It Started With Fury
Current mood: grateful
Category: Life
When I was 8 years old, my mom caught me playing with her makeup and jewelry. Arms loaded with boy's white socks and underwear, Mom kicked open the door to my room. "Honey, I need to put . . . "
She was stunned to see me in eye shadow and lipstick and wearing several of her beautiful necklaces. I'd also clipped on some blue and green earrings that looked like sparkling dragonflies.
In an instant, Mom's face went angry and hateful. She dropped the clean and folded laundry and before I knew what was happening, pounced on me.
"GODDAMN YOU!" she screamed. She hit me hard on the side of my head an earring skipped across the polished wood floor. "You little fuckin'..."
I cried out when she tore the other dragonfly off my ear and yanked the necklaces off my neck. Colored beads splashed and bounced around us. Then my mother pulled me by the hair down a long hallway and into the bathroom.
"You goddamn little . . . fuckin' GIRL!" she screamed. "I will not have this! DO YOU HEAR ME? I will not raise a goddamn queer! I WON'T!"
Surprised and scared, I tried to pry her hand out of my hair. I'd seen my mother mad, but I'd never witnessed -- and certainly never inspired -- this kind of fury.
Mom threw the hot water tap on and shoved my head under a near scalding stream. I was crying now. Mom pulled me from under the horribly hot water and slung me into a peach-colored tile wall. Through confused tears, I watched as she angrily soaped up, not a rag, but a brush, a stiff-bristled brush that she used on the dirty floor sometimes.
"Mom! No! . . . please Mom! . . . I won't . . . "
Like a demented and snarling animal she advanced toward me.
"COME HERE TO ME! Goddamn you again!" Mom grabbed my hair again and started scrubbing my face. She went after me harder than she'd ever gone after any floor. I screamed and begged and fought her but she kept on scrubbing. She lost her hold on me and then backhanded me and I hit the wall again.
"Goddamn you . . . Goddamn you . . . I'll die and go to hell before I raise . . . a goddamn . . . fuckin' . . . little . . . pansy-ass . . . FAGGOT!" Mom put the brush in her other hand and leapt on me again.
When she finally fell to the floor, spent and exhausted, I ran out of the bathroom and down the hall to my room. A room I shared with three brothers who thankfully weren't home. My face was stinging and my mind raced. I slammed the door and pulled a chest in front of it. It would buy me enough time to climb out a window and get away if she came after me again, I thought.
Moments passed and I calmed a little. My face felt like it was on fire. I touched my cheek and looked at my fingers. I made my way over to a mirror. My forehead and both my cheeks were bleeding. I picked up one of the clean white Tee shirts my mom dropped earlier and pressed it to my face.
A half-hour passed and then an hour. I picked up and put away the laundry. I located and gathered all the beads and jewels and put them in an empty shoebox that I had in my closet.
When I couldn't find anymore of the scattered beads I sat down on my bed and heard a soft knock on my door.
Mom tried the door, easily pushed it and the chest into the room. She walked up to me and lifted her hands in a "come to momma" move that I misinterpreted. I flinched, and she burst into hysterical tears.
"God, Almighty, help me, if one of my babies is so afraid to come to me . . . " She backed away a couple of steps. "Look what I've done to my boy! Lord-Jesus-God forgive me."
Mom was crying hard now and after surprise-rushing me again she gathered me into her arms. Though I was near as big as she was, she lifted me up, turned and sat on the bed and her frantic arms urged me into a tight ball.
"Baby . . . I'm sorry, Billy, honey, I'm so sorry . . . but I was also . . . Oh God . . . scared when I saw you like that! I'm afraid you're tryin' to be something that . . . oh, JESUS-LORD, help me! Help this little boy!" she wailed at the ceiling. "What you're trying to be, Baby, is a really hard thing to be."
I started crying, too, mostly because my mom was crying.
"Oh baby, your face is bleeding again . . . Billy, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry." she said. And then we both just cried. Mom rocked me, and after what seemed like a long, nice while she released her hold me and let me climb to the floor.
Then Mom reached out and took both my hands in hers. Her red, swollen eyes looked into mine. "I got some money hid, Billy. Nobody knows about it. It's quite a bit of money. I'm gonna let you stay home from school tomorrow and I'm thinking we'll take a cab up to the K-Mart. Baby, I'm gonna buy you every coloring book in the place . . . " she busted out crying again " . . . and the big box of crayons."
