Call me Wolfie. I guess it's no secret, I'm a gay boy. The best place to start my story is the spring when I was twelve, and I first saw Jimmy C., although I didn't really meet him, you might say. He came into my sixth grade class, as a new kid. I should have introduced myself, you know, that first day, just gone up to him and said hello or something, but I didn't. I don't know if I'm shy because I'm unpopular, or unpopular because I'm shy, but that's the way it is, I can't remember since when. So Jimmy C. walks in to our class with Mrs. B., and she says to Mr. O., our teacher, that "this is Jimmy Coradopolis, and he's just moved into our district, and he will be in your class."
I'm looking at Jimmy C. like everyone else is, and I noticed that he looked nice. I mean, he sort of looked like I wish I looked, if you know what I mean. Because he had blond hair like mine, only more blond, and his shoulders were more squared off, like more well defined, but not too muscular, just the way mine should be, but aren't quite. And he was slender like me, but no one could call him skinny, you know, like they sometimes called me. Also one major thing, he was definitely about thirteen, a year older than the rest of us, you could tell, but he didn't look dumb, he was just a little bit bigger than any of us, like he was left back, or something. So right away you're wondering why I'm saying so much about him and not about me. Well, let's just say that since I was seven, I knew that I was a sissy, a queer. I didn't know what those words meant sexually, I just knew that I wanted a boyfriend real bad, and I shouldn't let anyone know how bad. Until fifth grade, that is, when I started to feel sexy myself. I mean I was eleven, right, and I stared at other boys' bare chests at the swimming pool, and tried to imagine certain boys naked in my bed with me at night, and touching and holding their naked hips, chests and even cocks, and imagined that they liked it, too.
So I'm looking at Jimmy C. and his pretty face, and he looks at me. Naturally, I get embarrassed and look away. Mr. O. says "class, say hello to Jimmy" and points him to a seat right in front of me while the class all mumbles "hello" including me. So Jimmy C. sits down and doesn't even turn around to look at me, or anyone else, and Mr. O. goes on with the lesson, whatever that was, and the rest of the afternoon Jimmy doesn't look at me, but I'm looking at him. I'm looking at how the sunlight hits the side of his face and makes his cheek pinkish and smooth, and how the same afternoon light causes the short hairs over his ear to almost glow the way the hidden lamp under the clear plastic sign makes the bank teller's name that's etched in the plastic glow as if the letters were neon. If he turned and saw me looking, I'd be so mortified. And if Mr. O. called on me right then, I'd be screwed, so I try to figure out what he's saying, but the bell rings, and everyone scrambles, and while I'm getting my shit together, Jimmy C. splits.
Some of these parts are going to be hard to remember, because they happened like four years ago, almost five, so bear with me while I stop to think. I'll tell you more about me in the meantime. My name is Wolfgang Gottlieb; yes, my father likes Mozart, the classical music composer. Mozart's middle name was Gottlieb, but he changed it to Amadeus, the Latin version of the same name; means "God's love" or "loves God" or something. So since my father's last name is Gottlieb, and he likes Mozart, he names me Wolfgang. Please, though, call me Wolfie, I prefer that. At the beginning of this story, I play piano a little, like some Mozart sonatas, some Schubert, like waltzes, not the Impromptus, which I wish I could play, but my teacher says wait, and some Schumann and Mendelssohn, but no Chopin yet, which I love anyway. Sometimes I still read the notes wrong, and sometimes I read the notes right, but my fingers play them wrong. The neat thing about some Mozart is that some places, if you stop in the middle, it seems like it was composed wrong; but, if you keep going, what he writes after, it makes what you already played so right.
I also draw cartoons, so I hope you don't mind if I show you one from time to time. Like right around the part of the story that made me think of the cartoon, like that's where I'll glue it. They usually are strips which I call cartoon strips instead of comic strips, because they're not always so funny. Mostly, they come later. I'm sixteen now, and can sort of play Schubert Impromptus and some Chopin, but I don't want to jump ahead, so let's go back to the story. I'm still twelve, going to school every day, and sitting behind Jimmy C. and staring at him a lot. Every day that I didn't say hello, I'm even more scared to try, because what? I should say "Hi, I'm Wolfie, and I want to be friends because I think you look cool and I want to be with you all the time?" Right, then I wouldn't just be a nerd, I'd be a faggot to everybody maybe. I used to think it'd be easier to be lonely, than to be hated.
We played dodge ball one day it was really warm, like it was May already. Yes, dodge ball, we were still in elementary school. Junior high wouldn't start until seventh grade for us, at a new school across town, so the teacher thought dodge ball was okay, I guess. But here's the cool part about it; when you're not good, no one throws you the ball. I mean, you can sort of watch everyone else like it's a movie, almost. So I watched, and Jimmy C. throws real hard. Some of the other boys threw hard, too, but not like Jimmy C. could. Frank is in the middle and Jimmy C. throws, Frank just jumps out of the way, 'cause he knows he can't catch it. Then Eddie has the ball, and he throws best except for Jimmy C., if you call mean and hard best. He throws at Frank, and Frank really tries to catch it , but it bounces off his hand and rolls in the dirt straight to me. I couldn't avoid it, I had to pick up the ball. I knew I had to throw it, but I also had to be as masculine as I could. Even though I felt like everyone was in on the secret, I did my best pretend not to be a sissy throw, and Frank caught it. So now I'm in the middle. Frank throws. I dodge. One of the girls throws, but I can't catch it. Now Eddie has the ball. I know I'll have to try to dodge it, but he slams it right into my stomach, almost knocking me on my ass. I stumble backwards raising a cloud of dust, hardly able to breath, but I've got to smile, right? I'm having fun, right? Fortunately, the girls who get the ball next don't throw like those boys, they seem to think this is only a game, like for fun. I still can't catch the ball, probably because I'm still so flustered, so who gets the ball next? Jimmy C.
