One day, when I came home with a report card columned with As, she looked quietly into my eyes. “Keep doing this, whatever you’re doing, and then go.”
“What are you talking about?” I was fourteen.
“You’re too smart for around here. You need to go college.”
“I don’t want to—”
Her look of hardness silenced me. She coughed again after she took a deep drag on her cigarette. “Don’t you be making my mistakes, you hear?”
College seemed a lifetime away, but she insisted that I apply for it. It was important to her that I live in a big city. That had been her biggest dream while growing up on the farm, but she had been too weak to stand up to Dad. She loved him, but she didn’t know if she loved her dreams more. In that moment of weakness she married him and bore his children.
When I told her that I’d gotten into the university, she wouldn’t let me go as she cried into my shoulder. She kept crying into my shoulder. “Please don’t tell Dad yet.” She stopped. “Not for a while yet anyway. He won’t take it well.”
Once I filled out the financial aid paperwork, I had to tell Dad. I needed his signature on some forms, and I needed a copy of his income tax return for proof of his income. It was after dinner. It was barely spring, but the islands of snow were receding into the ocean of grass. The first wind of balm hadn’t yet arrived, but I was already feeling my chest fluffed up like a robin from so much pride, promise, excitement. Everything around me I knew I would leave after my high school graduation, and this I didn’t mourn. I knew many of my classmates would go to the community college two towns over, and a few would be going to the other university further up north. I think out of my graduating class of forty-four people, only three of us were moving south to the big city. I didn’t really like either one of them, but that was okay. I didn’t expect to remain friends with them anyway. The idea of my new university having over twenty-five thousand students, which was six times the entire population of my hometown, boggled my mind. And that number didn’t include the rest of the city itself! The city had three other smaller colleges as well.
“Dad,” I said. “I need to ask you about something.”
He looked up sternly from his pipe smoking. I’d rarely asked him for anything. I had been so afraid of him all my life, but I knew if there was one last thing I wanted from him, it was this: his signature. I needed to demonstrate that my parents hadn’t made enough to be forced to pay for my education. I needed a raft of scholarships and probably a loan to carry me through. I knew I’d have to work very hard, but asking Dad was the hardest thing I’d ever done.
“Um, I need you to sign some forms.”
“Whatever for?”
“Well, I’m going to need financial aid for college.”
He turned quiet. It wasn’t the kind of silence I’d expected from him. This was a soft quiet. None of that hardness about him.
“I know you don’t make a lot of money, but they need to see proof. That way I can apply for loans and stuff.”
He spoke in a voice so soft I wasn’t sure if I’d heard him right. “So you’re really going away?”
I nodded. “I thought you knew,” I lied. Everyone had known, but we were all afraid he’d lash out at me for leaving him behind, for not proving my allegiance to him. I was surprised by his response.
“Well.” He looked into the cup of his pipe. “Bring me the forms.” I pulled them out of the big envelope and placed them in front of him.
I’d never loved my father as much as I’d loved him in that moment. With each gnarly John Hancock of his, he was freeing me from the prison of prairie I’d grown up in. I’d felt guilty many times about reading so many library books when he insisted that I join my siblings in weeding the garden in the back and helping out in the barn. I weeded, of course, but only in the early morning when the sun wasn’t so intense.
The next day I bicycled the six miles to the post office in town and sent off the forms the first thing for fear of Dad suddenly demanding that I retract them. He looked at me differently for a long time after that, and Mom smiled at me more and more behind his back.
One night, when Dad was out in the barn fixing a troublesome tractor, Mom exclaimed out of the blue in the kitchen when I was about to go upstairs to my bedroom: “So you’re really going away!” There was so much emotion in her voice: pride, fear, love, anxiety. “Please don’t forget about me.” This was the week before I bought the one-way bus ticket to the city. I was to attend the New Student Orientation the following week, and I had never been to the city. I was tremulous with excitement.
“I won’t.”
“Please. Don’t. I’m your mother, you know.”