Mom was crying so hard she could barely talk. "The really -- oh Heaven, help me -- the big, big box of crayons, Baby. The one with the sharpener in the back and I swear to you, Son, listen to me, I swear to you, I'll never lay an ungentle hand on you again. I might yell at you, and I might cuss you some, but I won't ever touch you mad and crazy like that no more. Okay?"
"Okay, Mom, but . . . I don't need no coloring books," I said. "I got one I ain't finished yet."
"Well after tomorrow, you'll have about a hundred of them. And if anybody asks you how you got 'em, you just tell 'em it ain't none of their fuckin' business, you hear? Better yet, you refer 'em to me, and I'll tell 'em." My mom smiled and real weary-like she stood. I went to my dresser and picked up the shoebox.
"I'm sorry your necklaces got broke . . . "
Mom acted like she didn't want to take the box. She started crying again. "I need to start supper," she said, and taking the rattling box, she left the room.
I walked to my bedroom window. I hoped all the crying was over. Tears make a burning face sting worse. Out the corner of my eye I see my mom standing in the doorway again.
"I want to tell you something else, Billy."
I waited.
"If you want to play with my makeup and jewelry and things, you can, honey. I don't mind. But . . . you gotta be careful. Just do it when they ain't nobody here, okay?"
"I don't need to play with that stuff anymore, Mom," I said. "I should have asked you first," I said.
"It's okay. You was just being curious a way a boy like you is curious. Nothin' wrong with it. Nothin' at all. I just don't want you to . . . well . . . only do it when it's just you and me here. Secret-like."
"I don't want to play with that stuff no more," I said again, and I didn't.
"Well, if you change your mind you can but when no one's around, okay?"
"Okay," I said.
Mom didn't scrub away my "gay" that day, just my skin. I stayed home for two weeks. My mom told the school it was none of their goddamn business why I was out. And she kept her word about K-Mart and bought me seven coloring books and a gigantic box of crayons. She also bought me some colored markers and drawing paper and a red belt just because I liked it.
Three days after those terrible moments in the bathroom, Mom came out to the backyard where I was playing. Thinking I was in some sort of trouble again I worriedly watched her approach.
Mom stops a few feet in front of me. She's wearing a pink housedress and she smells nice. "Billy, honey, I wanted to talk to you with nobody around."
I shield my eyes from the sun and wait for her to talk.
"Baby, sometimes moms don't know what to say or they say the wrong things and then after they have a little while to think . . . They figure out things to say that are more right." Mom looks back toward the house.
"Honey, I told you that you could play with my things but you should only do it when no one's around. . . . Well, listen, you do it anytime you want. Ya here? Even if your daddy and brothers are home. I don't have to hide or live in fear and as long as there's a breath in my body you don't have to either. You dress up or make yourself up anytime you want and if any of them bastards say one cross word to you, and I hear about it, I'll chew their goddamn balls off." Mom smiled.
She actually looked kind of pretty standing there in the sun. I didn't know if "chew their balls off" was one of those figures of speech or something she might really try to do, but either way, it conjured pictures in my head I didn't want there.
I broke off a piece of willow and fiddled with it. "I don't want to play with your stuff anymore, Mom," I said.
My mom stood there for a while just studying my face. "Well, suit yourself, Baby. I'm just saying, you ain't never got to hide. Not in your own house. Them fuckers in there get to be themselves and you get to be you too. Okay? Got it?"
I nodded.
"Talk to me, Baby. What are you feeling right now?"
I shrugged. The only thing I was feeling was a little embarrassed about how dirty my hands were.
Mom smiled and turned slowly. I watched her make her way back, up a few steps and disappear behind a door.
In a house full of testosterone-fueled brothers and uncles, home for a gay boy can be a pretty scary and confusing place. When I was that young, it was almost always the last place I wanted to be.
I was 8 years old and I was gay. Before I'd ever much feel any kind of "sexual" I was gay. There are all those people in the "It's a choice column" who don't believe you can be 8 years old and gay, but they're wrong. You can be 3 years old and gay. I was. But I didn't know what to call it and I didn't choose it. It chose me.
That third-grade boy, watching his sight-challenged mother make her way across the violently green back yard, had characteristics and interests my slew of brothers didn't have. They had characteristics and interests I didn't. Like, already, I could name all of the different types of flowers and plants that grew in and around our yard and I'd already started spending a lot of time in a library near my house. All of my brothers could tell you the make and model of every car that drove down our street and they had already started spending a lot of time in garages.
