Kizo laughs. “No, a short penis is someone who does not want to share. Old Molap is the shortest penis on the island, so we play games by borrowing everything we can from him.”
“Can’t he just say no?”
“Oh no, no. That would be very bad.” Kizo shakes his head. “Borrowing is how we show we are friends. If he said no, it would mean he no longer wants to be friends with us.” Kizo’s face becomes serious. “And then he would be all alone.”
For the rest of the morning, I try to think of something I might have that Kizo and Pico could borrow. But I have nothing.
That afternoon back at the beach, it’s especially hot, and while Kizo and Luca head off to their hut for some grog and a nap, Pico and I set out along the jungle path to the bathing pool. By the time we arrive, we are dripping with sweat. After a swim in the cool fresh water, we settle down on a sandy patch to laze in the shade of the large breadfruit tree. I pick up a piece of charcoal and a dried banana leaf and begin to draw. Pico watches intently as I sketch a simple fish and a snail. After I finish I toss the charcoal away, place the banana leaf on the ground next to me, and lie back. Pico reaches over and picks up the leaf. He inspects the drawing, smiles, and sets it on the ground next to him. I smile back. Pico has borrowed something from me, and now we’re officially friends.
The following day, while we are out on the boat, Kizo, who is standing in the stern, leans over and slaps his butt. “A big shark!”
Luca and I jump and look around, nervously checking for a dorsal fin in the water. Nothing. I look back at Kizo, mystified. “Where’s the shark?”
“No. I want you to make a tattoo of a big shark chasing a school of fish right here, and Pico wants a monkey climbing a banana tree.”
Pico is patting his left shoulder and smiling.
“Oh, oh. You’re in trouble now.” Luca laughs.
“But I don’t know how to do a tattoo!”
“I told you.” Luca holds up his thumb and forefinger to Kizo. “Short penis.”
I swat his hand away. “Stop it. I’m not a short penis. It’s just I’ve never made a tattoo before.”
“Short penis.” Luca nods.
“You’re not helping.”
That afternoon when we return to the beach, Luca announces he’s dying of thirst, and he goes off to find some grog, leaving us to hang out the nets and clean the fish. After we’re done, Pico and I linger, waiting for Kizo, who is by the beached boat splicing some pieces of old rope together.
“C’mon, Kizo, let’s go to the bathing pool.” I moan. “It’s hot as hell, and Pico stinks like fish.”
Pico lifts his arm and smells his pit.
“Yes, you, Pico. You smell like dead fish!”
Pico flexes his bicep and makes a monkey cry. Meanwhile, Kizo takes a small bundle from the canoe and walks up to the shady patch under the coconut tree where I’m hiding from the scorching sun. He hands me the bundle, and I unwrap it: some long, spiny thorns and a little ceramic pot with a cork lid, filled with an inky black substance.
“I want it right here.” He twists around and rubs his left buttock.
“Okay, but for starters, I’m only going to do a simple tattoo on your leg.”
Kizo lies down on the sand, and I trace out a starfish design in black ink. My hand is shaking, and I’m running with sweat as begin to jab him with the spines along the black lines. At first I don’t sink the spines in deep enough and the black ink doesn’t penetrate the skin. Then I jab the spine in deeper. Kizo yelps, and a small amount of blood appears.
“Sorry.” I sit back and wipe the sweat from my brow. “I’m not sure I can do this.”
Pico is bent over Kizo’s leg, closely inspecting the fine lines I’ve already made.
“Go on, go on,” Kizo encourages.
“Okay, give me space, Pico.” I gently press him back and hunch over Kizo’s leg. “Kizo, I’m worried about Luca,” I say as I stretch his skin with my thumb and forefinger. “He’s drinking grog all the time.” I insert a spine into his skin.
Kizo flinches. “He says he drinks because he is unhappy and cannot stay here.”
“I know he wants to leave, but we have to wait until we’re rescued.” I start to make sharp little jabs on Kizo’s leg with the ink-covered spine.
“He says he cannot wait anymore, and he will leave as soon as the calm season arrives.”
