Drink Bud Dry. Play darts and pool.
"Vi" was short for Vivian, his girlfriend of four years from Yale. Vi had
stayed in Chicago for the summer, where she was getting her Ph.D. in
Psychology from Loyola of Chicago. CODASCO was short-hand for The Country
Day School, St. Louis' most exclusive college preparatory academy that
prided itself on feeding students to the Ivy League. Like I said, it was
snappy.
Rather than respond by memorandum, I used the switchboard to telephone
John's office.
"John Frederick," he answered.
"Not John C. Frederick the Third?" I asked.
"No. That seems haughty."
"And, John Frederick doesn't?"
"No."
"Well, John Frederick, this is Mason Davis," I said, adopting the most
formal tone I could. "Regarding your memorandum, I have considered it and
am willing to participate in your alternative plan."
"Excellent, Carrot," he said. "If I do not see you beforehand, I will meet
you in the lobby at 5:30 on Friday, two days hence."
I was excited all day on Friday. So far, I had spent summer weekends at
home. I did not want to hang out with people from high school, and my
college friends had scattered after graduation to careers or graduate
schools.
When we got to John's University City apartment that night, he made two
gins and tonic, announced he was going to shower before changing, and
suggested I put music on. I changed into shorts and a t-shirt and started
combing through the CDs stacked on the floor next to the stereo. I settled
on "You and Me Both" from Yaz, skipping to the "Mr. Blue" track.
As Allison Moyet sang about the winter sounds crying and an old man slowly
dying, John stepped out of the bathroom in white boxers, toweling his hair.
"How did you know?" he asked.
"Know what?" I asked back.
"This was my favorite song in college?"
"I didn't. But, it was mine, too."
"Well, that is quite a coincidence, indeed" he suggested, stepping back
into the bathroom.
It was. Actually, it was quite a coincidence that we were together,
planning a night out. Nothing in our backgrounds suggested our paths would
cross. The 25 miles between his childhood home and mine were, in reality, a
chasm.
John looked much younger without his glasses. And, he was thicker and more
muscled than I expected. He was carrying a little extra weight around his
mid-section, but his arms, back, and chest were more muscled than they
appeared when he was suited up for work.
John was also hairier than I expected, his chest covered with the same
straight brown hair that covered his head. The hair was especially thick in
the middle of his chest, where it formed a trail that traced his stomach
and disappeared into his boxers.
"Talk with me while I dress," John said. I followed him through the
apartment, which consisted of a series of rooms you had to walk through to
get to the next. It went living room, kitchen, bedroom, bedroom. The first
bedroom was empty. John slept in the second bedroom, on a mattress and box
springs directly on the floor. The second bedroom was an add-on above a
porch. It had no windows, but plenty of wood panelling.
"This seems pretty grim," I offered.
"Not at all. I love to sleep, and this room is like a tomb. I started in
the first bedroom, but it was too bright. I do not even know what time it
is back here."
"What does the C stand for?" I asked.
"It is a bit much."
"Coitus?"
"No, Carrot, my middle name is not coitus."
"Cunnilingus?"
"Yes, you guessed it. My mother loved oral sex so much, she put it in my
name."
"Good for her. Very avant guard. But, it doesn't seem very blue blooded to
me. It seems a bit base."
"My middle name, Carrot, which you are not share with anyone at work, is
'Chester.'"
"As in 'the child molester?" I asked, laughing.
"No, as in Vera Winfield Chester, my mother's maiden name."
"I guess it's better than 'Winfield,'" I said. "Still, 'John Chester
Frederick the Third' seems like a lot of name for a little boy to carry
around and up to which to live." John was a grammarian, so I was working on
mine. Hard.
"It is."
"Does your family call you Trip or Trey?" I asked.
"No, they call me Jo. My dad is John, so I am Jo."
"You call yourself John at work," I observed.
"I like it better. Only my family calls me Jo. J-O Jo seems like a woman,
to me."
I decided then and there that I would call him Jo. As I thought about it a
bit, "Jo" became "Jo C," which then became "Josie."
We took John's blue Cherokee to Blueberry Hill. As he drove, I explained
that I would call him Josie going forward.
"As in Josie and the Pussycats?" he asked.
"No, as in Jo C. Frederick the Third."