I looked into the sky and wished the library was open that very moment. It was the only place in the world I felt safe, the only place where I could relax and breathe a little. I loved those shelves full of books. To me they were like jars with bits of great people's minds in them and even if someone called you names in a library they had to whisper them.
I hated shouting when I was 8. I hate it now. Hateful, hurtful people confused me then. They confuse me now.
So, I'm standing there in the back yard. Mom's back in the house, but two of my bothers are also home and I have to pee. I hate it but I have to go in. I open the back door off the kitchen as quietly as is humanly possible, but my mom has these bionic ears . . . "Billy? BILLY!"
I stand at the kitchen doorway. My mom is opening a can of something.
She looks up. "Honey, you know Juanita's boy, Joe Eddie?"
I look at her and nod.
"Honey, what do you think about him?"
Joe Eddie Singleton made me feel nervous. A different kind of nervous than George and Larry, my brothers, made me feel. He was 10 years old and like my brothers, but nicer. He knew about sports and cars, too, but he was willing to like you -- and not be mean to you and not make fun of you -- if you didn't know about them.
Still, even though he was nice, he made me nervous. I liked looking at him like I liked looking at flowers and plants. But just hearing his name made me nervous.
"Honey, are you okay?"
I nod again.
"So, tell me, what do you think about Joe Eddie?"
"He makes me feel nervous," I admit softly.
It was Mom's turn to nod. "You know, when him and Juanita was over here Wednesday I kind of picked up on that. That's why I'm glad I invited him over tomorrow to have lunch with us."
"You invited Joe Eddie here for lunch?" I suddenly needed to sit down.
"I sure did. Juanita needs to do something for a couple of hours tomorrow around noon, so I told her he could come over. I thought I'd make us some lunch. It's okay, Billy. I'll make sure it's just the three of us." My mom smiled and turned and rinsed her hands under the tap.
"Just the three of us?" I said weakly.
"Yeah, I know when I'm nervous around someone the best thing for me is just to be around them, until I don't feel nervous anymore. So I thought . . . well, I told Juanita I'd start looking after Joe Eddie some for her. I think you and him could be real good friends. You'd like that, wouldn't you?"
I nod again.
"Come on in here, Honey. I want to show you my new slicer. I love it. I just got it in the mail." I walk to the counter where Mom's preparing supper. "It's from Ronco," she says. "It's amazing. This thing will slice 70 tomatoes in less than a minute. Watch."
I want to ask my mom how often she has a need to slice 70 tomatoes in a minute, but I don't.
Mom slams the top part of the slicer down on three tomatoes. They're mashed flat. Juice and seeds spray out all four sides of the thing. We both jump back.
"Oh this fuckin' piece of . . . shit!" She tries prying the thing's jaws open.
I turn and head for the bathroom. "The stuff you send off for never works, Mom," I say over a shoulder. "Dad's told you. I've told you, to just stop sending off for shit, Mom."
The bologna sandwiches are thick with slices of cheese and generous amounts of mayonnaise on them and they are cut on a diagonal.
Mom's never served sandwiches this way, and even if Joe Eddie isn't impressed, I certainly am. Also in front of us are two steamy bowls of Spaghetti-O-s. Sandwiches AND Spaghetti-O-s. Unheard of.
