Pee-Shy

by Frank Spinelli

  By noon, we were ordered to organize into our individual patrols outside the mess hall. We stood there in rows as the assistant Scoutmasters made their head count. All the while, Bill silently monitored our every move from the porch with his arms crossed over his chest. Once all the boys were accounted for, we marched back to the parking lot.

  When we reached our destination, I just assumed that I would be riding alone with Bill. In fact, I was looking forward to it, particularly because I was interested in continuing our conversation, now more than ever. Once we arrived at the parking lot, the other boys filed into their designated cars. I broke away from my patrol and headed straight for Bill’s truck. I propped my knapsack against it and waited.

  Over the hillside, I saw a small group making their way over the embankment. Bill was walking alongside Chris Spivey, James Mendola, and Stanley Metheny. As they drew closer, that pain below my ribs began to needle its way into my gut. From across the way, I saw Spivey staring at me. He mouthed the word “faggot.” The gnawing sensation in my abdomen was begging me to massage it, but I didn’t dare make a move as they approached.

  “Spinelli, what the hell are you doing here?” asked Mendola.

  Immediately, I looked to Bill for assistance.

  “I drove him up here,” said Bill. “You knuckleheads left him behind on Friday.”

  “No, we didn’t,” countered Spivey. “I heard Mr. Castro ask Spinelli if he had a ride.”

  Bill looked directly at me. “Is that true?”

  “Well . . .” I said, “I decided to go at the last minute, but they didn’t have any room left in any of the cars.”

  “What a fucking crock of shit,” interjected Spivey. Mendola and Metheny burst into hysterics.

  “All right, enough,” said Bill. “Let’s pack up the truck and get out of here.” The others began stacking their knapsacks and equipment into the storage shed. When Bill noticed my knapsack up against his truck, he looked over at me and then charged like a bull. Grabbing my arm, he said, “What is that filthy knapsack doing against my truck?”

  Confused, I muttered, “It’s mine.”

  “I know whose it is,” he continued, his face just inches from mine. “I want to know who told you to put it there.”

  I didn’t have an answer.

  Other boys began to circle around us like seagulls at the dump. I caught a glimpse of Spivey’s eyes, gleaming with conceit. “You’re one fucking disrespectful Scout,” he said. Walking over to where my knapsack was, he lifted it effortlessly with one hand. “You got some nerve leaning this shitty-ass pack against your Scoutmaster’s truck.” The other boys concurred.

  Bill was staring straight into my eyes. He seemed to look right through me. And all at once, I realized he wasn’t the same person who tried to befriend me on the ride up to camp. He was someone else, or worse, he was pretending not to be my friend because he didn’t want these boys to think he liked me. I started to think there were two Bills: the one who was being mean to me now, and the one who wanted to teach me to be a man. But it also seemed like the world was made up of two different types of boys—the ones who liked me, like Jonathan, and the others who hated me, like Chris Spivey and Seth Connelly. How Bill fit into this world made no sense to me at that moment.

  “Wait,” cried Spivey. “And what do we have here?” He now pointed to the hole in the bottom of my knapsack. First he poked his finger into it; then within seconds he’d forced his entire hand inside. I felt humiliated in front of the other boys as he rummaged around the inside of my knapsack. The pain below my ribs flared up at that very second. More boys gathered around to laugh along with him. He was creating quite a show. Even Bill was amused.

  “Hey, you guys, look at this,” announced Spivey, wrenching the frying pan through the now-gaping hole. Spivey discarded my knapsack on the ground like a piece of trash and waved the frying pan overhead like a trophy.

  “I heard of pulling a rabbit out of a hat, but you’ve really gone and done it this time, Spivey.” Mendola laughed.

  “By Jove, I think I’ve got it,” said Spivey with an English accent. “Hey, Spinelli, were you planning on frying up your balls with this thing?”

  “All right, enough,” said Bill.

  Spivey ignored Bill and charged directly toward me. “Seriously, I could just clobber you over the head with this thing,” continued Spivey.

