When Mom raised the question with me, I wasn’t sure what to say. My first thought was, I wonder if he’s still a bed-wetter, but that wasn’t my main concern. I didn’t really know Kevin any longer. What was he like now? If I said yes, then I’d share my bedroom with Kevin and likely spend every day with him during his ten-week stay. What if we didn’t get along?
Still…
Despite the abrupt ending of our friendship and Kevin’s lack of communication over the past three years, I still felt a sense of loyalty to him. If I said no, I would hurt his feelings. And I wanted to help Mrs. Corrigan with her dilemma. She’d always been kind to me. Shouldn’t I do something to help her?
So I told my mom, “Sure, it’s fine. Kevin can share my room with me,” and a week later, Kevin arrived with his things: clothes, shoes, a fishing rod, and a tackle box. Mrs. Corrigan brought Kevin to our house in the Rambler station wagon, which wasn’t quite as shiny as it had been when they’d driven it to California. She looked pale and she’d lost a good deal of weight since I’d last seen her.
Kevin had changed as well. In fact, he didn’t look the same at all, save for his wavy blond hair, twinkly blue eyes, and freckled nose. When he exited the Rambler, my heart skipped a beat. He was taller than his mother now. His shoulders were broad, his limbs sinewy. His calves and the tops of his feet were dusted with golden fuzz, and his voice had a rasp to it when he greeted my mom, my sister, and me with a smile that showed off his big teeth. His cheekbones were craggy, his chin square, and I immediately knew that the boy who’d shared life with me in the Jungle was gone. Kevin was well on his way toward manhood.
When he greeted me, we didn’t shake hands. Instead Kevin hugged me and mussed my hair, and for the first time that summer, I smelled his skin. His body odor reminded me of the scent of wet pine needles. I, of course, hugged Kevin back. I threw my arms around his slender waist and squeezed.
Right there, in our sandy front yard, with the Rambler’s engine ticking and afternoon sunlight reflecting off the car’s chrome bumpers, all the distance between me and Kevin and all the resentment I’d felt toward him since he’d moved from the Jungle disappeared like a puff of smoke from a campfire. Kevin was there, holding me. I was holding him and everything was okay.
After the hug, Kevin looked me up and down. Then he said, “What’ve you been eating? You’re as tall as me now.”
During my ninth-grade year, I’d shot up nearly four inches. Now I was three inches shy of six feet, and I’d put a bit of muscle onto my frame as well. Light brown hair grew on my calves and other places, and peach fuzz dusted my upper lip. I was on my way to manhood too.
Mrs. Corrigan wagged a finger at Kevin while warning him of dire consequences should he misbehave in the coming weeks. Then she drove away with her muffler growling. I helped Kevin take his belongings to my room, all except the fishing pole and tackle box. Those went into our garage. Kevin stored his socks and underwear in a bureau drawer I’d cleared out for him; the rest of his clothes, along with his shoes, went into my closet. After I told him which bed was his, he sat on it with his forearms resting on his knees and his hands hanging.
“So,” he said while his gaze traveled about the room, “what’s a guy do for fun around here?”
I explained about the beach, fishing at the bridge, pool-hopping at Treasure Island’s multitude of motels, and a mini-golf course within walking distance. “And there’s a pinball machine at the Surf Motel,” I added. “The cabana boy showed me how to play it for free by sticking the end of a coat hanger in the coin slot; it works every time.”
“Any chicks in the neighborhood?” Kevin asked.
My mood plunged at his question, and I didn’t know how to answer him because girls didn’t interest me. “Maybe one or two,” I answered, “but I don’t know them.”
Kevin nodded. Then he asked, “Do we have time to visit the beach before dinner?”
I glanced at the clock on top of my bureau. “Sure, ’cause we won’t eat till six thirty.”
I closed the bedroom door, and Kevin and I changed into our swim trunks. After three years of showering with my classmates in PE, I’d lost all sense of modesty and I guess Kevin had as well, since neither of us seemed uncomfortable about getting naked in front of the other guy. I’ll admit I stole a few glances at Kevin’s private areas when he dropped his briefs to his ankles, and what I saw made my mouth grow sticky. The thought we’d sleep in the same room for ten weeks had my pulse racing.
