So we’re sitting on Jamison’s bed after school one night and the door is wide open. Of course. The door thing was A Really Big Deal to his dad. We were talking about my paper and Jamison is thinking. I never know what that boy is going to come up with. “So, in Sesame Street,” he finally says, “do you think that maybe Ernie’s rubber ducky wasn’t the only one making bath time lots of fun?” I laughed so hard I almost fell on the floor, but his dad always yelled at us if we lay down. “It’s true they never propagated, right? Never had girlfriends or babies?”
I nodded. “Get serious,” I said.
“No, no. Listen. I am serious. Now take Bugs Bunny; he’s probably gay or he’d have had bunnies all over, right? Because rabbits, they…”
“Yeah, like rabbits, I know.”
“Stop interrupting me. Did you ever notice all Bugs Bunny’s cross-dressing and the times he kissed his enemies? Didn’t you ever wonder if his burrow isn’t the only rabbit hole he’s going in?”
This time I did fall on the floor but I was laughing so hard that his dad didn’t even bother to call upstairs. Which was cool because Jamison lay down beside me and we kissed for a long time. I love him so much, and not only because he’s a great kisser. That too, but he makes me laugh, he gets my jokes, and he makes me feel like I’m a good person, better than I feel when I’m by myself. If only I could be that person that he makes me feel I am, whether I’m with him or not.
That night after I went home I worked long and hard (keep quiet) on my paper. I never did offer a way that this could happen, however. Make the devil work overtime? I dunno. It’s not our fault there’s too many people in the world. We’re not the ones having babies; that’s the straight people. Maybe Mr. Marshall will like my paper anyhow. Maybe he’ll say he’s not making babies either and then, well, no. Shut up. You love Jamison, I had to remind myself. Yes, I love Jamison, but I can look, can’t I? I had no idea if Mr. Marshall has a wife and a dozen kids or if he had a loft somewhere full of expensive furniture, top of the line cookware, and a boyfriend.
Listen to me and my stereotyping. I did add to my paper that Bugs Bunny’s cross-dressing didn’t mean he was gay. Sexuality and gender are two different things, I wrote. Sexuality is between the legs; gender is between the ears. Doesn’t that sound great? Well, it should. It’s true. I read it on the internet myself.
And don’t think I don’t “get it” because he makes me hard as hell too and I want…want to do something about that. With him. Without getting caught. But the door is open and there’s a big part of me (don’t start, I know what you’re thinking) that likes it that way too. It’s—I dunno—safer? In some way that I don’t have at home. Jamison’s dad is watching out for us. He cares. And that’s much more important than twenty minutes (okay, two or three at our age) of pleasure.
Chapter 4: That Goth Girl
Sometime right after Thanksgiving, our next door neighbors did a flit. That is, they left in the middle of the night to avoid paying the rent. We live on a decent enough street of small, mostly two-story homes, but they’re cheaply made, and it’s hard to find something for a family that’s not in a bad neighborhood. So it was only a week later when a new family moved in.
There were the parents, an elderly uncle or something, and the girl. The girl was about my age and even rode the same school bus as me. I smiled at her as we waited for it with the other kids, snow falling around us, real winter yet to come. I thought of her as “That Goth Girl.” We were both pretty shy and of course I was always thinking of Jamison; so we didn’t talk. Nobody did; we all ignored each other and pretended we didn’t know exactly what kind of neighborhood we came from, decent sort of, but not really nice, and that we also didn’t know what kind of home life some of us had. Let’s just say our walls were thin and our houses were close together. We knew when someone’s dad was drunk or when someone’s mother was screaming her lungs out over some omission of chores. We had to all pretend it wasn’t like that, so nobody could or would acknowledge anybody else. Maybe we should have; maybe we could have helped each other, I didn’t know and now with Jamison in my life, I didn’t care.