  “I said enough!” barked Bill. “Let’s get moving. We’ve wasted enough time already. Spivey and Mendola, you both ride up front with me. The rest of you clowns get in the back.” I turned to Bill, bewildered by the exchange that had just taken place. Even though I was thoroughly humiliated, a part of me still thought Bill was going to make things right. Before he turned away, he stared down at me again and asked, “Are you waiting for your own personal invitation, Spinelli?”

  That was all it took. I knew my place.

  I filed in line with the others and headed around to the back of the truck. Spivey surprised me and came around the other side. The moment I turned the corner, he hit me square in the face with his fist. I stumbled back in shock. Only Metheny saw the whole thing, but he did not intervene. I distinctly remember hearing Bill call out Spivey’s name, but Spivey didn’t flinch. Instead, he just stared at me with those piercing blue eyes of his, running his hand through his long blond hair. I was in shock. I rubbed my cheek and suppressed the urge to cry. A self-assured expression came over Spivey’s face. He knew I would never tell. In the span of those several seconds, I wondered why he hated me so much. I held his stare, petrified that he was going to hit me again, but he didn’t.

  I NEVER TOLD ANYONE ABOUT THE CONVERSATION I HAD WITH BILL, not even Jonathan. I didn’t know what to think, especially after the way Bill treated me in front of the other boys that Sunday afternoon. It was bewildering that Bill could act one way with me when we were alone and, then, completely different when we were around those other boys. Unfortunately, I now had more important things to worry about. I was scared to death that Spivey was going to hurt me again.

  That following Tuesday night at Boy Scouts, we were assigned to breakout sessions. I was sitting with a small group, listening to Mr. Castro discuss hypothermia. Bill surprised me by coming up from behind and hoisting me off the floor. “Everyone,” he shouted. “This is a bear hug. It’s a great way to immobilize your opponent.” I was suffocating under the strain of Bill’s massive arms against my rib cage. The pain was so intense I thought he was going to snap me in two. “Had enough?” he shouted in my ear. Unable to speak, I nodded violently. “Okay,” he said. Then he set me down. I crumpled onto the floor gasping for breath. “Good man, Spinelli,” said Bill, extending his hand out to me. I took it, and he pulled me effortlessly onto my feet.

  Leaning in, he whispered, “You’re scheduled for your first Scoutmaster meeting this Thursday. I’ll expect you at my house at eight o’clock. Have your father drop you off by eight and not a minute later.” Then he released my hand and walked away.

  CHAPTER 19

  Making Tender foot

  I ARRIVED AT BILL’S HOUSE ALMOST FIVE MINUTES EARLY ON THURSDAY EVENING. It was dark and muggy on his front porch. Crickets were chirping in the grass. I heard footsteps, then Bill opened the door, and a stream of yellow light flooded the porch. Standing behind the screen door, his massive silhouette was anything but inviting. Before I went inside, I reluctantly waved good-bye to my father as he drove away.

  Inside, Bill’s house felt stuffy and smelled like the time we visited my mother’s friend Nella at the nursing home. Her room had the distinct aroma of boiled potatoes and cabbage. I followed Bill into the living room, where he instructed me to sit on the couch.

  “I have some business to finish downstairs,” he said. “I’ll be back in a few minutes. Wait here.”

  I placed my book bag on the floor and took off my sweatshirt. That was when I noticed an old woman with curly gray hair and a pale, sagging face sitting in a reclining chair in her nightgown. With a crocheted
blanket over her legs, she was parked inches from the television, watching The Newlywed Game. Bill neglected to introduce us, but I assumed she was his mother.

  I took it upon myself to say hello, but she never responded, even during a commercial. She just quietly stared at the screen. I wondered whether she was senile or demented, like my Uncle Salvatore. Often when we visited him, he would sit in front of the television and laugh. Sometimes he laughed at the television even when it wasn’t on. But Mrs. Fox wasn’t laughing. She was sitting there as though I was invisible.

  My eyes wandered around their living room, which was decorated in early American style. The walls were paneled. There was a trophy case next to the television. An American flag hung on the far wall, next to a plaque of a bald eagle holding another American flag in its mouth. There were faded doilies on the end tables and sofa. The curtains were made from heavy, dark plaid fabric, and everywhere there was a faint smell of mildew. Even Mrs. Fox looked like an old fixture that hadn’t been moved in years, collecting layers of dust. Looking around that room, I wondered what my mother would have said if she was with me. She would have never sat down on that couch.