I flash on an image of my head being separated from my shoulders, as the playing field gets suddenly quiet, like an Italian western when Clint finally faces the bad guy, just before he draws his gun. As I tense up, waiting for the gunfire, the ball comes floating directly at my chest, and I catch the ball. So Jimmy C. goes into the middle, and I don't know if I should return the favor and throw gently, or do my pretend act again. I choose somewhere inbetween, and Jimmy C. knocks it away instead of trying to catch it. He knocks them all away, or dodges them, instead of catching, and everyone is laughing and having fun and even I am smiling. Then Eddie gets the ball and tries his best to hit Jimmy C. in his stomach, the way he hit me, but Jimmy C. catches it, and now Eddie goes in the middle. Jimmy C. takes aim, and lands the ball directly in Eddie's chest, but so hard that Eddie can't catch it, gets knocked off balance, and lands on his butt. Everybody laughs at Eddie, and I'm smiling inside my heart. I don't know if Jimmy C. had his own reasons, but I'm thinking he did it for me. He's my hero. I love him.
After that the game was uneventful, and pretty soon Mr. O. brought us back inside for Arithmetic, but something else weird happened that same day. We all had to wash up after playing, and Mr. O. sent us, three boys and three girls at a time, to the boys or girls rooms. Mr. O. picked me to go with Eddie and Frank, so I was a little nervous about that, so I walked a bit behind them down the hall to the boys room. I always lather up a lot, so they were drying their hands on the brown paper towels while I was still rinsing off.
They're looking at me, and Eddie says "Hey, Wolfgang, how come you're washing your hands? You never do anything to get them dirty!"
I didn't say anything, and Frank just giggled.
"Hey Frank look! There's someone in the booth." Eddie said. Unfortunately, the booths don't have latches on them, so Eddie could simply push the door open. I was relieved they turned their attentions away from me, but I felt sorry for the little kid in the booth. It was a fourth grader, I think his name was Andy. "Hey kid, why don't you wipe your ass?" Eddie asked, menacingly.
"I did already." Andy replied, leaning forward so they couldn't see his privates. He had black fleece shorts and white BVD briefs down around his ankles.
"Then get out of here. This is the sixth grade boys room now." Eddie added, winking at Frank. I felt like a jerk just standing there, but I couldn't leave either.
"Close the door first." Andy said.
"No." Eddie smiled at Frank and just waited.
"Close the door!" Andy stubbornly repeated.
Eddie knew he'd have to change his tactics. "Hey! Red sneakers! Not too cool, kid. What are they, Keds?" he asked.
"I don't know." was Andy's reply.
"Come on, let me see them." Eddie directed. "Come on, hold them up so I can see them. I can't bend over that far."
Poor little kid, he fell for the new ploy, holding his feet up off the floor. Eddie grabbed his shorts and underpants, tossing them to Frank, who said "Ick!" as if they were a bucket of bugs, and tossed them back to Eddie. They both ran out with the kids stuff, and the little guy started to cry.
"Wait here, I'll see what I can do." I told him. I was afraid to promise more, because I wasn't sure I could deliver. I went out hoping the clothes were right outside. They weren't, but neither were Eddie or Frank. I went out into the stairwell and looked around, looking under the stairs and stuff, but I didn't see anything. I hoped I wouldn't have to go to the office and report Eddie, because then he would want to beat me up. I looked up at the window, and there they were, the shorts and unders, on the sill. If I held my arm straight up and jumped, I could just reach them. I couldn't quite grab them. I jumped again, and this time they came down, right in my face. "Ick!" I went, just like Frank, but actually, they didn't smell bad, or particularly boyish either, so I looked inside the underwear. No stains of any kind. I sniffed them again. Actually, they smelled like laundry detergent. I brought them back into the boys room. Little Andy was sitting on the toilet crying, and he had taken off his shirt, shoes and socks; and apparently threw them across under the sinks. He was completely naked. The trail of tears streaked his cheeks. I said "Here, I found 'em." holding out his shorts and BVD's. He looked up at me and took them from my hand, and then he stood up and walked over by the sinks. He bent over, got on his knees under the sinks and got his other clothes, then crawled out and walked over to the booth before he started to get dressed again. Even though I would most want to see Jimmy C. naked, I never had seen anyone naked but myself, so I couldn't help looking at Andy. He stood there a minute and a smile came across his face, and then a half sob, half laugh came out of his grin like a hiccup, and he got dressed. "You better wash your face," I said, "you don't want anyone to know you were crying." As he dried his face on a brown paper towel, I added "Tell your teacher that there wasn't any paper in the booth, and you had to wait until an older boy came to help. That's what I'm telling my teacher, that I helped you out that way, okay?"
"Okay," he said, suddenly pressing his face against my chest, and giving me the nicest little bear hug I've ever had, adding "how come you're so nice to me?"
"I don't know, I guess I'm just a nice guy," I laughed.
I saw him a few more times before school let out in June, and he always waved at me, grinning and shouting out, "Hi, Mr. Nice Guy!" Neither Eddie or Frank, nor anyone else ever asked me why.
II. The book falls
Alright, so I'm socially slow, retarded, a dimwit. Although Jimmy C. was sometimes nice to me, I didn't know why; and because of that and his good looks, I was in love with him. We still hadn't really talked to each other. So you know that's what I'm coming to, right? Okay, one day in June, last week of school, Jimmy C. is sitting there, in front of me, right elbow on his desk, right cheek in his right hand holding his head up, and he's facing the windows which are on the left side of the classroom. Mr O. is talking about dinosaurs, because he thinks we all like dinosaurs because we're kids, so he can sneak a geography lesson in under false pretences. Jimmy C. has long black eyelashes, like the way women's are from that gook they put on. But Jimmy C. doesn't have gook, his are natural. Mine are natural, too, but they're blond like my hair, and not as long as his. He looks like he's asleep. I hope Mr. O. doesn't call on him. So Mr. O. erases the board and says it's time for Arithmetic. We always do Arithmetic at the end of the day, and I hate it. Mr. O. starts to write some problems on the board, and since his back is turned, Eddie comes crawling over on his knees under Jimmy C. and ties his shoelaces together. Everyone but me is giggling, so when Mr. O. turns around he's smiling and says "It's not that hard. Who wants to try it first?" Right away Bonnie raises her hand. She never used to, but now she has tits, and she likes to show them off. A few other girls have little ones, but not like Bonnie's. Gail raises her hand, too, but Mr. O. lets Bonnie do the first problem at the board. Mr. O. watches her, and Frank reaches across the aisle, pulling Jimmy C.'s Arithmetic book way over the edge of his desk. It is a big heavy hard cover book, and from two rows away, Eddie has a pink eraser pinched between two fingers. I can see it coming, and sure enough, Eddie flips the eraser in the air, and where does it land? Right on the edge of Jimmy C.'s book, and that's all it takes. BOOM!