I cared enough to stop a few fights when they started, and to make sure nobody was verbally abusive, like we’d all grown up with. Hanging around Jamison and his father was giving me a whole new way to think and to act. I guess what they had was class, and I wanted to be like that too.
Anyhow, the new girl was far before—or maybe—after her time, in the way she stood, what she wore, and how she did her make-up. It wasn’t exactly hippies or Emo, but more like something a little past James Dean and beatniks and things like that. She did Goth her own way, like nobody I’d ever seen before. I called it “nonconforming to the rules of nonconformity.” I admired her for that, but of course, I had other things on my mind.
Like I said, she lived right next door to me and I knew what she had at home; bloody fucking nothing, just like the rest of us. Oh sure, my parents cared a lot, at least my mom did and my dad tried, well, more like pretended, to do what he could, but he didn’t know how anyhow. When I’d had my appendix out I’d been more scared of their finding out I was gay than of their not supporting me physically. Well, that’s sort of what I mean but not quite. Maybe it was a matter of class; my mother wanted to live the way she’d been brought up, but there was my dad on the couch in his underwear. So, like that.
So, the bus stop; we’d all stand there; everyone a foot apart or more, shivering, kicking slush with our sneakers—oh yeah, everyone’s mom had said, wear your boots, but nobody did. Except for her; but I suspected she’d wear them all summer too. I held onto that thought; it was the kind of thing Jamison would chuckle about.
I’m not sure any of us knew anything at all personal about anyone else, except for those whose houses were so close they could hear the screaming, shouting, even the hitting—and the crying of course. And sometimes see the beer cans and wine bottles falling out of the top of the trash cans, yeah. And in a few cases—smell the marijuana smoke coming off the back porch.
Since our bedroom windows were right across from each other’s, I knew her life like I knew my own. I may as well have known her my whole life, after a few short weeks, even better than I knew Jamison. As a matter of fact, her life was more similar to mine than mine was to Jamison’s. Hers hardly differed from mine at all. And though I wasn’t exactly into girls whatsoever, I felt drawn to her in a way that I can’t explain, except that it wasn’t sexual at all. She intrigued me, but I still wasn’t brave enough to speak to her. Especially not with all the other kids around, and my parents behind me, behind closed doors. I had enough secrets to hide as it was.
Chapter 5: Showtime
Now, the elderly relative, whom she called Uncle Tom, occupied the attic, with a window right above hers. I could see him all the time up there. She always had her curtains drawn, but he never did. Maybe there weren’t any. Anyhow, this particular day he was in his attic dressing up in what must have been his wife’s old clothes again, or something he’d bought from a thrift store.
I could see him through his small attic window because I was sitting on our roof. There’s usually no particular reason for me to be out here—up here, but sometimes, at least before Jamison came into my life, I really didn’t care if I lived or died; so I would let fate decide. I admit that there was a tiny bit of I’ll die, then they’ll be sorry to it. I guess I was depressed, and since I’m not the kind to go kill everyone, or anyone really, either here or at school, that didn’t leave much wiggle room. Nor did my seat up here. I admit, there was also a very spectacular view and it helped me see beyond my present circumstances, which many times had seemed like a prison. It was very freeing is what I guess I’m trying to say.
I was up here today for a different reason. Dad wanted me to put the Christmas lights up. For a family without much on the inside, he sure wanted the neighbors to think we had a lot going for us. Appearance is everything, I guess. We weren’t the only ones with lights up every
year.
And the view, yes. Besides Uncle Tom, whom I am amused by nowadays instead of merely idly curious about, I can see over the tall fence behind us into Miss Mack’s yard. She’s our history teacher at school, and she is hot. And she has a hot tub on her glassed in porch and wears a tiny bikini. Not that I care, but sometimes she has Mr. Marshall, our English teacher whom I’ve mentioned previously, over, and he is very hot. Him I care about. Let’s just say that from their actions, or rather interactions, I can finally tell that he’s straight. They both are. Very straight. So now I know. If I could close one eye and watch with the other, so to speak, that would be perfect. Plus, ever since he’d had Jamison sit next to me, I had the thought that Mr. Marshall liked me. As a person, that’s all, but still, it was nice to think that.