“Yes, Mom.”
“I remember what it was like when I left home to move into this house. I was so full of hopes and stuff, and . . . You kids were the best thing that ever happened to me. Please just don’t be like me and look back, okay? Just go.”
“I’m not going to forget you, Mom.”
“You better not!” She broke into a laugh.
I didn’t know then that she was trying to explain that in the moment of departure, one leaves behind the shell of one’s old self for a thicker shell of one’s new self. She didn’t have the words, but knowing what I know now, I see how words had failed her. She had been a ghost all her life, and she wanted me to revive her from the dead the minute I climbed up the steps onto the bus. She would bless me with all her hopes and dreams, and anoint me with a single hand wave as I waved goodbye to her.
Of course, Dad wouldn’t wave. He would stand next to her, wondering what was happening now. I believe that when he was alone in the fields, he would wonder what he’d done to drive me away, never realizing that the way his own father had raised him wasn’t suitable for these modern times. Discipline cracked with the whip, which would inspire a great deal of fear in anyone’s heart, wasn’t the same thing as love. He’d never comprehend that just because he had fathered a child, he couldn’t count on undying allegiance. The connection from his sperm wasn’t enough; he had to prove himself worthy of that allegiance as well. This he’d never understood about fatherhood.
Hidden out in the prairie, he and I were on a wool blanket with bits of hay on it when we stripped down to expose ourselves to the sun, clouds, skies. Cars and trucks rumbled on the two-lane road in the distance. It was one of those afternoons when I suddenly didn’t have a chore that needed to be done right away. There he was: fondling himself by the cow stalls when he was supposed to be shoveling manure away from the barn. He didn’t seem surprised or feel the need to pull up his pants, as if he’d been expecting me to show up. He was a migrant worker, rather like a drifter, I suppose, but he had the most beautiful brown eyes. He looked up into mine, and I don’t know how he knew my most-secret secret. “You play with yourself over there?” He pointed to the fallow land of shoulder-high prairie grass across the road from my house. I nodded yes. I went inside my house and retrieved a library book and my wool blanket, which still had bits of hay, across the road. Minutes later, he followed the path of broken stalks and found me pretending to read. He lay down beside me. I was electrified when he touched me through my pants. He smiled so sweetly when we stripped down to our leaking nubs. I didn’t know that a man could be interested in touching another. I didn’t last long under his agile ministrations, and he didn’t, either. He was fired not long after, never found out why, but in those golden moments he had redeemed me with his power of touch.
Ah, the city! My city—certainly not Manhattan, the pinnacle of a teeming Gotham, overridden with people and cockroaches— stood tall no matter where I looked. It didn’t matter how far away the skyscrapers were from the campus where I lived. They stood taller, with sharp corners unlike the cylindrical silos, and shimmered mirrored clouds drifting across the sky. It was also a clear reminder that I wasn’t living up north, the great land of nothing but tall prairie grass if not corn and beets and potatoes. There was no land here, no sense of i
t at all, except in cultivated pockets of green that cropped up here and there throughout the city. It wasn’t the same. Land to me was a place where nothing felt too planned; just happened to be there. No one posted a NO TRESPASSING sign or a NO SMOKING sign. The sky was free of distractions; maybe a bird, but certainly not a horizon of tall buildings nudging the clouds away. The land of childhood was where I could push down tall grasses to make a bowl of sorts that I could lie down in and look up at the sky with my head resting on my hands. The buzz nearby didn’t have the sound of people; just the tick of insects, the swoop of birds, the whoosh of wind. The earth breathed easily beneath my body. Everything else felt temporary, even when plated over with sidewalk and pavement. Many buildings in town were old, but it was doubtful they’d last another century.