Everybody is laughing, and Jimmy C. turns as red as a can of Coke, and he didn't even know what he did wrong, and that made everyone laugh even louder. Mr. O. even chuckled when he said, "Jimmy, I think you dropped your Arithmetic book," and that made everyone laugh again. Jimmy C. gets up to get his book, and right away he's down, desk and chair get knocked into the aisle as he hits the floor. The tied laces. The kids roar with laughter, but I jump up to help him. I see blood soaking into his hair, and I feel bad 'cause I should have warned him. Mr. O. comes running over and helps me untie the laces, and Jimmy C. gets up again. He straightens his desk and chair, grabs his book, and sits down.
"I'm okay," he says.
Mr. O. and I are still standing next to him. I point to the blood in his hair. "You're bleeding," Mr. O. says. Mr. O. is kind of squirmy. And squirrely. Some people think he's a fag. They say it takes one to know one, but I can't tell, and I'm one.
"I'm okay," Jimmy C. says again.
"No, I want you to go down to the school nurse," Mr. O. tells him, "take your books, you'll go home from there. And Wolfgang," he turns to me, "you go with him. Make sure he's okay."
I'm not arguing. I get my stuff, Jimmy C. gets his, and we slowly walk out into the hall as if we're not overjoyed to be getting out of school early, even if it's only twenty minutes. We're walking down the hall towards the nurse's office, and he looks at me sort of smiling, and I'm nervous as shit, I mean it's just him and me for the first time. We're together, just the two of us.
"Thanks." he says.
"I should have warned you." I admit, sheepishly.
"Who tied 'em?" he asks.
"I'm afraid if I tell you, he'll beat me up." I say.
"I'll fix Eddie," he knowingly says, "besides, no one's gonna beat you up. You're my friend."
Jesus good God, holy shit! He says I'm his friend! I'm so happy, I could bust. I wish it was okay to be a fag, I could just hug him. I'm really in love with him now.
"Where'd you get a name like Wolfgang?"
"I wish you'd call me Wolfie," I reply, "it's a long story, but let's just say my father likes Mozart. Wolfgang sounds so foreign."
As we turned into the nurse's office, he asks, "Who's Moat's Art?"
"There you are, young mister." the nurse says to him, "Come sit here and we'll look at that head of yours." Mr. O. must have called her on the intercom.
"He was a classical composer." I mumble. Jimmy C. stops and puts his hand on my shoulder, and gives me a gentle shove.
"I knew who he was, stupid." he says, and then goes over and sits where the nurse pointed out for him. She messes up his hair, then she turns and takes a bottle off the steel cart by her, and this bottle has a giant Q-tip sticking out of it. She pulls it out of the bottle, and it's wet and red. I think they call the stuff Mercurochrome, but I didn't think anyone used it any more.
"I've called your mother, and she's going to pick you up." the nurse says. Jimmy C. is smiling at me, and she puts this stuff on his cut.
"Ow!"
"Who's your friend there?" the nurse asks.
"His name's Wolfie," Jimmy C. says, smiling again.
"That's an unusual one," she comments, "how'd you get that?"
I start to say "Actually, it's short for..."
"Shish!" Jimmy C. cuts me off, "His name's Wolfie."
"Okay," the nurse laughs, "that's good enough for me." She throws the giant Q-tip in a stainless steel can, and it's lid snaps shut when she steps off the pedal. She straightens several of the shiny glass jars and chrome cannisters, causing glints of orange-white flashes of sunlight to reflect off the polished white tile walls. Jimmy is smiling and looking me right in the eyes, and I'm looking at his beautiful eyes and smiling, too, I think. It's like we're talking without words, even though I don't know what we're saying. Such a thrilling feeling, I think I'm going to lose my breath. The nurse brings this little flashlight over and shines it into one of Jimmy's eyes, then the other. She puts the flashlight away, and just then Jimmy C.'s mother walked in. I could tell it was his mother because she looked a lot like him. He raises both eyebrows up and down at me. Real expressive, you know. I try to do the same back at him. I hope it worked. His mother has those long black eyelashes, you know? Only hers are that gook. She and the nurse introduce themselves to each other, and how is he, he'll be fine kind of stuff, and Jimmy C. and me are looking at each other, and the school bell rings, and she gets his stuff, and they start to leave.
"See ya, Wolfie," Jimmy C. says.
"See ya, Jimmy," I say, and we go out, and they go off in their car, and I walk home alone. So I'm feeling real alone, but I'm feeling good, too, you know. Because I thought I was only dreaming about him before, but now my dream is coming true. Kids are not always nice guys, believe me. But Jimmy C. is a nice guy, after all, and he really does like me, and I really love him.
III. Springtime ends a suburban schoolyear
Mostly, after school, I practice the piano, or play records in my room. I used to build models, but not so much anymore. Still, there are a lot of models on my dresser and desk. Neatly, of course. One is a World War II battleship, which I figure I have to keep 'cause my father gave it to me. Actually, he gave me three, at different times, but I got rid of the other two. I like model cars. He meant well.
My bed is what they call a twin. It's not because there's two of them, which there are. It's not because twins could fit on one of them, either. My parents hoped I might have some friend for a sleep over. I hope so, too. Like Jimmy C., for instance. I can imagine he came home from school with me today. I throw my books on my desk. Beds are for sleeping. He sits on the other bed. I'm standing next to him, running my fingers through his hair, carefully avoiding the Mercurochrome spot. He hugs me around the waist. I'm not supposed to be thinking this stuff. I might have to jerk off now.
