A Gay Polyester High School Romance

by S. W. Ballenger

  “I’m glad.” He nodded. “And I thought about that night too and realized that I kinda took control. I didn’t even think about it at the time, that it might have made you feel less—”

  I stopped him knowing what he was going to say. “It didn’t make me feel like less of a dude. In fact,” I shrugged shyly, “I kinda liked it.”

  Brad’s eyes lit up. “Really?”

  “Just don’t start thinking I’m like your ‘girl’ or something.” I pointed at him and grinned. “‘Cause I’m a dude and I can still kick your ass.”

  “Oh, I know. Believe me! I know.” Brad laughed.

  The sound of a door slamming from the nearest building killed my smile. I automatically switched into defensive mode. The last thing we needed was for someone to overhear our conversation. Our lives would be over.

  Brad glanced over at the student now jogging across the campus.

  “We’ve got to be careful.” I looked at him, concerned.

  “I know.”

  I gazed skyward as a few flakes of snow began falling.

  He frowned. “When do you leave for Poughkeepsie?”

  “Tomorrow morning,” I said with dread in my voice. “I was hoping Mom would change her mind after I opened up to her, but she’s sticking to her guns.”

  “This is a total bummer,” Brad said. “I’m gonna miss you this weekend.”

  “Me too.” I hung my head, resigned to my fate.

  “I can call you,” he said as his face brightened. “Your grandparents have a phone, don’t they?”

  “Yeah.” I felt my spirits lift a little even if it were just for a brief phone call from Brad. “But it’s long distance, won’t John have a fit over the phone bill?”

  “Eh. I got some quarters; I’ll call you from the pay phone at the Jiffy Mart on the corner.” He shrugged. “What’s your grandfather’s name again, so I can ask the operator for the number?”

  “Ernest Bellums,” I replied.

  “Groovy,” he said with a smile. “You gonna be okay this weekend?”

  “Yeah. I’ll make it. I keep telling myself it’s only two days.” I sighed as I felt a snowflake land on my nose.

  Brad nodded and we made our way back to the cafeteria. I punched him playfully on the shoulder and he returned the punch.

  It felt good to have my Brad back.

  Thursday, December 6, 1973

  Dear Journal,

  I’ve been thinking about Brad all day. I can’t get him out of my mind. At first I felt guilty and ashamed of what we did in the Bahamas, but since I’ve talked to Mom and understand my feelings, I’m thinking of how great it felt. It’s not just the physical thing we did; it’s my feelings for him. I just want to be with him. I sound like some love-sick school girl, but the fact of the matter is: I love him. Several times today, when I found myself alone I’d say it out loud. “I have a boyfriend.” It’s hard to describe the feeling of shock I’d feel every time I’d say it, the closest way being like a wet snowball hitting you directly in the face, but in a good way.

  The fact is, Brad is truly my best friend and the person who knows me better than anyone else in the world. He knows what I like, what I don’t like, my habits, my interests, and we can practically read each other’s thoughts. I know Brad hates chocolate. Like who hates chocolate? He loves Star Trek, Planet of the Apes, or anything science fiction related like me. He’s fascinated by the most insignificant things like water stain patterns on the ceiling to the shape of a paperclip. He loves to go barefoot in the summertime like some country boy from Arkansas, while walking around saying “y’all” and “howdy” because he knows it makes me laugh.

  Brad has problems, mostly with his stepfather, but he also has issues from his real father just up and leaving one day when he was four years old. I really don’t know how to fix it other than be his friend and listen to him when he wants to talk about it. I’ve told Mom some of the things he has told me and she said it was “classic child abandonment symptoms” including his sometimes low self-esteem and intense fear of being alone. Mom tells me to reassure him that he’s not alone, which I do. The week we didn’t speak to each other I know had to be torture for him, but I was too wrapped up in my own problems to care at the time. It was a very selfish thing to do and I really feel bad about it now, but I know he’s forgiven me.