And then ta-da, on the other side we have Michael and Donald, who told everyone they were brothers. They aren’t. The only other yard or house I can see into belongs to the Rosens and their daughter Sparky, who is a dragon. She goes to my school, and she has a major crush on Jamison, but he’s mine. She has a slingshot and knows how to use it. In her spare time she teaches pit bulls and Rottweilers to behave—by staring at them until they cower. She’s about my age and has only given up trying to steal my girlfriends because I have quit trying to pretend I have any. She is the only person who knows I come up here at other times than putting up Christmas lights, though, as attested to by the number of marbles and ball bearings, her preferred ammo, in the roof gutter near me, and the occasional bruise when one hits me. Oh, did Jamison laugh at me the first time he saw bruises on my ass and I told him how they got there.
Uncle Tom has a microphone out now and is performing. The purple feather boa is a nice touch, and he has Goth Girl’s delicate black feather purse over his shoulder. She’ll be pissed. I’m going to bring my camera up here next time. And holy cow, there’s another show going on by the hot tub. Uh…I hope they’re using protection…well, yes, yes they are—he is. Good for you, Mr. Marshall. I wonder if my paper gave him the idea? Must be the—how big do those things come? I mean…oh. Oh. Let me slide over here a little bit…oooh, fuh, nooo…
Little help here? One minute I’m sitting watching the show (the X-rated one) and the next I’m hanging upside down with the edge of the drain pipe caught in what’s left of my jeans, damn, my best pair, but hey, the alternative is me on my head on the ground, okay? I’m cool with the jeans being ruined. My reputation however…and the lights. The strings of lights are only half hung on the hooks, some of which are already ripping out, one by one, very slowly, and the rest of the lights are wrapped around my neck and other vital, and sensitive, areas.
I must have whimpered or called out or screamed my lungs out because all the various performances have stopped, as far as I can tell since everything is upside down now. All I can hear are funny little snorting sounds that sound like laughter, whimpering (that’s me), and ripping (that’s my pants). Oh fuh…What fun, eh? And oh joy, another marble plunked into the gutter next to my face. So at least the little monster is aware of my plight. Oh good. And it’s starting to snow, or sleet. Whoopie. This day keeps getting better and better. At least Jamison isn’t here, or anyone else from my class.
Well, this is different from the joyous feeling of wind whipping through your hair and the sun on your upturned face and the expectation of pride and enjoyment of the colored lights on the eaves. This is Uncle Tom down below on a cell phone (at his age? wow), hysterical laughter of the girlish kind, dogs barking, and in the distance the faint happy sounds of sirens. Accompanied by the almost silent ripping of the back of my pants, the most terrifying sound of all.
Well, everyone is here now, and the fire truck has pulled up, also three police cars. And my parents have come outside. And neighbors I never knew we had. Some son of a…who is that? With the camera? Who isn’t would be a better question. Jamison isn’t here, but I’m sure he’ll get to see all of it on the six o’clock news. He’ll be sorry he wasn’t the one taking the photographs.
Rrriiiiipppp
Doors slamming. The smell of coffee. Some of those people (in the audience) are really enjoying the—oh—the show, like I was earlier. Hmm, there’s a lesson there somewhere, isn’t there? I’m sure I’ll enjoy (not) sharing all this with Jamison later. If I live.
Thank God I hadn’t seriously considered getting a tattoo that read, Property of Jamison, put on my butt. We’d joked about it once. Oh my God. That would be all I needed, for this, and my parents to find out I’m gay. Oh God. Silver lining in the cloud, huh? Note to self; this is why parents tell you to wear clean underwear every day because God forbid you should get caught hanging upside down off your roof and your pants tear.