I watch the boy across from me bite into bread and meat. Though ten-year-old Joe Eddie is a good chewer, I sip red, over-sweet Kool-Aid and I'm not as nervous as I thought I'd be. When mom isn't looking, Joe Eddie does silly things with his eyebrows and that helps me relax. I blow on a spoonful of Spaghetti-O-s and think, even when clowning, Joe Eddie is the handsomest boy at Hazelwood Elementary. He's tall and coltish and he has scrubbed white teeth that are rounded like the letter U. His eyes are a soft, rich brown like the real mink collar on my grandmother's good coat. Though I am a year younger than Joe Eddie, we are in the same third grade class together. Mrs. Yate's class. Joe Eddie's mom, Juanita, told my mom he started school a year late and then had to repeat the second grade. "He's not the whiz-kid you are," my mom observed before he actually got to our house, but I think she is wrong because when Mrs. Yates gives us those timed tests that she so loves to give, Joe Eddie is always the first kid to lay his pencil down. And he almost always gets an A on those tests. Mom's turquoise and tangerine kitchen sparkles and Elvis Presley's "It's Now Or Never" oozes out of a white plastic radio sitting in a window above the sink. Mom does most of the talking while we eat and things are going smoothly until my little brother comes wandering in. Mark is dirty and has a slinky hooked to his pants leg. My sister, who is supposed to be watching him in the back part of the house, has obviously fallen down on the job and I am angered by Mark's sudden appearance. The plan was to spring him, and the rest of my family, on Joe Eddie gradually. Mark fixes his blue eyes on Joe Eddie, walks up to him and reaches to touch his hair. Joe Eddie studies my brother with amused interest. "Honey, that's Mark," my mom says. "He's retarded," she explains. "Hey, Big Boy!" Joe Eddie says to Mark. "He likes my hair," he tells my mom. Mom nods and looks at me. Mark likes to touch and smell some people's hair and the smelling part has a calming, catnip-like affect on him. When he wants to smell Joe Eddie's hair, Joe Eddie looks pleased and flattered and he bends over, showing Mark it's okay with him. Joe Eddie lets Mark bury his face in his hair and smell it to his heart's content. I am amazed that this really cool boy from school acts like a dirty 5-year-old kid smelling your hair is as normal as pie. Mark takes his nose out of Joe Eddie's hair and turns away. Mom is still being all chatty, and that is fine by me, but when she starts in telling Joe Eddie about a hysterectomy she's probably going to need, I get a little panicked. Mark and his sluggish slinky wander out and after some commercial ads, "I'm Sorry" by Brenda Lee comes on the radio. When Mom asks Joe Eddie if he knows what a uterus is I jump to my feet. "Let's go outside," I suggest. Joe Eddie scoots his chair back fast, we grab our jackets and head out.
Joe Eddie walks ahead of me. Before stepping onto the back porch with him, I turn to my mom and whisper, "Thanks." Mom smiles, mouths "you're welcome" and starts collecting up dishes. It's a sunny day out, but also cold. Joe Eddie looks around our back yard. "So what is there to do?" he asks. I cross my arms against the chill. "I don't know," I say. "I just mostly think out here." Joe Eddie sits on the top step of our back porch. "What do you think about?" he asks. I sit down beside him. "Just different stuff." "Like what kind of stuff?" "I think about President Kennedy and how he makes you feel when he talks and I think about this book I've been reading. I think about plants. I like watching things grow and I think about why my sister screams all night long sometimes and how I don't like being in the line with the kids who have lunch tickets. I think about music too. I think about music a lot." Joe Eddie scratches what looks like a bug bite on his ankle. "Why do you think your sister screams all night?" he asks. I shake my head. "My mom thinks she has bad dreams, but I think her brain hurts her at night. How come you're so nice to me?" I ask suddenly. Joe Eddie looks at me and then looks away. "Why wouldn't I be?" "I'm just sayin', nobody else at school is. I mean, some of the girls talk to me, but you're the only boy who will." "Nobody picks on you, do they?" "No, but that's just because of my brothers." Joe Eddie laughs a little and nods. "You got some bad-ass brothers," he says. Then he says, "I wish I did." "You can have mine," I tell him. "Hey, do you have a ball and glove? I was thinking we could pitch." "I don't have anything like that, but George does. I'm not too good at pitching or catching. But, if you really want to I'll. . . " "Nah, forget it. So what do you do? Like to do?" "I'm not very fun really. I read a lot and I draw." "Yeah. I've seen stuff you did in class. You're an excellent drawer." I roll my eyes. "I'm not that good. Tina Partin can draw better than me." Joe Eddie leans forward. "Hey, that's a tall-ass tree. Ya want to climb it?" I jump up. "I'll go get a ball and glove." "No! Sit back down. We can just talk I guess," Joe Eddie says. I sit back down next to him. "I like to talk," I admit softly. The next day at my desk I listen carefully to Mrs. Yates as she explains a new art project to us. I like art and I like her. She's thin and pale and she wears sweaters, even on really hot days. She usually has lipstick on her teeth and her classroom smells like chalk and books -- smells that I find comforting and once, when I walked her to her car, I noticed she carries those