  Tomorrow begins my weekend of hell at Granddad and Granny Bellums’ farm. The only thing I’m looking forward to is talking to Brad on the phone.

  ~ Shawn

  Chapter Twelve

  The train squealed into Poughkeepsie around eleven in the morning. I grabbed my suitcase and made my escape from the mother who sat next to me with a screaming two-year-old in her lap.

  Waiting outside the station, the frigid wind cut through me like a knife, making me miss the warm beach of Nassau even more. Keeping my eyes focused on the road leading to the station and getting angrier by the moment, I waited impatiently for my grandparents to pick me up.

  A few minutes later, I spotted the old nineteen-forties Ford Pickup chugging toward me. The old man within it pressed against the steering wheel with both hands, holding it tightly, his eyes focused on the pavement ahead of him. Next to him sat a little sliver of a woman with her hair in a tight bun and a bright crocheted shawl draped around her thick woolen coat. I sighed at the sight of my antique grandparents, who I hadn’t seen in almost a year.

  I couldn’t help but think about the differences between my dad’s parents and my mom’s parents. While Grandpa and Grandma Stuart seemed young and vivacious, Granddad and Granny Bellums were old and settled in their ways. My mother was the youngest of the four children. Aunt Margie was about ten years older than Mom, and Uncle Stu was the next oldest with almost twenty-five years separating him and my mother. Finally, there was Aunt Elizabeth, the oldest, that I’d never met, meaning my grandparents were in their mid-eighties. In other words, they were past it.

  The vintage truck came to a stop just a few feet from me. I watched as Granny wiped the moisture from her window with her coat sleeve and smiled at me as I heard the driver’s side door open.

  Granddad made his way around the truck and greeted me with a firm handshake. “Son! How are you doing?”

  “Hi, Granddad.” I forced a smile noticing how his hearing aid seemed to have grown larger since last Christmas.

  “Granny and I were so happy you decided to come visit us for the weekend. We’ve been looking forward to it all week,” he said while I focused on the fact that Mom had presented it to them that I had made the choice to be there. I suppose telling them the truth that it was a punishment would have hurt their feelings. Of course, Mom would never admit it was punishment for my little Caribbean escapade and while I didn’t really know my grandparents that well, I certainly didn’t want them thinking I didn’t care about them.

  “Thanks, Granddad.” I grabbed the handle of my suitcase.

  Granddad looked down. “Just put it in the bed.” He pointed to the truck. “Watch the bags back there,” he told me as I picked up my suitcase and proceeded to carefully place it as far away from the gray bags marked Gerald’s Chicken Feed.

  I walked around to the driver’s side, climbed in, and assumed my position wedged between them.

  “Shane!” Granny crowed as she watched me squeeze into the small space straddling the large gearshift in the middle of the floor.

  “Hi, Granny.” She lifted her frail arms placing them around me, making me forget for the moment she had called me by the wrong name.

  Granddad climbed in and closed the door, causing me to have to fold my arms and legs up to fit in the confined space. He started the truck and reached between my legs to shift the truck into gear, causing me to have to spread them apart, much to my annoyance. We began our journey out of the parking lot, packed like sardines in a can.

  “Son, you’ve grown since the last time we saw you.” He accidentally grabbed my knee instead of the gearshift.

  I nodded trying to anti
cipate his next gear shift.

  “You in sixth grade now?” Granny asked.

  “No, Granny, I’m a sophomore in high school. I’m fifteen years old.” I forced a grin, although I was annoyed that she thought I was still in elementary school.

  “Sophomore you say?” Granddad asked.

  “Yes sir.” I nodded.

  “You’ve certainly grown into a big boy.” He gave me a quick once-over. “You must be one hell of a football player.” He commented as we hit a pothole, causing me to bounce up and bump my head on the ceiling of the cab.

  “I don’t play football. I’m on the swim team,” I said proudly.

  Immediately, I saw his expression change from enthusiasm to disappointment.

  “A boy your size should be a running back like your Cousin Willy,” he stated as if football was the only sport that mattered in high school.