I shiver. It’s obvious that Luca is more desperate than I thought and time is running out for both of us. “When is the calm season?”
“In about three moons. I will leave with him.”
I say nothing more and continue to jab Kizo with the spine, but all the while I’m thinking about what to do. Could I really abandon Luca and stay here on the island like a native, or should I leave with Luca and return to civilization? Whatever choice I make, it will be forever.
After about an hour, I’m finished. Kizo gets up and goes down to the water to rinse off the extra black ink smeared all over his leg. Pico lies down in his place, and I trace a snail design on his shoulder.
“Let me see it before I start on Pico.”
Kizo strolls up, and I closely inspect my work. The star on his leg is red and swollen, but he’s not bleeding, and the black lines are more or less even.
“Okay, victim number two.”
Having determined the correct depth to jab in the spines, I’m much less nervous now as I work on Pico. And before the sun has set below the aquamarine horizon, Pico and Kizo have their tattoos.
A few days later I’m down at the beach with Kizo for his second tattoo. He’s bent over a fallen coconut tree, and I’m kneeling in the sand, my face inches away from his left buttock. I delicately grip a long spine with my right hand while holding the pot of ink with my left.
“Did you give that tattoo to Luca—the one on his arm?” Kizo asks, his hands firmly clasped to the tree trunk.
“Hold still, big boy.” I steady his trembling buttcheek as I carefully put the finishing touches on. “Oh, Luca’s anchor? No, he’s a sailor. Sailors do that in the outside world.”
“Ouch!” Kizo jumps.
“Sorry. Did that last one hurt?” I dab away a drop of blood. “I’m almost finished.”
“His daddy or some special boy must have given it to him,” Kizo says and sniffles a little.
I dip my spines into the inkpot again. “Luca doesn’t have a father. No, I’m sure it was just a tattoo artist, no one special to him.”
“Well, it must have been someone special to him, or why else would he wear his sign?”
“I don’t know.” I sit back and examine my work. “Kizo, do you get jealous about Luca sometimes?”
“What do you mean?” Kizo twists his head to look past his hip at me.
“Well, I’m sure you know he’ll fuck anything on the island.”
“I know.” Kizo smiles. “It makes me so proud to be in love with a man that so many other men desire.”
“How do you separate love and sex without jealousy?” I now lean sideways to look at Kizo’s face.
“Sex is like talking. You can’t tell someone you love not to talk to anyone else.”
“And jealousy?” I say.
“Jealousy is always a problem. Big problem,” Kizo says, shaking his head.
I sit back and examine my work. “Kizo, who gave Nando the butterfly tattoo on his chest?” I say, trying to mask my curiosity.
“Ah, Tukuman of course. Nando is very devoted to him.” Kizo nods.
“Tukuman!” I feel a sudden pang of jealousy. “Have I met him already?”
“Yes,” Kizo says. “When you were out of your head. It was Tukuman who cured you.”
“Well, maybe I should thank him,” I say, probing for a casual way to meet and size up my competition.
“No. That would not be a good idea.” Kizo shakes his head vigorously. “He does not want to meet you.” Kizo is so definite that it’s obvious our discussion of Tukuman has been terminated. I sneer and continue on with t
he tattoo. Kizo is right, jealousy leads to problems. At least now I know there is someone else in Nando’s life.
“There. All finished.” I slap Kizo’s ass. “Go wash off the extra ink and let me see.”
“Okay.” Kizo grins. “Then we can make sex.”
It’s not long after I’ve finished the shark chasing the school of fish on Kizo’s buttocks and the monkey in a banana tree on Pico’s shoulder that word spreads. Suddenly I’ve become the most popular tattoo artist on the island, and I now have a long list of men who all want to wear my mark of friendship.
Shortly after, I meet Luca at our spot up on the cliff. He’s agitated, and he smells of grog, as usual. “Have you found out anything new from Nando?” he barks.
I know if I tell him about the myths Nando told me, he’ll only get angry. “Nothing that would help,” I say.
“Damn, they gotta know something. We haven’t seen a passing ship or even a plane, not even a little smoke on the horizon the whole time we’ve been here.”