"I am not sure I like it."
"Well, I'm not sure I like being called Carrot," I reminded him.
"Touche . . . Carrot."
Mark and Jennifer were already at the Hill, playing darts. They were
lovers. John had dated Jennifer in high school, and she had taken his
cherry. But, they had broken up when he went to Yale, and Mark had stepped
in to fill the void. They had been together since.
John eschewed his glasses for contacts that night. With John's eyes no
longer obscured by his silver, wired frames, I noticed two things. One,
while his eyes were bright blue, they were flecked with silver. Two, he had
the longest eyelashes I had ever seen. They looked fake.
We drank way too much for way too long. Somehow, we made it across town
safely. We stumbled drunk up the stairs to John's apartment, which was on
the third floor of a house.
"You are welcome to stay," John offered.
"I don't think I have a choice, Josie," I slurred. "I don't think I could
find my car, much less drive it."
As John fumbled around in the bathroom, I stepped out of my shorts, pulled
off my shirt, settled onto the couch, and pulled the throw over me. I was
nearly asleep when John shook me.
"This will not do," he said. "It will be too bright come morning. Stay with
me. There is plenty of room."
I followed John to his room. He undressed as we walked, dropping his shirt
and his shorts along the way. We passed out as soon as we hit the bed.
John was right. The room was a tomb. When I woke up the next day, it was
pitch dark, and I had no idea what time it was. John was still asleep, and
I needed water. I sneaked out of the room and to the kitchen, where I
discovered it was already past noon. My parents were going to be worried,
so I found John's telephone and called them. I got the answering machine,
so I didn't have to explain much, other than that I was fine and would be
home later.
I took water for John back to the bedroom. I left the door open, so I could
see enough to put the water down without spilling it. The light cut across
John's body, and I could see that he was sporting morning -- technically
afternoon -- wood. He looked th
ick.
John woke up when I settled back into bed. "Good morning, Carrot."
"Good morning, Josie. I put water on the floor for you."
"So thoughtful," he said, rolling over, grabbing it, and gulping it down.
The people in the apartment below were playing dreadful music (James
Taylor) loud enough that we were unlikely to fall back asleep. John rolled
onto his right side, looked at me, and said "tell me about yourself,
Carrot."
So, I did. In summary fashion, hitting the lowlights. It was a relatively
grimy story until I headed off to Wash U and started to make my way.
"You mentioned three siblings, but talked only about two."
"My youngest sister died in a car accident on her way home from school a
little over a year ago," I admitted. "It's still hard to talk about."
John grabbed my arm. It was the first time he had touched me, and I felt a
jolt. "I am sorry to hear that," he said. "I have never lost anyone. I
suspect it is terribly painful."
"It is," I said, noticing that his hand was still on my arm. "It's always
there, stalking you. You can be bomping along, not a care in the world, and
a song comes on, or someone is wearing her perfume, and a feeling of
sadness and loss grabs you and just overwhelms you."
"Come here," John said, rolling me into him and wrapping his left arm
around me. My head was in his chest, and his chin was on my head. I could
still smell the Calvin on his neck. I had never had a homosexual urge (at
least that I recalled), but I had a strong desire to kiss his chest. Before
I did anything stupid, John released me and rolled onto his back.
"I am sorry for bringing her up," he said. "But, I am glad to know. It
explains a lot."
I raised my eyebrows, silently asking "what?"
"There's something going on behind your eyes most of the time. Even when
you are enjoying yourself, there is something holding you back, lurking.
And, you get lost a lot."
"Lost?"
"Yes. It is like you drift away. You are there, but you are not."
We stayed in bed for awhile, not talking, just relaxing and listening to
the bad music. I finally broke the peace.
"So, tell me about yourself."
"There is not much to tell. I am an only child. My parents were older when
I was born. I have lived a great life. I went to great schools. I have
traveled to great places. Your life is totally alien to me. I would not
have wanted to live it."
"You know, each experience makes us who we are. I wouldn't want to re-live,
but I like my life today, and I like where I'm headed. So, maybe it was all
worth it."
"Maybe."
I changed the subject. "I require sustenance. And, this 'suicide' music is
bringing me down even farther than our talk. If we don't get up, I may do
something drastic."