  “I’ll think about it next year,” I said just to appease him.

  This was going to be a very long weekend.

  • • •

  As we bounced up the dirt road to their farmhouse, I immediately noticed the place had gone downhill since the last time I saw it, which was almost two years ago. For some reason I never understood, Mom never made me come with her when she came for a visit. Granddad and Granny occasionally came to Connecticut for Christmas, which was usually the only time during the year I would see them. They rarely stayed more than a day, because Granddad always claimed he had to get back to help with the farm or it would just “go to Hell in a handbasket.” I knew my Mom’s nephew helped them with it. I’m sure that’s the only way they were able to handle the place.

  I focused my attention on the condition of the two-hundred-year-old farmhouse again. The few times I’d seen it, it had always looked immaculate—house and fence painted, colorful flowers in the flower beds, the wooden porch swing all clean and shiny. It was a stark contrast to the way it looked now. The house badly needed painting. The fence had wooden slats missing, and as for the flower beds, well, they were basically non-existent—just a bunch of dead weeds.

  My assessment was interrupted as the truck ground to a halt. Granddad got out first and helped Granny from the truck as I scooted out the driver’s side and grabbed my suitcase from the bed.

  “Head on in, Son,” Granddad said. “I need to check on the cows.”

  I nodded and began following Granny through the gate and into the yard. Chickens scattered in all directions, and naturally the first thing I did was step in a fresh pile of chicken manure.

  I looked down at my brand new pair of Buster Browns. “Shit!” I mumbled.

  “What’s that?” Granny turned around and croaked.

  “Nothing, Granny. It was nothing.” I lifted my foot up to examine the bottom of my shoe.

  Grimacing, I rubbed my foot in the grass to try and get as much off as possible.

  After cleaning it as best I could, I followed her up the pitted concrete steps and onto the porch that creaked and moaned as we walked across the weathered wooden boards to the front door.

  Entering through the old heavy door, my eyes immediately went to the enormous fireplace that occupied most of the wall of the large living room. A wing-backed sofa that looked like it was from the thirties sat facing it, while two wooden rockers sat adjacent to each other with a floor lamp in between. A large stack of newspapers occupied the space next to the rocker closest the fireplace. In the corner was a large wooden radio cabinet that looked like the one from the The Waltons. The vision of Granddad and Granny gathered ‘round the radio listening to The Grand Ole Opry flashed through my head. I searched for the one object one would expect to see in a living room: a television. By now I was hoping they had decided to move into the nineteen-seventies, but alas, it was still the nineteen-thirties in this house.

  “You’ll be upstairs,” Granny said as she closed the door behind us and pointed with her bony finger toward the staircase that ascended straight in front of us.

  Climbing the stairs, the creaky boards reminded me of one of the haunted houses from Scooby Doo. I half-expected to be plowed over by Shaggy and Scooby bolting their way down the stairs after seeing some ghostly apparition.

  Granny slowly ascended the steps, holding tightly to the wooden railing. “I’m so glad you came to stay with us.”

  I remained silent as she led me down the creepy hallway to my room. She pushed open the door to a large bedroom, and my eyes immediately widened at the 1800’s-style canopy bed that filled the space. The smell of mothballs assaulted my nose as we entered.

  “The bathroom is at the opposite end of the hall on the left,” she creaked. “I hope you brought some warm pajamas to sleep in. There’s no heat up here.” She turned back to the door. “I’ll let you get settled in. When you’ve unpacked, come on back downstairs for lunch.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” I replied as she exited and shut the door behind her.

  Examining the room further, I wrapped my arms around me and shivered as I took in the nightmare that was to be my sleeping quarters for the next two days. A sense of dread filled me when it occurred to me: my parents absolutely hated me. This was Green Acres and it was not the place to be!

  After laying out my suitcase and nearly freezing my balls off taking a pee, I made my way back downstairs to the kitchen.