This I hadn’t realized when I first ventured alone off campus in my first month away from home. During the New Student Orientation, we students had learned how to take public buses and navigate the city’s downtown. I was quiet the entire week, just simply absorbed the organized chaos of so many people crossing the streets, waiting in line at the checkout aisles, and filling the buses. At first I was amazed. There was no such thing as a rush hour in my hometown. Most cashiers in town knew who I was because they’d known my father, brothers, sister, and mother. I was a Badamore, and that was all they’d needed to know when they gave me a receipt with my change. But here, I was only a college student with no name. Feeling like a nobody overwhelmed me, almost frightened me into staying put on campus. I overheard snippets of conversation about who’d gone where and done what the night before; it sounded terribly exciting, but I didn’t feel like becoming one of those eternally hip kids I’d disliked in high school. It was much better for me to get out there, on foot whenever possible, and discover the city on my own, and discover I did.
I didn’t want to go to the famous landmarks. Too boring. I had seen pictures of them, and riding by some of them on the bus disappointed me. That was all? What was the big deal? They didn’t seem all that large, or even interesting to look at. They looked better on the postcards, sad and lonely in their swivel pockets in the campus bookstore. No, no touristy landmarks for me. Instead, I went looking for neighborhoods that had no name, at least not the ones that appeared in Fodor’s. My favorite neighborhood of all was also the city’s most notorious. In Laronde, which lay west of downtown, the apartment buildings were squat; almost run down. You could almost smell the whiskey in the air when you walked by. The sidewalk gutters were clogged with cigarette butts and broken beer bottles and chicken bones. Some of the cars had a lot of duct tape holding up shattered windows. Old men clustered on stoops and carried on in loud voices with tiny bottles sheathed in flimsy paper bags. Some buildings had windows boarded up with plywood. I instinctively understood that this was not a safe area, but it felt real in a perverted way; poverty, drugs, prostitution were rampant here. I knew of some students living here and there as the rents were incredibly cheap. Some got mugged, of course, so I didn’t dare come here at night. In the stark glare of day, I saw glints of flint in everyone’s eyes whenever I happened to look up with a fleeting question of wonder. I asked, and they answered with their eyes. The city had been cruel to them, and I was to make sure that whatever happened to them was not to happen to me. This I understood.
The land up north still cast a long shadow over the city where I explored on weekends. I longed to see the sun set without a building in the way; felt a pang of ache when I realized it was harvest season. I was surprised. Harvesting is such brutal, interminable work involving many people for long hours. I rarely saw my father and brothers during that time, and Mom and other women always made meals that were easy to consume quickly out on the fields. They also canned pickles and other vegetables. Somehow the focus on food meant they were making the kitchen a home, even if temporarily as they bustled and bumped into each other with a laugh. Up north I was just a boy who loved to read, and what was I here now? Not even a Badamore.
When I went downstate for college, I looked in the local papers for anything to do with gay people. I didn’t have to try hard. There was a gay bookstore called Adam and Steve’s Bookstore on Speck Street. I bought a copy of Gayellow Pages. That guide opened my eyes to what was available in my new city and all over America. There were all sorts of interests ranging from Buddhism to photography, and all sorts of businesses that catered to the gay community. I felt I’d found a home of sorts. I felt saved. It didn’t matter if I couldn’t always get laid in the clubs. I was dazzled by the variety of men who mingled in the bars, and for a long while, that was enough. I was still frightened about catching AIDS, so I played very, very safely. I was always careful not to taste a man’s cum. I didn’t care if the guy assured me that he had tested negative the week before. Didn’t matter. I wasn’t going to end up in the hospital with an infamous disease and have Dad say, “I told you so.”
Seeing that I wasn’t alone for the first time was what gave me the strength to tell my parents about myself the day after Thanksgiving.
Mom said, “You need to see Father Clovis right away. Get that fixed.”
“I’m fine. I don’t need help.”
Dad said nothing for a moment. If you want to amass a lot of emotional power with anyone, say very little, and when you finally say anything, make it unforgettable. You will earn a lot of respect that way. “Well, as long as you suck dick, you can’t stay here. Get out.”
Mom gasped.