“It hasn’t been that long, only about six moons or so.”
“Try ten.”
“Ten?”
“Yes, muffin head. Let’s face it, we’re stuck here, and we’re never gonna get out of this hellhole and back to civilization.” Luca points out toward the flat, empty horizon. He still hasn’t mentioned his plans to leave in our lifeboat as soon as the calm season comes, so I play along like I don’t know anything.
“It’s hardly a hellhole, and I’m sure it’s just a matter of time until we see a passing ship. We just have to be patient.” I feel no sense of urgency or even melancholy. Truthfully, I dread the day we’ll be rescued.
“Fine for you. You have Nando.”
“You have Kizo.”
“It’s not the same thing. We’re just fuck buddies.”
I sit upright and look sternly at him. “Well, Kizo’s certainly in love with you.”
“Love.” Luca practically spits the word. “I’m not like you. I don’t want to spend the rest of my life with a man. It’s not natural! It’s all these queers on this island. They’re turning us into faggots.”
Suddenly I remember one of my mother’s favorite sayings, “You can take the boy out of the religion, but you can’t take the religion out of the boy.” Luca may have escaped St. Mike’s, but not before they poisoned his mind and heart.
“Nobody’s turning me into anything,” I snarl back at him. “You just want someone to blame.”
“I don’t want to be a faggot!” he yells, but it’s as if he’s yelling at himself, not me.
“You mean a faggot like me,” I yell back.
Luca rises to his feet. “You need to make up your mind if you want to return home with me or spend the rest of your life rotting here with these queers.” Then he grabs himself. “This is my dick, and I’ll do what I want with it.”
I shake my head in disgust. “Why are you being such a jerk?”
Luca throws me his middle finger and stomps off down the path.
I stare out to sea, but I’m shaking with anger. I’ve spent my whole life searching for a place where I belonged. Everything I’ve ever fantasized about is right here on the island, and Luca is doing his best to ruin it. I know I have to help him leave. I owe him that much. But I don’t know if I want to leave with him. Once I’ve made my decision to either stay or go, there will be no turning back.
As I sit there contemplating my options, I spy a lone canoe in the moonlight. I’m not sure, but it appears to be Dzil. The canoe silently traverses the bay, heads out toward the reef in the direction of the Far Island, and disappears into the cover of darkness. I shiver. I have the ominous feeling trouble is coming, and I don’t know why.
GUY STOPPED speaking and folded his hands on his lap with satisfaction.
“And so your characters, Guy and Luca, learn to fish, and have lots of friends and lots of sex.” Richard rubbed the back of his head. “But Luca rejects his homosexuality and any suggestion of love with Kizo. Whereas Guy embraces his homosexuality but is unable to find intimacy with Nando.”
“You got it, Doc.” Guy nods.
Richard scratches his chin. “One struggles to escape the fantasy while the other is drawn deeper into it. To me, these two characters represent your own internal struggle.”
“Ha. Doc, I got a question for you,” Guy said with a challenging tone. “What do you think of bisexuals?”
Richard contemplates for a moment. “I’m sure I don’t have to tell you, sexuality is not that specific, especially when we’re young.”
“Now you’re blowing smoke up my ass. I know what the literature says. I’m asking you. What do you think about bisexuals?” Guy barked.
“The answer is, I think many people are bisexual.” Richard sounded irritated.
“I think most bisexuals are like Larry and Luca—full of shit. They’re mostly just repressed fags who can get it up with pretty much anyone. They lie and hide to get all the privileges and advantages of being straight, but the minute nobody’s looking, they’re out playing the boys. The only thing a bisexual ever thinks about is himself.”
“That’s pretty harsh.” Richard had a sour expression.
“You tell me then, have you ever met a bisexual you could trust?” Guy tossed out his words.
Richard rolled his head and crossed his arms in front. “I have a number of bisexual patients and friends.”
“I didn’t ask you if you had friends. I asked you if you could trust them.” Guy waved his hand dismissively. “I’ll take that as a no.”
Richard uncrossed his arms and gripped the arms of the chair. “I can see that our discussion has awakened a lot of angry feelings. Are we really talking about bisexuals, or are we talking about something specific?”