As always, the cries of seabirds and the Gulf’s briny scent stirred my senses when we strolled toward the shore with our bare feet squeaking in the powdery sand. Overhead, the sun burned like a yellow coin in a cloudless sky. We both waded into the Gulf’s warm and placid water till we were up to our waists in liquid, and then Kevin pointed westward to a sandbar that had risen above the waterline, about a quarter-mile out.
“Is that always there?” he asked.
I nodded. “It’s up several hours at a time, whenever the tide’s low.”
“Let’s pay a visit,” Kevin said, and then we swam out there, both of us doing our personal versions of the front crawl. The water we swam in wasn’t deep at all; we could have walked to the sandbar with our heads above water if we’d wanted to. But at our ages, we had boundless energy and preferred to swim. I wasn’t even tired when we reached the sandbar, the crest of which was maybe two feet above the water surrounding it. When we crossed to the west side of the sandbar, Kevin whistled. Then he pointed to a wave maybe three feet high, rolling toward the bar. The wave’s face was glassy and sunlight glistened in its curling lip.
“Do you get that kind of wave out here often?” he asked.
I bobbed my chin while I ran my fingers through my damp hair. “It’s like a machine pumps them out. Sometimes I come out here to body surf. You can do it for hours if you want.”
“Ever ride a surfboard?” Kevin asked.
I shook my head.
Kevin rubbed his chin with a knuckle while he kept his gaze fixed on another incoming wave, this one identical to the last. “I have a board at home, a Gordon & Smith. Think your mom would take us to my place so we could bring it here?”
“Sure,” I said. “She wouldn’t mind.”
Kevin turned his gaze to me. Then he looked me over from my forehead to my feet, as though I were an item he pondered buying in a store. “I can teach you to ride,” he said. “It’s not easy—it takes practice—but you’re built like a surfer. You’ll pick it up fast, I think.”
I felt heat in my cheeks when Kevin’s gaze traveled over me a second time. Then I swung my gaze to the Gulf. I tried to imagine myself gliding across the face of a wave like the surfers in California I’d seen on TV. Could I possibly do it?
My mom was a good cook, and for Kevin’s first dinner at our house, she breaded and fried fresh shrimp from a seafood market, accompanied by tartar sauce, french fries, and a tossed salad with Italian dressing. Our dining table was actually a Formica-clad door supported by four cast-iron legs. One of the longer sides of the table abutted the sill of our front windows. I sat at one short side of the table while my mom sat at the other. Kevin and Lisa occupied the two seats facing the windows. A nice breeze swept through the room while we dined and Kevin answered my mom’s questions about his school.
Kevin attended Bishop Keating High School, a Catholic institution located only a short distance from our old Jungle neighborhood, and although the school’s principal was a priest, most of the faculty members were laypeople.
“No more nuns in their penguin outfits,” Kevin told us.
The conversation turned to sports. “I played safety on the JV football squad last year,” Kevin said. “I’ll try out for varsity this fall.”
A vision of Kevin dashing across the gridiron in a helmet, shoulder pads, and cleated shoes entered my mind’s eye, and just like always, I felt a twinge of jealousy. Why wasn’t I gifted with athletic prowess? Would I always be an observer at sporting events instead of a
participant?
When we’d finished our meal, my mom decreed Kevin and I would take on dishwashing responsibilities after dinner each night. My sister would handle breakfast and lunch dishes. Normally my sister and I divided these chores evenly, so Kevin’s participation would only lighten our loads. I was fine with the arrangement, and if Kevin minded, he didn’t let on. Minutes later, I stood at the sink with my hands in soapy water while Kevin dried glasses and put them away in the cupboard. Every so often, his hip nudged mine, and I’d feel a kind of sexual spark pass from Kevin to me.
For the tenth time since his arrival, I found myself wondering how it might feel to touch Kevin between his legs, but then I remembered how he’d asked if any “chicks” lived in my neighborhood, and I knew it wasn’t likely my desire for Kevin would ever be satisfied.
Shit.