  In the trophy case there were three rows of glass shelves, each stacked with various awards, plaques, and medals Bill had earned. There was even a black-and-white photograph of Bill accepting a medal of honor in his police uniform. I learned from Jonathan that the Foxes were an Irish Catholic family made up of three sons and one daughter. Bill’s father, now deceased, had been a security guard. All of Bill’s brothers were policemen, and even Bill’s sister, Wendy, had married a cop.

  The Newlywed Game ended, and another game show began. The longer I sat there, the more concerned I was that something was wrong. I wondered whether I had been forgotten. To keep me occupied, I recited the Scout Oath over and over in my head. Once Bill had confirmed our private meeting, I began reading through the Boy Scout Handbook in order to prepare. Tenderfoot was the next level after Scout. To achieve this rank, a Scout had to meet several requirements, including reciting from memory the Scout Oath, Law, and Motto. A Scout had to spend at least one night on a troop campout and participate in a Scoutmaster conference. This meeting with Bill appeared perfectly legitimate, yet something was troubling me.

  Moving up the ranks to Eagle Scout was the single most important part of being a Boy Scout. Yet I had no interest in becoming an Eagle Scout. In fact, I didn’t even care about Tenderfoot. All I wanted to do was collect merit badges. I was obsessed with them. These small, circular pieces of cloth, embroidered with colorful logos, fascinated me. I loved the look and feel of them, and I loved wearing them. When Josephine was younger, she had been a Girl Scout. She earned many merit badges and wore them on a sash across her chest. Whenever she came home from meetings, I stared at them with envy. When she went out to play, I would sneak into her bedroom, steal the sash from her drawer, and wear it as I waved at myself in the mirror like Miss America. If anything excited me about Boy Scouts, it was the prospect of owning merit badges.

  After nearly an hour, I heard the basement door open. The room suddenly filled with voices. One by one, they filed past me on their way out the front door: James Mendola, Stanley Metheny, and Chris Spivey. An unsettling panic came over me. My worst nightmare had come true. Bill followed closely behind. When Mendola saw me sitting in the living room, he stopped abruptly, pointed, and erupted with laughter. Metheny collided into him, and this set off a domino effect as Spivey came up behind them, until they were all standing there, looking at me from the foyer. Metheny and Mendola continued laughing uncontrollably, but not Spivey. He was staring at me with a mixture of astonishment and hatred. Instantly, I felt that twang of pain below my ribs. “Good night, guys,” said Bill sternly as he ushered them quickly toward the front door.

  Spivey craned his neck around and stared at Bill with a confused expression. Then, before he was out the door, I detected a wistful look in his eyes, an uncharacteristically wounded expression, one I thought Spivey incapable of. Ignoring him, Bill proceeded to rush them outside. When they were finally gone, I heaved a heavy sigh of relief.

  “Okay, you ready, Spinelli?” asked Bill.

  I got up and followed him up the stairs. Looking back, I saw Mrs. Fox remained catatonic, in her own world and indifferent to everything that was going on around her, just like a trophy in that glass case.

  Upstairs, Bill’s large bedroom was divided in half, with a home office by the entrance and a bed in the far corner. The walls were paneled in the same dark wood as the living room. Over his bed was a poster of Farrah Fawcett wearing an orange bathing suit. Bill motioned for me to sit in the chair beside his gunmetal-gray desk. He switched on a small green desk lamp, and that was when I saw his gun.

  Bill sat down and held out his hand. “Okay, let me have your Boy Scout Handbook,” he said. I pulled it out of my knapsack and gave it to him. Bill began flipping through the pages. I kept staring at the gun, wondering whether it was loaded. Once he found the section he was looking for, he laid my handbook on the desk and turned it around so I could read it. “See here?” He pointed. “This is the section I was referring to the other day. Do you remember what we talked about?”

  “Yes.”

  “Read this,” he said.