I make my bed every morning. Once, when I was little, my father said, "You don't expect your mother to make your bed every day, do you?" The word for this is sarcasm. I didn't know the word then, but I knew the sound. What he meant was that I not only should make my own bed, but that I should do it every morning. I hadn't made it up that morning, but I have done ever since. I place my books on the left side of my desk, and go back downstairs to practice the piano. I wash my hands first, because you don't touch the Steinway without washing your hands first. My piano teacher, Mrs. Melzer, has an old German piano called a Bechstein. I love the sound of it. Don't get me wrong, the Steinway sounds great, too, in fact it probably sounds better. It's just that the Bechstein sounds alive, like it has a personality. I get out the Schubert Impromptus. I skip over the first one of op.90, because it's too long for me. Too many notes. That's a joke. But I love No. 2 best anyway. That's the one I'm trying to learn. If I could just get all those eighth notes perfect, I love the melody, and the effects you might say. It's like a little gentle streamlet, going it's own way, now deeply quiet, now rippling over worn stones in the spring. That's the triplet quavers. At a clearing is a pond, with a frog. That's me, the frog. Then my prince, Jimmy C. comes and kisses me. Now I'm a prince, too, and the next part, the majestic tune in B minor, is our theme, as we walk up a hill together watching the dragonflies over the gentle splashing. If only I could get all those eighth notes.
So I practice for half an hour, trying to get it right. Actually, I got it yesterday, but when I did, it sounded like a robot playing. I finally get it today, a little better, but I don't know if it's good enough to surprise Mrs. Melzer with. Now it's time to go to Mrs. Melzer's, so I walk downtown. Her studio is over the antique furniture store, and she lives there, too. One of the good things about piano lessons is that you don't have to carry your instrument in a case with you when you go to lessons. Nobody sees me anyway, except for the barber, because I have to pass his shop before I go up the stairs to Mrs. Melzer's. He always looks at me as I go by, even if he has a customer. It's like he's thinking, "I'll fix you when you come in. You're two weeks late already." Maybe he's not thinking that, I don't know.
"Young Mr. Gottlieb," Mrs. Melzer clasps her hands, smiling, "prompt as usual."
"Hello, Mrs. Melzer."
"I assume you've been practicing night and day." She knew I practiced too much for my parents taste, but she backed me up. I smiled. "If only all my students were as conscientious."
"I was trying a Schubert Impromptu, before I came over," I said, "but I don't think it's ready yet." I shouldn't have said anything, yet, but I guess I couldn't wait to show off.
"Well, come, let us see what you have." I played it, and I messed up one note, but that didn't change my tempo, and I kept going through the whole piece, and not too robotic, if I do say so myself. "Well, if you don't forget the book, and the Mozart, you may add this piece," Mrs. Melzer smiles, "and now the Mozart, please."
I start to play the Mozart sonata, K. 545, which is what she means when she says "the Mozart." It's called the "Sonata facile" sometimes, too, because it's easy, but Mrs. M. says you can play it your whole life through no matter how good you are, because it's a perfect work, and we can never be as perfect as Mozart. I choose my own tempo for the first movement Allegro, because I have a pretty good idea of what those words like adagio, andante, presto, and largo mean, and even directions like non troppo, and assai. Sometimes, though, Mrs. M. taps the silent metronome faster or slower than I'm playing to let me know to speed up or slow down. Today she just listens. While I'm playing the Allegro, I'm worrying whether she can tell that I'm nervous, because I am nervous about what she'll think of my new way of playing the Andante. She just listens, so I start the Andante. See, since Monday, I've been playing it slower, and the quiet parts quieter, and the loud parts louder. I guess you'd call it more dramatic, since it feels right to me. Actually, it's because of Jimmy C. When I'm sitting behind him and staring at him, you know, I hear the Andante from Mozart's K. 545, I don't know why. So when I play it at home, I think of him. So I can't play it two ways, I have to play it the way it feels, like him, like how I feel about him. But Mrs. Melzer doesn't tap the metronome, she lets me play it through. Then she stops me before I play the Rondo.
"This is not the way we played this on Monday," she says, "what has happened since Monday?"
"It's too slow?" I ask.
"Not necessarily," she says, "this is not quite adagio, but con molto espressione. Where does this come from? Are you in love?"
"No," I say, but then I change my mind. "Well, sort of."
"Sort of?" she asks, "you mean she doesn't know how you feel?"
"No."
"You see," she tells me, "your heart told your brain how to feel this music, and your brain told your body how to play it. Now you must take care of your heart, because you need all three to play music well. Heart, brain, and body. Why don't you tell her how you feel?"
"I can't." I mumble.
"Why not?"
"It just wouldn't be cool to tell this particular person, that's all." I couldn't think of a better way to put it.
"Ah, this is hard for you, I'm sorry," she commiserates. "This is not a teacher or grown up person?" she asks me.
"No."
"My poor Wolfie," she says, "I understand. You love a boy, and you are afraid he is not loving boys, like you." I am shocked when she says this and I look up at her face, but her eyes are closed, and she is scratching her head and primping her white hair. "This is hard for you. Enough practicing today. I am wanting a cup of espresso, and a cookie. Will you join me?"
"Okay." I say, even though I'm still pink as my shirt.
Mrs. M. pours two cups from an espresso pot that was already brewed in her kitchen. We sit at her small round kitchen table, and she puts some licorice tasting cookies on a plate from a cellophane bag. I put sugar in my espresso, she doesn't. She looks me right in the eyes and smiles. I smile, too. I didn't think I could feel this comfortable about someone knowing I'm gay. The espresso really clears your head. "Just remember," she says, "espressione: okay, but maybe not so molto, alright?"
"Alright," I grin, crunching a cookie.
"Your heart is telling your brain what to play," she says, dipping her cookie into her espresso, "but don't forget, Mozart is also telling your brain. You must find the balance, and when you do, you will be playing correctly, even if others are playing the same piece differently." She nibbles the damp end of the cookie.
"You won't tell my parents about my friend and me?" I gingerly ask.
"Of course not," she looks me in the eyes again, "only you know, if you are staying this way, and you will know when to tell, who to tell, what to tell. If to tell. The world is not kind to people who feel different in their hearts, or look different, or have a different heritage. Just as in the music, your heart will speak it's truth, but your brain must find the balance. Then you will know how to live."
"I think I understand," I say, and finish my espresso. I better leave soon, I couldn't take another cup.
"Of course you understand." Mrs. M. says, standing up, "Don't forget, Tchaikovsky is like this, and Frederick the Great, too. I have had friends this way, men and women. Today. Surely there must be boys, too. You are not alone. Don't be sad." She smiles. I smile.
"But I don't know if he's like that, " I offer, hoping she might have the answer.