  Granddad sat eating what looked to be a ham sandwich with two boiled eggs on the side.

  “I hope you like cured ham sandwiches with bread and butter pickles,” Granny said as she sat down opposite Granddad.

  I looked at her confused as I made my way to the chair adjacent Granddad. “What are bread and butter pickles?” I asked naïvely as I sat down.

  “City boys,” Grandpa chuckled, shaking his head, as he took a bite of his egg.

  • • •

  After lunch and an excruciatingly long tour of Green Acres, I sat in one of the straight-back chairs in the living room watching Granddad stoke the fireplace.

  “I’m working on a scarf for you.” Granny grinned at me over the top of her glasses as she rocked back and forth in her chair.

  I glanced down at the green spool of yard lying in the basket next to her rocking chair and followed the string up to her hand. Watching as she ran the long needle through the loop of yarn and pulling it, I looked over at the piles of crocheted Afghans that lay in the corner of the room. The thought occurred to me that either my grandparents were extremely cold-natured or everyone in the state of New York would be getting one of her handmade throws for Christmas.

  “Thanks, Granny,” I lied, too polite to tell her that I didn’t care for the color green.

  We sat in silence what seemed like an eternity. It occurred to me that this was going to be my life for the next two days; sitting in the living room watching my granddad read six-month-old newspapers and my granny knitting ugly green scarves. Maybe listening to the Grand Ole Opry wasn’t so bad after all, I thought.

  After about half an hour of complete silence, I stared up at the tall ceiling, absolutely bored out of my mind. After the fiftieth cracking sound from the wood burning in the fireplace, I was shaken from my state of numbness by the back door slamming and the sound of racing footsteps.

  I jerked my head toward the doorway and my eyes widened at the sight of an out-of-breath teenage boy that could have easily been my identical twin. With his bright blue eyes, black hair, and facial features I easily recognized as belonging to me and my mother, the resemblance was unfathomable. My eyes nearly popped out of their sockets. The only difference was our hair; my hair was shoulder-length and straight, and his was the same length only curly. I looked down at his muddy boots, brown overalls, and the black and yellow cap on his head with the letters C.A.T. stitched on the front.

  He bent over at the waist and put his hands on his knees, breathing hard. “Granddad!” His voice sounded like my own. “I need to use the phone. Beulah is having her calf down near the pond. Pop’s down there, but he needs me to call Moses to come help deliver it.”
/>   “Go ahead, Willy,” Granddad replied, as he stood up.

  I watched my twin storm toward the kitchen.

  “I need to get down there and help.” Granddad looked to Granny, his face filled with concern.

  “Now, Ernest, I think Peter and Moses can handle it,” Granny said as she ran her large metal needle through another loop of yarn “You don’t need to be going down there in this weather. You know you just got over pneumonia.” Granny looked at him.

  Granddad tilted his head to the side and looked at her almost sympathetically. “Now, Mildred, that was last winter when I had pneumonia. Remember?”

  “Was it?” she asked. I noticed the confused look on her face.

  “Yes, dear,” Granddad answered as he went over and grabbed his coat from the coat closet, watching as Granny sat back in her chair.

  The thought occurred to me that going with him might be a good break from the boredom, even if it meant witnessing an event I’d just as soon not see.

  About that time, the boy re-entered.

  “Moses is on his way,” the boy said much more calmly this time. I noticed the beads of sweat on his forehead.

  “I’m heading down there in the pickup. You want a ride?” Granddad looked at him as he finished pulling on his coat.

  “Na.” The boy waved his hand dismissively. “Pops said I needed to get to my homework and that he and Moses can handle it.”

  “Okay, Son, I’ll go see if I can help,” Granddad said as he headed for the door.

  It was then the boy focused on me; his eyes widening.

  “Holy shit!” he said aloud as he stared at me.

  “Willy!” Granny gave him a dirty look. “Do I need to wash your mouth out with soap again?”

  “Sorry, Granny,” he apologized, obviously having experienced the taste of Ivory at some point in the past.