passed us inside, not noticing anything amiss. I’m thinking now that they may have started with the spiked punch a little early.

Jeez I hate to admit I’m so into fashion that I noticed how awkward the new, ‘stylish’ dresses were on the gawky teenage girls wearing them. I suppose I was prejudiced, wearing my mother’s old classic dress, that, not that I knew, had been worn by my grandmother before her and was worth a cool $30,000. I found that out later when my grandmother found out I had worn it. That was right after she fainted.

I’d never been to any school dance before and neither had Boone. We stood off to the side of the entrance, gaping like hicks in the big city. Then some dude in a tux came over and asked me to dance, never even looking at my date. Stuck up prick, I thought, but I waltzed away with him anyhow because Boone gave me a shove.

“I haven’t seen you here before, who are you with?” he asked. I rolled my eyes. Duke was captain of the everything team, a major varsity dude, smart as a whip and he thought I was really a girl? It was all I could do not to spoil it for him! What a fool he’d feel! Oh how mean I felt just then, and yet, how powerful. This was something I could get used to, after being invisible and hiding all my life. Idly, I wondered if I’d abuse this power (if I really had it) or if I’d be nice. I hoped I’d be nice, but I realized I was already liable to abuse it just by being what I was not.

As we spun around the room, I saw Boone wink at me and let it all go. Duke was trying to feel up my ass through the satin and petticoats. I giggled, and the idiot, pardon my French, nuzzled my neck, licking it and then nipping my skin. I hoped he wouldn’t try to feel up my nonexistent boobs.

I saw Boone dance by holding some girl I’d never even spoken to before, so ritzy was she. She was probably Duke’s date and would probably be prom queen. Money up the kazoo, style/fashion/expensive clothes, all wrapped in an attitude made out of dusty diamonds and extinct bird feathers.

We must have danced for hours; I was so happy and yet still so scared at the same time, but nobody – absolutely nobody – was figuring out our façade. When pressed, I said my name was Laureen and that I was new, or I said my name was Marilyn and I’d come with a former student, who was now at Harvard.

At intermission, Boone and I stood back by the drinks table, avoiding the spiked punch but enjoying watching the other kids dig in – and some of the teachers, who were getting tipsy too. And then the DJ announced the candidates for prom queen and king – and Boone and I were called first. I looked at Boone, and she looked at me; I was filled with terror and she was laughing. Where the hell was that gin now that I needed it so desperately? Nonetheless, we went up to the stage with the others.

There were two judges; the librarian Ms. Bloom, who had both a mustache and a girlfriend, and Mr. Waters, the history teacher, who was, in another life, a prune. Or an archbishop or something prim and proper, but heterosexual, if he was sexual at all. They both stared at us, and I saw a tiny pull at the corner of Ms. Bloom’s mouth. I gulped, but she winked at me. And guess who was elected? Yes. Boone and I were elected king and queen.

The room erupted in cheers. We stepped forward. Both Ms. Bloom and Boone were trying and failing to suppress laughter. I was still terrified. Mr. Waters stepped forward to place the crown on my head and stopped short. He had looked down the top of my dress, the pervert, and seen – nothing. His eyes raised slowly to my own, his mouth opening like a fish out of water. He knew! Just as he was narrowing his eyes and getting ready to denounce me, I thought, Ms. Bloom stepped up, grabbed the crown, and placed it on my head.

Everyone cheered, Boone leaned forward and kissed my cheek, and the principal came up to give a speech.

Unfortunately, as it turned out, and I had had no frigging idea

of this before then, he had recognized the dress. I realized that he had been my mother’s prom date years ago. I watched in horror as his eyes widened and his mouth fell slowly open. Boone stepped between me and the principal, grinning wildly. The room went silent.

And Boone opened her mouth. “Just so you all know,” she said, leaning toward the microphone, her voice definitely female (how had I ever not noticed how high a voice she had?), “Yes, I’m not a guy, and he’s not a girl, and you know what, losers? We’re still better looking than you can ever hope to be – and you all voted us king and queen. So, in my humble expectation, I hope you can all just go fuck yourselves and enjoy it, because that’s all the ass you’ll ever get.”

My mouth gaped, then I grinned and raised both hands in one fingered salutes. I am going to hell for this, I said to myself, laughing.

“And,” Boone continued, grinning, “I pissed in every one of your cars that I fixed for free, in auto shop.”

The gym was silent, but then applause started. Half the kids there knew that the rich kids took advantage of the auto shop and the other non-college prep classes, even having the home economics classes kids cater some of their ‘school’ functions.

Boone took a bow, still grinning. I found I was stepping in and taking the mike. I had no idea why. “I’m just here to honor my mother,” I heard myself saying. “As you all know, my mom killed herself because of what happened at her prom. I live with my grandparents now, and they won’t tell me the details, not even who else Mom went with” – here I glanced at Mr. Waters, who had turned almost gray, and was clutching his chest. Was it possible he, and not my – my - was my – my father? He looked like he was wondering that.

Tars came to my eyes and it was all I could do to continue. I looked back out over the kids in my school. “But I do know the attitude then was the same as it is now. The same teasing, bullying, and putdowns happened to her as happen to me and others like me today. The others like me aren’t here tonight; nobody invited them, and nobody wanted them. The outsiders, like myself, like Einstein and Steve Jobs and Edison and all the rest of the misunderstood geniuses and others, just simple people like me. The weirdoes and faggots and losers, just like me.” I felt tears running down my face and my mascara was making

me look like a raccoon. I began to sob. “I,” I started, but could not go on. I just turned my eyes to Mr. Waters again, whose frown indicated realization and more pain than I had ever expected, and Ms. Bloom, who was gritting her teeth, and the principal whose face was flushed with embarrassment and shame… “When does it end?” I got out. And then I turned and stumbled back off the stage, ripping off the crown as I went, throwing it down on the floor behind me.

Boone followed me, glaring over her shoulder, and we went outside, got on her bike, and rode off, scattering gravel over the rich kids’ expensive SUVs and sports cars as we went.

A while later we were up on the bluff, parked at the overlook where later those same kids would come to make out before they went home, all proud and happy, sated with their pride and beauty and the promise of good colleges and happy futures. Boone and I sat on the bench, she holding me in her arms while I sobbed. No, we weren’t going to throw ourselves over the edge or drive into a semi or bridge abutment later, nothing like that. In fact, it would be all we could do to go back to school the following Monday and act as if nothing had happened, finish out the school year and graduate, leaving these hellish years behind us for good.

After a while I calmed down, and Boone, so sensible and strong, handed me a big handkerchief. “Dry up,” she said gently. “It’s over. We stood up for ourselves and did what we thought was right.

It’s not up to us if those fools get anything out of it or not. We did what we could. We are the heroes of our own lives. I am so fucking proud of us that I could pop out a baby the size of a big watermelon, and yell success at the moon.” Then she laughed. “What the fuck did I just say?” she boomed. “I’ll never have a kid! I guess I had too much gin and that punch I spiked!”

She gave me another kiss on the cheek and I leaned against her, feeling gentle and happy. “I wish I could be the boy you want and deserve,” she whispered, her voice hitching on a sob. “But I never will be. Never.”

That August, I read in the paper that she had ridden her motorcycle off the bridge and into the lake. Her body had never been found.

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