"If you tell him, and he is not this way, you might lose a friend, or gain a broken nose. On the other hand, if you don't tell him, and he is this way, you might lose a most important love. Noses heal more better than hearts." She's the coolest piano teacher.
IV. School is out
On the last day of school, well forget about most of it, I can't even remember except right before the last bell rang, Jimmy C. turns around and whispers to me, "Follow me after the bell rings. I want you to see something before you go home. It'll only take a minute."
"Okay." I said, you know it, too. Like, anything to increase our friendship. I'd follow him like a dog, anywhere. So the bell rings, and everyone shouts and jumps up, even Mr. O. who is trying to say "Good luck!" as we're all leaving including Jimmy C. who looks back at me to see if I'm following which I am and I smile at him and he smiles back at me and he rushes out like he's trying to keep up with someone. All the other classes are streaming out, and all the littler kids, everyone from kindergarten through sixth grade, and we're all pouring onto the front lawn of the school, just like any other day, but not like any other day, because it's summer. Summer, when you don't have to be in a place with people who hate you, so you're free. The air smells sweeter from someone mowing a lawn, and those little white flowers on the hedge over there. Then I catch up to Jimmy C. who's shouting at someone who's shouting back at him. It's Eddie. It's a fight. As a sixth grade graduate, I'm allowed a ringside position; the littler kids move aside.
"Get out of my way!" Eddie yells at Jimmy C.
"If you're tryin' to kill me, now's your chance, 'cause I ain't movin'." Jimmy C. taunted.
"Out of my way, Acropolis!" Eddie shouted a reference to Jimmy's last name, Coradopolis.
"What's your problem? You're always tryin' to hurt someone. Always pickin' on the weaker kids and the little kids," Jimmy C. pushed Eddie's chest with both hands, "you want to go home, you're gonna have to fuck me up, 'cause I ain't movin'."
If Eddie turned his back to Jimmy C. and pushed through the crowd to get away, he'd be a chicken. So he leapt forward, swinging a powerful right hook, but he missed Jimmy entirely, and the momentum of his own swing left him open to Jimmy's right, which landed squarely on Eddie's left cheek, knocking him on his ass, which set off a great cheer from the little kids. I saw Andy with a big laughing grin, and he waved at me. I smiled and waved back. He's such a sweet kid. With Eddie and Frank and the rest of us gone, maybe Andy will be able to stay that way.
"Just remember, Eddie," Jimmy C. says, "next year in junior high, we'll be the little kids. You're gonna need friends, and you get friends by being friendly, not by being mean." Jimmy reached his hand toward Eddie, who looked up at him like he was fighting real hard not to be crying. His cheek was red, another inch would have busted his nose. As it is he'll probably have a black eye. He held his hand out toward Jimmy C. and Jimmy helped him up.
Some kids behind me were disappointed. "Ah man, he coulda creamed Eddie," one said, and the other added, "yeah, he shoulda jumped on him and pounded him." The crowd broke up. Jimmy winked at me, and I smiled. He turned to walk home. He didn't seem to want to talk to anyone, and neither did Eddie. The whole crowd was kind of quiet, in fact, as everybody went their own ways home.
V. Summertime, who said it was easy?
So now it's summer. I still have piano lessons on Mondays and Thursdays, but other than that, I'm free. So far, at least. I think my parents want me to have some kind of daily agenda, but they haven't come up with anything yet. The piano lessons were their idea, but I don't think they thought I would like it so much. I practice when I should be outdoors playing. The first Saturday after school was out, we went to the Mall and shopped all day. We had burgers at the outdoor café. On Sunday, we ate at the dinner theatre, which presented Oklahoma! for our dining pleasure. A quality time weekend.
Monday, I slept late and practiced before my lesson. Which brings me to Tuesday, the third Tuesday in June, in the summer I was twelve, the most important day of my life. I woke up early, as usual, except for Monday like I just said. When my father left for work, I took a shower and then went down to the kitchen and ate a bowl of Cap'n Crunch with milk. I washed my bowl and spoon and then my mother came down for her coffee and crossword puzzle.
"Why don't you go out and enjoy this sunshine? Find a friend to play with." She actually said that. Sometimes I think Mothers are like those dolls with the plastic loop on a string attached at the neck. Pull the string, and they repeat one of five or so stock phrases.
So I went out. Two blocks from our house, there's this artificially created lake right in the middle of the development, between two houses, and it's like a park. Sometimes I go there with a plastic model battleship. See, you put a firecracker in one of the stacks, coat the deck with lighter fluid, set it sailing, and drop a lit match on it as you push it out into the lake. Then you better stand back, because as soon as the flames reach that fuse, the firecracker's about to blow, and BOOM! Then one of the Moms from this house or the other one comes out and yells "What's going on out there? I'm calling the police!" See? Who pulled her string? I guess I did, so I've got to run.
This special Tuesday though, I don't have any battleships. I just have me and my orange tank top, my red shorts, and my white Nike's. I jump the fence by the road and run down the embankment to the edge of the lake. It's pretty warm, so I take my Nike's off, and step into the mud. I wanted to see how it felt, you know, if it was slimy or sticky, or sandy and rough. It was sort of clay like and soft, and the water came halfway up to my knees. Actually the water came out of a drainage pipe, and went into another one before it went under the road, and on the other side of the road there was no creek, only another house. So I don't know if this was a creek that got buried for the development, part of a storm drain system, or even if it's a polluted sewer. I decide to get out. I sit on the edge to rinse my feet off, and then walk back across the grass, where I put my Nike's under a weeping willow tree,and then I sit down to let my feet air dry, and while I'm sitting there, in the shade, but with my feet in the sun, I feel so all alone. But it's okay, it's not a lonely feeling, like sometimes, when I wish I had a friend, to tell all my thoughts and feelings to. It's a solitary feeling, but free, too. The part of me that's in shade feels a cool breeze, even though it's hot today, and I imagine being a lone eagle on a branch, high on a rocky cliff. My legs and feet are drying in the sun, and that part of me feels more like a lizard on a rock. The line between sun and shadow has moved down to my knees. I see a boy walking on the street up the embankment, but I can't see his face because of the willow branches. He must see me, because he jumps the fence and comes running down the hill. It's Jimmy C. "Hi, Wolfie!" he says.
"Hi, Jimmy!" I say, slipping my sneakers on.
"What are you doing here?" he asks me, as I stand up.