My mom drove a convertible, a British sedan that wasn’t the most reliable of cars, but it usually got us where we needed to go, and three days after Kevin moved in with us, she took us to Kevin’s house to retrieve his surfboard.
When we reached the Corrigans’ house, the one with the swimming pool, I stayed in the car while Kevin let himself in the house with a key hidden under a flowerpot. I kept remembering the few times I’d visited Kevin there and how unhappy I felt when doing so, so I had no desire to go inside. Within moments, the automatic garage door opened with a creaking and clacking and Kevin emerged onto the driveway with his surfboard under an arm. The board was a mammoth thing, nearly nine feet long and about three inches thick, except where it thinned out at the nose and tail. It had a fiberglass finish over a foam core with a single fin in the rear and a wooden stringer running the length of the board. Sunlight reflected in the board’s glossy finish, and in the red-and-white Gordon & Smith logo near the board’s nose.
My mom lowered her convertible top, and Kevin wedged the board into the space between the driver’s seat and the rear seat. After he closed up the house, Kevin hopped into the rear seat beside the board, and we hit the road. We drew curious glances from motorists on our trip back to Treasure Island. Surfboards weren’t commonplace in Pinellas County back then because there weren’t many spots in our area with waves big enough to ride. Kevin’s board rose about four feet higher than the car’s windshield, and I suppose we must’ve looked like a shark cruising its way along Gulf Boulevard.
A week after Kevin’s arrival, the tides table ruled our lives, Kevin’s and mine. We quickly learned that the best times for catching waves at the sandbar were the three hours on either side of low tide, and since each day, low tide came about forty to sixty minutes later than it had the day before, we had to alter our daily schedule to allow ourselves maximum surfing time.
It took me two days before I finally managed to catch a wave and stand up on the board for a ride toward shore. We had been on the water nearly three hours, and the time was about eleven a.m. We took turns using the board, and now Kevin sat on the shore while I perched on the board, looking westward and waiting for the next wave to come. When it did, I lay on my stomach with my chin above the Gordon & Smith logo. I paddled furiously, chopping at the water with my cupped hands. I heard the wave’s roar behind me, then felt it lift me. After I gripped the board’s rails, I pushed myself upward into a crouch with my right foot forward. For a moment, I thought I might lose my balance, as I had so many times before. But this time, using my arms to steady myself, I managed to keep my footing. I turned the board’s nose to my left by shifting my hips and skimmed across the wave’s face.
I felt weightless, like I was flying. I felt the sun’s rays on my shoulders, heard the wind whisper in my ears. I gazed into the cloudless sky, then hollered like a banshee. I had never felt so alive or so free.
By the time I made it to shore, Kevin was on his feet, clapping his hands above his head and doing a war dance of sorts. After I walked the board onto the beach and laid it in the sand, Kevin took me in his arms and gave me a bear hug. I felt his body heat and smelled the salt crystals on his skin while he pounded my back and told me how great I’d looked riding the wave.
“You’re a natural,” he said. “What did I tell you?”
Non-athlete that I was, I found it all quite hard to believe.
I could surf?
Me?
Chapter Three
Ever since we moved to Treasure Island, I’d earned money by caring for neighbors’ yards. I mowed and edged grass, trimmed hedges, and weeded plant beds. I spread fertilizer and mulch. The money was decent, and at the time Kevin moved in with us, I probably had $150 stashed in a zippered pouch I kept under my bed.
After my first successful surfboard ride, I spent a half hour each morning scouring the classified ads in the St. Petersburg Times, searching for a used board I could buy. I quickly found one I bought for $75 from a guy in Redington Shores, a nine-foot Velzy made in California that was dinged in several places but still serviceable. Again, we drew stares on Gulf Boulevard when my mom drove me, Kevin, and my new board back to Treasure Island with the Velzy sticking up from the car like a cowlick. But I didn’t care about the staring. I was now an official member of the surfing fraternity, albeit a novice. I’d finally found a sport I could perform adequately in, and I promised myself I would dedicate the remainder of my summer to honing my wave-riding skills.