"Well, we do not want that," John responded. We got up, dressed, and headed
to Steak 'n Shake to get greasy burgers to soak up some of the alcohol that
was poisoning us.
Part Three
>From that point on, John and I were inseparable. We visited each other
throughout the day at work, and we routinely hung out after work. Flush,
John had almost no concept of money, and my desire to spend time with him
unwound me a little. I stopped caring about bar tabs and admission fees. I
just paid whatever it cost to be his running mate.
He took me to dinner at his house. It was a sprawling two story, and John
had the second floor all to himself. The decorating was impeccable. The
lawn was impeccable. Every room was huge. My family's apartment would have
fit in the suite John called his bedroom.
"Did you grow up here?"
"Yes. My parents have lived here forever, since long before I was born."
"Did you always have this floor to yourself?"
"I will answer, if you promise not to laugh."
"I promise."
"No. Until I was 13, my nanny lived down the hall."
"Oh . . . my . . . God. You had a nanny? You really are John Chester
Frederick the Third."
"Let's talk about something else. What is it like to be one of the poors?"
I darted across the room and tackled John backward onto the bed. We tussled
a little before heading back downstairs.
*****
John explored my thoughts and dreams more than anyone else ever had. And,
he laughed at my reticence. If you asked John if he favored the death
penalty, he would cogitate and explain for some time before allowing you to
know his ultimate view. I was the opposite. I said "Yes" or "No" and forced
you to force me to explain why or why not. I did not volunteer my thoughts
freely. You had to work for them.
I stayed at his apartment the following Friday, too. Like the week before,
we were stumbling drunk by the time we were undressing for bed.
"I do not think I know anyone who wears briefs anymore," he said, as I
undressed for bed.
"I think it's a class thing," I offered. "The rich wear boxers. The rest
wear briefs."
"Yours leave little to the imagination."
"Yeah, sorry about that," I said, embarrassed.
"You seem, how shall I put this . . . disproportionate."
"It's genetic," I explained.
"It is impressive."
I was uncomfortable. "I think we should stop talking about my penis," I
offered. "And get some sleep."
Like the Saturday before, I had no idea what time it was when we woke up.
As we lay there talking, drinking water and popping Tylenol, John
encouraged me to move in for the rest of the summer.
"It seems dreadful to drive to and fro every day. I have an unused room.
You can have it if you want it."
It was an easy decision for me. We retrieved my twin bed and stuff that
afternoon. I was settled in by supper.
We ate on the living room floor, listened to music (John did not own a TV),
and talked.
"You know," I said, "you don't use contractions when you talk."
"I know. I was taught they are a lazy shortcut. I have never used them."
"Not using them makes you sound prissy."
"Prissy?" he asked.
"Yes, prissy."
"I do not think I have ever been called 'prissy' before."
"I didn't call you prissy," I reminded him. "I said you sound prissy. Not
'remarkably normal.'"
John smiled at the reminder and then sarcastically offered, "Well, Carrot,
we cannot all be remarkably normal. Some of us have to be exceptional."
John left his door open that night, so we could talk as we settled in to
sleep. Still, it was difficult, as conversational volume was not audible
room to room. Frustrated, John demanded "get in here if you are going to
talk to me." I got up and moved to his bed, sitting on the edge as we
extended the day. The next morning, I moved back to his bed, so we could
talk while we had coffee.
That night, John stopped me when I stood to return to my bed to sleep. "You
should just stay in here."
"You sure?"
"Yes. All of this back and forth seems pointless."
I slid under the sheet and drifted off. The next morning, I woke up first,
which meant I was re
sponsible for coffee. When I returned to the bedroom
with two cups, I noticed John's boxers on the floor.
"Are you naked?" I asked.
"I am."
"Why?"
"I sleep naked. I slept in boxers when I knew you were going to sleep with
me. I did not know last night that you were going to sleep with me."
"You were naked the whole night?" I asked, surprised.
"I was. But, I put a pillow between us, so there was no danger of you
getting dicked in the night."
"Dicked?"
"Yeah. At school, you got 'dicked' when a male brushed his dick up against
you, whether advertently or inadvertently."
"Were there chicks with dicks at Yale?" I asked.
"No. And, that is not a remarkably normal question."
"Well, you said 'when a male brushed his dick up against you,' which
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