"Nothing special.," I say, "I was just sort of uninvited out of my house."
"Yeah, I can dig that." he says, grinding his heel into the grass and looking me up and down. I figure he's checking my clothes out, because they're not so cool. He's got real faded Levi's that are tight, and a lime green tank top with laces that match in his hi-tops. "Did you see Gail?" he asks me.
"No, are you supposed to meet her here?" I ask.
"Nah, I just thought she might be here," he says.
"Well, I think that's her house at the end of the street," I suggest.
"Yeah, I know, but I can't go over there," he shrugs his shoulders, then, nodding his head in the other direction, adds, "hey, why don't you come over my house and see the tree house."
"Where do you live?" I ask him, as we start walking.
"Two blocks north from the corner," he says, and pointing east with his thumb, adds, "and two houses in."
"Really?" I can't believe it. "I'm two blocks south from the corner, and two houses in." I guess the amazement in my voice made him almost laugh, because I felt a warm rush of his breath on my cheek as a wonderful big smile shone on me. You'd have to see it. More than that, you'd have to feel the power of it, because something I had said or done made me proud of that smile, like as if something I did made the sun come up.
"The house is just like all the others, but the tree house is great. It was already there when we moved in." he says, as we're walking, "It's almost as big as my room, and the best part is that my parents can't go up there, because they can't climb the rope."
"You have to climb a rope?" I ask, and my voice goes up high like I wish it wouldn't.
"Yeah, didn't you ever climb a rope?" he asks, and I shake my head no. "Don't worry," he says, "you can do it."
So we get to the second house in, and he's right ; it's like all the others, including ours, except sort of reversed like a mirror image of ours, and his is yellow, which is nice. Ours is white with black shutters, of course, like about five hundred others. He's sort of looking inside, to see if anyone inside is scoping us. "Is your mother home?" I ask.
"My mother works, she runs a gift shop downtown," he says, "but I can never tell if my father's home or not." We go way out back, and under this real big tree and the tree house with a rope hanging through the floor. He hands me the rope, and says, "Wait here, I'll see if I can swipe a couple Coke's." He runs back to the house, and I'm holding this thick rope with real thick knots about every foot or so all the way up. It looks like it's about fifteen feet up to the floor, but I'm no good at guessing distances. It does look like a real big tree house though, built by a carpenter or something, and it has walls made of four by eight sheets of plywood set horizontally, with windows above, and half or quarter sheets in the two corners I can see. I know they're four by eight because that's a standard size. Jimmy C. comes running back with one of those plastic six pack loop things with two cans of Coke still in it, and they look real frosty. He puts the cans down on the grass, about two feet away, and says, "Watch, I'll show ya." He put his arms straight up in the air, and grabbed the rope as high up as he could, and then put his feet on the bottom knot, which was only a couple of inches off the ground. "You put your hands as high as you can, right, and your feet on the knot, okay? Then you bend your legs like this while you hold the rope with your hands real tight, and keep the rope between your legs till you find the next knot. Now stand up by straightening your legs and bending your elbows, right? Then let go only one hand and reach up as high as you can, grab on tight, let go the other hand like this, reach up as high as you can and grab on, and finally you let go your feet and bend your knees again and find the next knot. Keep doing that till you're up." I was afraid I would do something wrong or in the wrong order, but he says, "Okay, now you try." He drops off the rope with a thud on the ground, and squats down to hold it for me. I grab on up high and get my feet on the knot. "Okay, bring your knees up," he says, and as I do, he helps me find the next knot, grabbing my ankle. I straighten up, pulling my elbows down toward my sides, and holding on, as they say, for dear life. "You got it!" he shouts, "now remember, one hand at a time."
"Okay," I say reaching up as high as I can, one hand at a time again, and bend my knees again while he helps me find the next knot.
"You got it, man!" he shouts again, "keep going, keep going!"
"How am I going to get back down?" I ask, as I keep going up.
"It's the same thing backwards. Don't worry about it." he says as I reach the floor, high enough to put my feet on it. It's like stepping on land from a rocky rowboat.
"I made it!" I shout down. He puts the end of the rope through the loops on the Cokes.
"Pull up the Cokes," he yells. I untie the Cokes and drop the rope back down. He grabs on with only his hands, and pulls himself up hand over hand, without using the knots or his feet at all. His legs just dangle, spread eagled. He's magnificent.
"I wish I could do it that way," I say as his feet hit the tree house floor.
"You can practice by coming up here a lot," he says, "you'll get it." We walk over to the wall and look over to the house and yard below.
"Neat," I say, trying to think of something to talk about.
"Yeah," he says, "and this plywood on the sides is four feet high, so if we sit on the floor, no one will even know we're up here. That's why I put Army blankets all over the floor. And I always leave the rope down, 'cause if I pulled it up, they'd know I was here." He takes the two Cokes over to one corner where there's a wood fruit crate on end for a table. "Have a Coke. I'm sweating!" he says.
"Me too," I say, as he pops the top on his. After I take the other one, he sort of sits on the edge of the crate. I sit cross legged on the Army blanket. He really drinks fast. Big gulps.
"Brr-opp-opp-opp," he belches in a deeper than usual voice. It's gross, but I love it. I smile, he smiles, too. I try to keep up with him, but I just can't drink fizzy Cokes that fast. He takes his tank top off and wipes his face and then his armpits with it. I'm glad he doesn't have any hair there yet, because I don't either. He kicks his hi-tops off. "C'mon, kick your shoes off," he says, "take your shirt off, too, if you're hot." I'm wondering if he wants to see me as much as I want to see him. I hope so, so I take my Nikes and my tank top off. I burp, and he does, too, and we both laugh, him throwing his head back. So pretty. Now I'm starting to feel funny in my cock. I'm getting a rod on. I drink the rest of my Coke, trying not to think about my dick, or his.
"It is hot today," I say.
"Hey Wolfie," he says, "can you feel the heat from my body?"
"No," I answer, "but it's just as hot up here as outside."
"Stand up," he says, "see if you can feel the heat from my body." I stand up. "Face to face," he adds, standing too, so we're about three inches apart, chest to chest.
"I can feel it now." I tell him.
"I can, too," he says, and then he asks, "can I touch you?"