“We’re talking about me, Doc.” Guy forced a bitter smile. “It’s always about me.” Guy paused and clenched his teeth.
“Are you saying that you are bisexual?” Richard spoke with a clinical tone.
“No, I’m saying I once tried to be.” Guy clenched his fists. “Just like I tried to be heterosexual before that. And I think you already know what that’s all about, don’t you?”
Richard nodded. “I guess I do.”
“Oh, by the way, that kid whose head Larry and the others shoved down the toilet dropped out of school.” Guy stood up. “They found him frozen to death in a snowbank in Toronto that following spring.” Guy looked to the floor as he slowly walked out of the room.
Chapter 15: Boyhood Forever
“GOOD MORNING, Armando. You look nice today,” Guy said as he walked up to the nurses’ station.
“Oh, hi, Mr. Palmer. Thanks, I just got my hair cut. Thought I’d try something a little different.” Armando grinned self-consciously. “Heaven knows the old style wasn’t working, so why not change the bait.”
“Oh, so you’re a fisherman?” Guy smiled. “If you’re just looking to hook whatever comes your way then any old bait will do, but if you have a specific catch in mind, you’ll need the right lure.” Guy flexed his eyebrows. “Speaking of fishing.” Guy placed the cups of coffee on the counter and dug in his pocket. “I have something that might help.” He reached across the counter and held out his closed fist to Armando.
Armando blushed. “Oh no, Mr. Palmer, we can’t accept money.”
Guy chuckled. “No, no, it’s not money. It’s my lucky fishing lure.”
Armando cautiously held out his hand, and Guy placed something cold and heavy in his palm, a gold medallion and chain. Armando turned it over and examined it. A double-headed eagle was embossed into the face of the medallion. It was slightly irregular, as if it had been made by hand, and it appeared very old.
“A fishing buddy gave it to me a long time ago. Don’t worry, Kiddo. It’s just a stupid little trinket, and I have plenty more where that came from.” Guy waved his hand. “It just might attract the attention of the right fish.” Guy nodded in the direction of Richard’s office.
Armando bit his
lower lip. “Thanks, Mr. Palmer, but he barely even notices me.” His face was now bright red. “I guess I’m only dreaming. He’s way out of my league.”
“Nobody’s out of your league, Kiddo. Wear it and see what happens.” Guy grabbed a coffee in each hand, winked, turned, and headed down the corridor. He walked into the office humming.
Richard looked up from his screen. “You’re certainly bright today.”
“Was just talking to a young fishing buddy of mine this morning. That always lifts me up.”
“So you’ve made a friend?”
“Hey, who knows?” Guy shrugged. “Maybe our sessions are helping.”
“Well, it must be doing something or you wouldn’t keep bringing me coffee.” Richard peeled back the plastic top and took a careful sip.
“I’m sure I’m not the first self-absorbed old fag to take advantage of a captive audience.”
Richard smiled. “Everyone needs someone they can talk to.”
“I like talking to you youngsters. I like your energy and naiveté.”
“Well, I’m hardly a youngster,” Richard said.
“You know, I think I’d make a good grandfather. I’d take my grandson fishing, teach him to belch and make armpit farts, tell him stories about the war, and show him the battle scar on my leg.”
“You were in the war?”
“No, don’t be ridiculous.” Guy flipped his hand.
“Why don’t you try volunteering with the Gay Youth Outreach Program?”
“Too dangerous. When it comes to children, an accusation is a condemnation, proof or not, and gay men are sitting ducks. Do I really care if someone else’s kid grows up lonely, unhappy, and self-destructive?”
“I think you do.”
Guy turned and gazed out the window for a moment, then began to speak again. “When I was young, I knew I was different, but I had no one I could talk to. My puberty was an event largely ignored by my parents in Presbyterian silence. Back then, discoveries about the changes to my body and mind were solitary and frightening, based on bits of information I got or overheard from the other boys at school, most of which was incomplete or completely wrong. So I decided if I just tried hard enough I would magically begin to act and feel like the other boys. I would become a real boy.”
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