So Kevin and I spent a portion of each day at the sandbar, sometimes as long as six hours if we had enough daylight for it. When we weren’t surfing, we pool-hopped, and I remember one late afternoon when we swam in the Thunderbird Hotel’s pool, a mammoth thing surrounded by a concrete deck littered with chaises, tables, and chairs. Dozens of tourists lounged about the pool in their swimsuits. Their skins glistened with suntan lotion and their sunglasses reflected the hot sunshine pounding the pool deck.
At one point, Kevin and I rested our arms on the pool’s ledge with our bodies submerged up to our chests. Our wet hair was plastered to our skulls and beads of pool water gleamed like opals on our shoulders.
Kevin leaned to me and whispered into my ear. “See that skinny guy lying on the chaise with the yellow towel?”
I looked at the man and nodded.
“I think he’s gay,” Kevin said. “He keeps staring at me when I’m on the diving board.”
I crinkled my forehead. “What do you mean he’s gay?”
Kevin looked at me like I was stupid. “It’s a nice way of saying queer.”
I looked at the man again. He didn’t seem any different from half the other men present, at least not to me. “Are you sure?” I said.
“Positive. I know a gay man when I see one.”
“How?” I asked. Already I felt both intrigued and uneasy. This was the first time Kevin had ever mentioned homosexuality to me, so we were navigating unchartered waters. Plus if Kevin could spot a gay man so easily, how long would it take him to figure my story out?
When Kevin hopped out of the pool, water sheeted off his limbs. Then he motioned me to join him. “Let’s take a walk,” he said, and I followed him to the shore, where we strolled northward, back toward my house. “I’m going to tell you something,” Kevin said while we ambled along with our arms swinging, “but you have to keep it to yourself, understand?”
I nodded.
“About six months ago, my folks went to a movie downtown, one I didn’t want to see, so they left me at the Pier a few hours.”
The Pier was a St. Petersburg landmark jutting a quarter mile into Tampa Bay. People fished there, or they patronized shops in the Pier’s three-story Mediterranean-style structure. The place was quite popular at the time; it drew huge crowds on weekends.
“I met this guy there,” Kevin said. “I was sitting on a bench, and I noticed him staring at me. After a while, he sat down beside me, and we talked. He was old, like maybe thirty.”
My scalp prickled while Kevin continued.
“After we talked a bit, he asked me if I’d ever had a blow job, and I said, ‘No, what’s that?’ And he said, ‘I want to suck yo
ur dick. We can go to my place; it’s not far from here. I’ll pay you ten dollars if you’ll let me.’”
By that point, my pulse raced and my mouth was dry.
“What did you do?” I asked.
Kevin looked at me like I was nuts. “I said no, of course, but ever since, I’ve noticed how certain men stare at me. It’s like they’re trying to imagine how I’d look with my clothes off. Do you know what I’m saying?”
I nodded, but in truth, I didn’t know, and I wondered if perhaps some men looked at me that way.
One night, about ten days into Kevin’s stay, the two of us played mini-golf at a course several blocks from my house, the kind with a windmill, a loop-de-loop, a waterfall, and a clown’s head with a mouth that opened and shut every few seconds. The weather was warm and breezy, and we both wore T-shirts, shorts, and rubber sandals. Traffic whizzed by on Gulf Boulevard while we played. The breeze stirred fronds on Sabal palms that dotted the course, and the fronds made a sound like cards being shuffled. Of course, Kevin was a better player than I; halfway through the round, he already had four strokes on me. We were at the tenth hole, getting ready to putt across a miniature version of the Brooklyn Bridge, when I pointed to a restaurant’s parking lot just across the street. I told Kevin of a prank a neighbor boy and I liked to play on the parking valets at the restaurant. The valets, I told Kevin, were arrogant pricks, older high school boys who thought they were tough.
“When they take a guest’s car keys,” I said, “they always give the guest one half of a numbered ticket. Then they slide the other half of the ticket under the car’s windshield wiper before they park the car. When a guest is ready to leave, he gives the valet the guest’s half of the ticket, and then the valet matches the number with the one on the windshield, get it?”
Kevin nodded while he gazed at the restaurant parking lot and I continued.
Kevin Corrigan and Me Page 2