"Sure." I say. He touches my chest with just his fingertips across my collarbone, then down over one of my nipples, and up my chest and neck, over my cheek, and very lightly he touches my lips. It was too hot to be chills, but whatever it was, it felt real good.
"Do you have any hair yet?" he asks me.
"No."
"I do. Want to see 'em?"
I can hardly get the words out. I whisper coarsely, "Yeah."
"I have about ten hairs, you have to look close," he says as he pulls his jeans about halfway down his thighs. He's got a rod on, too. "Want to touch them?" he asks.
"Mmm," I mumble, and I touch where the hairs are starting to grow, and his dick throbs and it touches my wrist. I pull my hand away. "Sorry."
"No, touch it, go ahead, I want you to," he says, and for a second, I'm afraid he's making fun of me, he figured out I'm gay. But it's him that has the boner sticking out, and I look in his eyes. So serious, so sincere. So I touch his dick, and it's soft and hard at the same time, and hot, and bigger than mine, and nearly twice as thick. "I want to touch yours, too. Pull your shorts down, okay?" he whispers. I push my shorts and unders down, and as soon as they're past my butt, they drop to the floor. I step out of them, or I'll trip, I'm so nervous and excited. He grabs my boner, his hand completely around it, and I grab his again, and I'm surprised by how soft the skin feels, and how hard his dick is, fierce and anxious; and he's tickling my balls, and touching with those magic fingertips between my belly button and my cock, then my side and my hip, and suddenly says, "No, wait," and lets go of me. So I let go of him. He puts his hands on my shoulders, his cock pointing to my belly button, my cock pointing to his, and he aims our two bodies to touch, cock to cock, then belly to belly, chest to chest, wrapping his arms around me and grabbing my butt, and he pressed his lips to mine and kissed me. I even felt his tongue licking my lips, but I guess I wasn't ready for that, and he didn't push it. Instead, he kissed my nose, and my eyelids, and then my neck right by my shoulder, and that made me shiver. He pulls back and says, "You don't mind doing this ?"
"No. I like it."
"Should we go all the way?"
"Yes," I said, although I didn't know what that really meant.
"I want to fuck you so bad."
"I didn't know two boys could do that." I admit.
"Yeah, in your butt, I'll show you how," he whispers in that warm soft voice he has, "please?" and looks at me with those beautiful blue eyes with those long dark eyelashes. I want to tell him I love him, but I'm afraid he won't want to hear those words. Silly of me, I guess.
"Okay," I say.
"Lie down," he says, and I lie on the Army blanket looking up at him, as he pulls his jeans all the way off. Wow! You should have seen him. He takes another blanket and folds it up like a pillow, and says "Here, lie on your stomach, and put this under your cock and hips." Then he grabs my dick and wipes this clear sticky stuff off the tip, and mixes it with his own sticky stuff on his cock, and says, "Okay, roll over, and make sure your cock is pointing up towards your belly button."
"Okay." I turn my face to the right to try to see him. I start to spread my legs, but he pushes them together again. He clears his throat and spits it into his hand, then rubs it on his cock. He lays down on top of me and presses his hips against my fanny, and his chest against my back. I can feel his wet dick in between my legs. Then he puts his hands by my armpits and raises himself up, like a push-up. Then he's holding himself up with one hand, because the other hand is rubbing the tip of his dick against my hole, and it feels okay. Then it goes in a little and then goes out again . I thought he was going to just shove it in me. But he rubs it some more and it's real slippery now, and I'm opening up more, I can feel it, and it goes in more and out a little, but not all the way out now, and he's got both his hands under my armpits again, but his dick's still in me and I'm opening up more as he goes a little in and out now, and it feels nice, and I'm opening up more and then his dick slides right up inside me, and it's so long and so thick, and it's tight, so tight, but it doesn't hurt, well, okay a little, in an interesting way, but it's so tight, and I'm thinking he must have gotten bigger inside of me, and he's going in and out now, and side to side, too, and it feels good, but it's so tight and long, it must go all the way into my belly, and his hips are squishing my butt, and my tummy is so relaxed, and my legs are so loose, he's shaking my whole body, and my belly is rocking the blanket under me, and yes, it's him, his sexy dick in me, and he's in me so far, and out and in so tight, yes, and so good, it feels good, yes, and it's like he owns me, and I want him to own me, to go inside me as far as he can go, so that now I own him, too, because he's in my body, because it's him, his beautiful face, yes, his slender fingers grasping my shoulders, yes, it's him, his naked body on me, pressing me, it's him, his big dick in me, I want it in, yes, yes, all the way in me, oh god, it's good, oh god, it's tight, and it's him, and he's long, and god, I'm tighter, and yes, I'm throbbing, I'm coming, and yes, he's in and out, hard, and god, he's moaning he loves it, and yes, I love it, and I love him, and he's slipping and sliding around on me, and squeezing my shoulders, and pressing his body to me, and in me, and licking my face, and breathing so hard, but motionless now, and he lays on top of me, dick still in me, but smaller now, till it plops out, and he's out of breath, and rolls, yes, slides off, and I'm looking at him now, and he at me, and yes, I'm thinking, yes, oh yes.
"Want me to suck you off?" he asks.
"I came." I say.
"You came?" he breathes, "While I was fucking you, you came?" his honey voice panted. He looked up at the large green summer maple leaf ceiling, adding, "that's great... I can't believe it... you came while I was fucking you. You really loved it."
"Yeah."
"Me too."
VI. A little later
I hope you don't mind the way I told it. I got the idea from James Joyce, but I did put a lot of commas. Too many notes. Still, even now, years later, I've got to jerk off when I read it again.
We cleaned ourselves up as best we could with some paper towels he had, and didn't say much, just grinning at each other, till we went down the rope. We walked towards his house, and we could see the big white clock in his kitchen.
"Shit," he said, "One-thirty, I'd invite you in to take a shower, but my old man might already be home for lunch. I really got to take a shower."
"That's okay," I said, "I've got to go home for lunch, too."
"Hey, how come you don't hang out at Chandler's?" he asked, referring to the soda fountain in town. "If you'd hang out there, I mean like that's where you'd find me most often, not here at the house, and then I could find you, too. You know, and then we could hang out together, probably, if I'm not grounded or anything. Okay?"
"Alright." I say.
"Cool, then I'll probably see you around a lot this summer."