The clang of a ladder. The boots of the fireman (is he hot?) Michael and Donald are smiling up at me. One is calling, “It’s okay,” and those are the only words I hear that get through. They’re holding hands. One of them bellows happily, “We’re getting married.” I’m glad someone’s happy. Heck, I’m glad someone’s “out.” I hope I live until the wedding. I could be the, what, patron of honor? Flower boy?
The fireman grabs me. He’s hot. He frees my pants. Riiiippp. I’m getting set onto the ladder, on my feet, my—my—I’m mooning the world. Note to self; is my underwear still clean? Down the ladder I go. Out of all the people there, it is Michael and Donald who reach me first. I’m still wrapped in the strings of lights. My father is going to be pissed. Right then I don’t give a rat’s ass what he thinks, though. Michael has a blanket that he and Donald wrap around me. Donald winks at me. Michael pinches my butt. Mom is crying. I think Dad is too—no, wait, he’s laughing. That—he’s—he’s inviting everyone in for coffee. Or more likely beer, I think snidely.
“Hotcha,” someone shouts. It’s Sparky, her slingshot in one hand and her cell phone in the other, capturing it all for posterity. Uncle Tom has suddenly realized he’s outside in a dress and heels. He flings the boa over one shoulder and strides off majestically. Sparky records it and sends it out over the airwaves, like she already has the video of me. Little brat. Goth Girl is watching silently from her porch, maybe afraid to be seen to care, or more likely, afraid to get her purple hair wet.
Speaking of posterior…as everyone is leaving, Michael says, “We want you to be our best man at our wedding.” My hot fireman says with a wink, “Well, that was more fun than a cat stuck in a tree,” and Mr. Marshall makes a face and says, “I hate kids,” and walks off with Miss Mack. There goes the idea that he likes me. My fifteen minutes of fame are, apparently, over.
Hurrah. I’m famous. All I want to do is go in the house and call Jamison on the phone, and cry.
So I go in, and my Dad is getting gloriously drunk with the neighbors, and I realize he can’t kill me and maintain the illusion of Happy Family at the same time. I smile and go upstairs to my room before I can cry in front of him. When I get up there I look across to the girl’s window, and she’s smiling and holding up a sign. It reads, My name is Carla, and you have a cute ass. Then when I smile, she holds up another one. But I have a girlfriend back home. She is laughing, and suddenly it’s as if the sun breaks through the clouds. I shut my window, get out my phone, and call Jamison before he can learn about me on the news.
* * * *
Nothing changed at the bus stop, but Christmas is coming and we all have more things to worry about. Like, I don’t know what to get my mom, what to get Jamison, how to spend as much of the holiday as I can at his house, or how to get through the time I have to spend here at home. What to get Wendell? That’s easy, everything he wants, because my folks are like fuck-all bothered by what any of us want. My dad, though I guess he cares, drowns his sorrows. Many years he has his brother, my uncle, who at least brings or sends a gift, or some guy he met at the bar over for the day because the poor man has nowhere to go. One time the guy he brought over showed me the loaded gun he had in his duffel bag. He stayed two nights. I slept in my brother’s room so the guy could have mine. I usually
had to anyhow, but this time it seemed like a good idea, just in case. You hear about things, and I’m the only one who feels protective, or at least, does anything protective, about my brother. Wendell, I mean. The oldest one, though he’s moved out, is still very much “there”—with me always being compared to him, to his benefit, and my loss.
And my folks are starting to get suspicious of my deep, dark secret. I don’t know what to do. If Dad ever asks me straight out, I don’t know if I can lie about it. I’m scared.
In the end I didn’t get anything for anyone but Wendell. My Dad came home with a trunk full of beer and said he couldn’t afford anything for any of us. I took my money and went out and bought the bike Wendell had been pining for. He’s nineteen and has never had one. Neither have I but I’m older, I mean, mentally older. I mean, I cared when I was a kid, so I know how he must feel, and he doesn’t even have the same understanding that I have of the importance of finances, and of beer.
Free Falling Page 3