  The title of the section was Sexual Responsibility. My eyes scanned the page, but there was no mention of jerking off or boy bonding. Instead, it was a warning against premarital sex. As an eleven-year-old, I didn’t see how this had anything to do with me. Once I was done reading, I looked up at Bill, still confused. He read my expression and stood up. I watched him walk to the other side of the room. On the wall next to his bed was a bookcase. Bill rummaged behind the books and fished out several magazines. Laying them on the bed, he began flipping through the pages. “Come here,” he said.

  I slowly made my way across the room. Farrah Fawcett’s eyes seemed to follow me from the poster. Her smile was like no other I’d seen. Too many teeth, I thought to myself. When I reached Bill, I noticed the magazines on his bed contained photographs of naked men and women. The black-and-white pictures were faded. Some of the pages were torn. “You see here?” he said, pointing to a picture of a woman holding a man’s penis. “Do you know what she’s doing?”

  I shrugged.

  “She’s jerking him off,” he said. “Come here and sit down next to me. I’ll show you more.”

  Bill continued to turn the pages, revealing more and more graphic depictions of sex. There were several photographs of naked men and women kissing. There were close-ups of erect penises. I had no idea that penises came in so many different sizes and shapes. When Bill flipped over to the next page, there was a photograph of a blonde with her mouth on a man’s penis. I remember thinking she wasn’t very pretty, not like Farrah Fawcett. Bill tapped this photo with his finger. “See that?” he said, smiling.

  I nodded.

  Just then, my left leg began to spasm so uncontrollably that I felt the need to grab it so that it would stop bobbing up and down. Bill reached over and placed his hand on mine. “It’s okay,” he whispered. “Don’t worry. That’s natural.” He stared at me for what felt like a very long time. His eyes once again seemed to look right through me, but unlike the haunting stare that petrified me on the last hiking trip, this time his eyes seemed to penetrate my soul. His attention was unlike any other I had experienced, and I felt comforted by his tender touch.

  Bill set the magazines aside and placed my hand on his groin. I was surprised, but I wasn’t afraid. It’s difficult to remember how I felt exactly. I recall only images, like snapshots from a movie: Mrs. Fox sitting in her reclining chair like a frozen statue, the gun on Bill’s desk, Farrah Fawcett in her orange bathing suit, the woman in the magazine holding the man’s penis in her mouth, Bill standing up to remove his pants, the photograph of Bill receiving a medal of honor, dark black pubic hair, my hand wet with milky fluid, and finally, me, sitting in Bill’s truck as he drove me back home.

  Inside my hou
se, I closed the door and leaned against it. In the darkness of the foyer, I heard my mother call out, “Frank, is that you? Don’t forget to lock the door.”

  I stood there for several minutes more, replaying the events that had just taken place and thinking the whole thing was wrong but not knowing why. If I had been able to run upstairs and explain to my parents what had just happened with the same conviction I used to convince them to buy me that Evel Knievel action figure and Scramble Van, then I think my whole life would have turned out differently.

  ONE WEEK LATER, BILL SHOWED UP AT MY HOUSE UNANNOUNCED. I was watching television in the den when I heard my mother cry out from the kitchen upstairs. Her voice was shrill and hysterical, as if she had just won the lottery. “Frank, Bill’s here!” I stood up and walked to the front door. There he was, parked outside, waiting. He leaned out the passenger side window, smiled, and waved me over to him. My mother hurried down the stairs, holding my jacket in her hands. She slipped it on me, zipped it up the front, and said, “Go with him, but be back in time for dinner.”

  Bill drove to a hardware store. Soon after we entered, a man wearing an apron that read DAN’S HARDWARE strolled up and asked whether we needed help. Was he Dan? Bill described what he was looking for, and the man took us to a display of light bulbs and fixtures. As Bill made his selection, the man winked at me. He was bald with white skin and a purple birthmark over his left temple. “Are you helping your dad change lights today?” he asked.

  Bill laughed and handed the man two switches and a dimmer. “We’ll take these,” he said. Then Bill put his arm around my shoulder, and we followed the man to the front of the store. I thought it was peculiar that Bill didn’t correct him. As we reached the cash register, I wondered what it would be like if Bill were my dad. Would we run errands, go camping with the Boy Scouts, and then look at dirty magazines when we were alone? Was that what other fathers did with their sons? I didn’t think so.