"Okay," I say, "see ya."
"See ya." he says. "Hey, I'll walk you to the corner."
So we walk. We get to the corner, and he pulls me behind this big bush, and kisses me, and while he kisses me, he puts his hand inside my shorts and squeezes my ass.
"I loved what we did today," he tells me, "I'm really glad you came over."
"Me, too."
We pause, then step out from behind the bushes. He says "See ya."
I say, "See ya."
So he turns back to his house, and walks away, never looking back, and I walk to mine feeling kind of sad, 'cause I'm not with him, and glad 'cause I was with him, but I'm not smiling anymore. Maybe it's because of passion. Or is it lust? Do you smile in passion? Or in lust? Or in love? People in love smile at each other, but maybe not during passion. We smiled, but after the sex. We didn't smile when we had to part. Maybe we're in love. I'm in love. I want to be with him all day and all night, but get real. So my mother sees me all sweaty when I get back to the house.
"What have you been doing?"
"Push-ups." I say.
"Oh good, lunch is almost ready."
"I want to take a shower first."
"Okay." She sounds happy. See, she must have reasons to be cheerful. I feel great, and I feel miserable, too. Why? I don't know.
VII. Naked lunch
I don't always get a boner in the shower, just because I'm naked. Maybe it's because I feel sexier than I ever have in my whole life. It's a good feeling, in my heart, I mean, not my dick. Well, that feels good, too, but I don't have time to play with that right now. Mother's waiting. It shrinks as I get dressed. My tan bermuda shorts are baggy anyway. I put on a white Izod tennis shirt. My mother likes those better than tank tops. And socks, my mother likes me to wear socks. I brush my wet hair, and hurry downstairs.
"Ah, darling, there you are!"
"You made something for lunch?" I asked. Sometimes we just made sandwiches. Sometimes she didn't eat at all.
"Soup. Cream of broccoli gratinée. I've been reading that man's book all morning."
"Soup? Do you know how hot it is out today?" I grinned. "What man's book?"
"The hotter you are on the inside, the cooler you'll feel on the outside. It's that man from TV, he's got me all fired up. I'm going to make something special for dinner tonight."
I munched on a Ritz cracker, as I set out two bowls and spoons. Before I sat down, my mother took a good look at me.
"Oh, darling, you look so nice!" She licked two of her fingers and grabbed a couple of my hairs that must have been sticking out, and pushed them over with the others. What made her think I wanted her spit in my hair? Ick. I sat down. She poured the soup into a Bing & Grøndahl tureen that matched the bowls I had set out, and brought it to the table. The Rosenthal was only for dinner in the dining room.
"Mother, can I have a friend over for dinner sometime?"
"Of course, darling, but not tonight, I have just the right number of asparagus spears."
"And could he sleep over sometime, too?"
"Darling, what do you think we gave you two beds for? Surely you don't think I'm going to have another child? One of you is more than enough."
The conversation that ensues I don't really take part in. I just nod and agree, because I'm thinking about having Jimmy C. over to sleep with me in my room, now that I know that I can, and he can fuck me in my own bed. And he can put his tongue in my mouth, and I'll put mine in his, and he'll tell me all about his whole life, and I'll tell him about me, and I'll tell him I love him, and we'll make love in the other bed, too, and he'll fuck me again, right up my ass.
"Darling, you haven't heard a word I've said. Whatever are you smiling about?"
"Oh," I say, "I was just thinking of how I'm going to play the Mozart."
"Correctly, I hope."
"Oh yes," I say, "but my way."
VIII. I go out
I'm sitting at the Steinway, just doing some things from the book, to exercise my fingers, you might say. As long as I only play softly, my father doesn't mind, and he can read his paper and talk with my mother. Mostly right now he is reading, but every once in a while he says an angry word or two, because he is mad about some deal that isn't going right.
"That damned Mick is going to screw up the whole deal!" My father looks at my mother for a minute, then he buries his face behind the paper again, because my mother didn't answer him. She is doing the crossword puzzle in the back of TV Guide. No one else, like me for instance, is allowed to do the crossword puzzle in TV Guide, because that's her thing. She does it in ballpoint pen, too. My father pulls the paper away from his face and starts to bark again. "yeah, he's real concerned about the niggers, as long it doesn't mess up the Micks." He hides behind the paper again. He really shouldn't use words like that, because there's words for us, too, and he really gets pissed if he hears anyone use one of them. Not that we're religious, or anything, we don't even go to Temple. My father and me, anyway. My mother's family used to be Presbyterian. She doesn't go to church either.
I'm thinking maybe I should go up to my room, pretend I want to read, or something. Since it's summer, though, it would look too strange. This Clementi is definitely starting to bore me. I've played it too much, I'm not saying it's bad music. Actually, I'd like to go up to Chandler's, to see if Jimmy C. is there. Chandler's is open 'til ten, but they've never let me out that late before. Actually, I've never asked, and I am twelve now, twelve and a half, since it's past June. I close the Steinway lid, and my stomach is spinning, because I'm going to ask.
"Can I go up to Chandler's for a while?" I ask, standing beside the piano. My father pulls the paper away from his face suddenly, making a rustling noise, but he just stares at me, and my mother speaks first.
"What do you want to go there for?" she says.
"Some friends go there sometimes, I just wanted to go there and see who's there, and maybe get an ice cream cone."
"Well, we have ice cream here, is there anyone special you're meeting?" she asks.
"I might meet my friend Jimmy, if he's there," I answer.
"Well, why don't you call him and find out?" she asks next.
"He just moved here a couple of months ago, I never got his phone number," I reply, almost ready to give up.
"Oh Wolfie, this all seems so disorganized."
"Oh, Mother," I sort of mumble, and then my father sticks his nose in, surprisingly on my side.
"Let the boy go, Anna," he says. It's surprising to me anyway, you don't know him that well, yet. I guess I didn't write much about him yet. It's hard to write about my father.
"Alright, but be back before it's dark," she says. It gets dark about eight-thirty. Oh well, I'm happy to just get out.
"Thanks Mom," I say, and "thanks, Dad," too. I'm out the door on the way to Chandler's, and I feel sort of scared and excited, too. I hope he's there.
I always pass Chandler's on my way to piano lessons.
More to come?
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Walt Kauffmann