I went upstairs, packed my stuff, and walked out. I didn’t even look back. It would be quite a walk back to the bus station in town. Nevertheless I set off.
I was brimming full of emotions, helping me forget how far I had left to walk. I thought of everything, and I thought of nothing. I vacillated in the twilight of rage and sadness. I was grateful that it wasn’t too cold for November.
I heard a car slow down beside me.
I looked up.
My heart stopped.
It was Larry Fruell, now a heavyset man in his forties. I used to have a major crush on him when I was a teenager. I had prayed that my ten-speed bike would clutch and break down more often so I could see him, but he always did too good a repair job with my bike. His long hair back then was a mix of blond and orange, and he had a scruffy beard. Pale blue eyes, though. They were so gentle whenever I looked into them.
He was the first man I’d later recognize as a bear. He was married with three kids. What mattered was that I was afraid of having sex with anyone.
“Need a lift?”
I leaned down to look at him. His hair was shorter, almost a crew cut, and he only wore a mustache that looked like frayed toothbrush bristles. His belly seemed to rub against the steering wheel. But he still looked hot. “Uh, I need to go to town.”
“Sure. I’m headed thataway.”
I got into the car.
“You’re Billy Badamore, right?”
“Yeah.”
“Well, good to see you again.” He extended his hand.
I nearly melted when I felt the warmth of his thick hand, but I kept my cool.
“How come your folks aren’t giving you a ride?”
“It’s kinda complicated.”
We rode silently for a few minutes. The land looked more desolate with its thin blankets of snow.
He turned to me. “You sure you don’t wanna talk about it?”
“You can’t tell anyone, okay? My parents would kill me if everyone in town knew about me.”
“You’re gay?”
My jaw dropped. “How did you know?”
“Come on, Billy. You were looking at me all the time.”
I winced from embarrassment.
“It’s okay. I’m not gonna tell. I used to have a buddy who sucked me off on a regular basis. Then he moved away, and I met Sheryl, and . . . you know.”
“You’re bisexual?”
He turned to me. “God, no. Just that queers suck dick better than women do.” He groped himself. “Man. I could use a b
low job right now.”
We ended up in the back room of his bike shop. It was closed for the season, so he kept the lights turned off. It was cold, but the pent-up desire I had for him made me feel warm as I knelt before him. I had always been wary of swallowing, but I figured that if he was straight, he would be disease-free.
I choked on it as I wasn’t used to doing that, and he laughed.
I felt embarrassed.
“Hey, Billy. I see you got a boner there. Take care of it.”
“Are you gonna watch?”
“No. I don’t get off on watching guys beat off. The toilet’s over there.”
I felt so dirty in that tiny bathroom with its broken mirror above the sink. The chill seeped deep into my bones, and I was too soft to shoot. If he’d allowed me to kiss him, or even hugged me, I’d have felt less dirty.
When I got out of the bathroom, he looked up from the counter. “Feel better?”
“Yes,” I lied.
“The next bus leaves in twenty minutes. I checked.”
“Thanks.”
“Anytime. Let me know when you want to—you know, okay?”
I nodded.
On the bus ride back to the city, I felt disgusted with myself. I would never do that again. I couldn’t understand the appeal of sucking straight men off without any reciprocation. Doing that would reinforce their hierarchical place in society. Once was enough.
In the mid-nineties, when I first saw the Bear magazine in the back racks in Adam & Steve’s Bookstore, I couldn’t believe the centerfolds. They were furry, somewhat schlubby, and usually older with a bit of wear and tear, and I got hard, which surprised me. Some of these guys had average-sized cocks. I couldn’t believe it. They were like anti-porn stars. I was in my mid-twenties, and it was the first time I’d heard of the bear community! I was so overjoyed with the discovery, but my gay friends gave me the eyes-rolling-whatever look when I tried to explain how important it was to accept your own body as it was and rebel against the twink body-fascist standards so prevalent in the bar culture.
Flannelwood Page 5