smells with her. Mrs. Yates tells us we'll be decorating shoeboxes for Valentine's Day. The boxes will be sealed and they'll sit on our desks for a couple of weeks and we can and should put Valentine cards and notes in each other's boxes before and after class and during recess. Our brittle-looking teacher thinks it would be most fun to do it when the person you're giving the Valentine to isn't looking. The most important thing is that the decorated boxes can't be looked into -- not even a peek -- until February 14th. Some girls are excited. Some boys groan. Mrs. Yates pushes around a table on wheels and passes out plain, white shoeboxes with slotted, glued down tops. When everyone has a box she goes to the front of the room and takes a cover off of another more stationary table. It has been stacked with red and pink construction paper, bottles of glue, white paper doilies, red and white buttons, red and pink and white yarn, clear glass beads and a pail with different kinds of scissors. We are to help ourselves to whatever we think we need to decorate our boxes. Joe Eddie doesn't even glance at the table. He immediately goes to work coloring his box black with a potent smelling marker. It takes me the whole hour, but just before the final bell of the day I finish my box and it is clearly the nicest one in the room. I take a minute to admire my work and immediately start wanting a card from Joe Eddie. It wouldn't even have to say anything as long as it was from him. I know I am hoping against hope, but I can't help it and every day for two weeks I enter my classroom, look at my beautiful box and wonder if maybe Joe Eddie, or anybody really, likes me enough to put a valentine or a note in it. On the 14th when we are to spend the last hour of class opening our boxes and looking at the Valentines we've received, I elect not to. Mrs. Yates says it's fine if we want to wait till we get home. Joe Eddie also elects to wait, even though his box literally bulges with cards and several pretty girls beg him to tear the lid off and look into it. Joe Eddie just smiles and shakes his head and tosses a small red ball high and then higher into the air. I watched Tina Partin rip into her box and spill its contents onto her desk. She has a mountain of Valentines. I know she is hoping for a Valentine from Joe Eddie, too. Tina picks up cards, reads them and kind of glows. Other kids look at cards and have giggling good times. Mrs. Yates looks out a window like she longs for the day to be over. Joe Eddie now out of his chair continues to toss and catch his red ball. I watch Fat Frank, three desks over from me, open his box. He turns it over and only three Valentines floated out. One of them is from me. Frank reads all three cards and then tears them into tiny pieces. Just as the 2:30 bell rings he throws them in the air and they float back down like confetti. I hurry home and alone in my room I sit staring at my box. I am scared there won't be anything from Joe Eddie inside it. Finally, I take a deep breath, rip the top back and dump a respectable amount of cards onto my bed. I see right away that one card is different from the rest. It's bigger and really nice, like the cards my mom always says we can't afford. I pick the card up and look at it. The front doesn't say anything. It just shows a boy giving a girl a kiss on the cheek and another boy looking mad about it, but the hearts on it are real velvet and it has silver glitter along its edges. With my heart pounding and my hand shaking I turn the card over. The card says, "It's stupid, I know, for a boy to give another boy a Valentine, but I felt like being stupid." It's signed "Joe Eddie Singleton." I flop back on my bed, kick my feet and don't even care about any of the other cards.
Weeks pass quickly then slow some when summer shows up. Joe Eddie's mom drops him by our house nearly everyday. He and I get to be good friends and whatever he wants to talk about or do is always fine by me. Three blocks up from my house and four blocks to the right there is a Woolworth's he often wants us to walk to. When they get in new 45 records, Joe Eddie goes in and steals two of each one, shoving them down the front of his pants while I block him from view. We then look around casual-like and eventually we leave the store with our hearts racing and run back to my house. Joe Eddie gives me one of the copies of the records he steals and keeps one. I always tell him he should just steal records for himself because no one in my house has a record player. Joe Eddie refuses to listen, so I keep and cherish a growing collection of 45s in the shoebox I once decorated for valentines. Baseball takes up a lot of Joe Eddie's time. He is a natural athlete and plays several positions well. He can also hit. I read or just sit on the bleachers alone and watch, and wait for him to finish. When Joe Eddie doesn't have a practice or a game we hang out in my room or in my back yard. I eventually climb the earlier-mentioned tall-ass tree with him. Sometimes we stay in the tree for hours talking about books and baseball and some of the neighborhood kids and our moms and our lives. The closest we ever get to anything sexual or intimate is one day we are hanging out in the park close to his house, sitting in one of the painted concrete barrels smaller kids like to play on and in and Joe Eddie says, "I smell grape." I smile and show him this big wad of gum I'm chewing. He says, "Give me half." I'm shocked. "Half the gum in my mouth?" Joe Eddie nods and watches me take the purple gum-wad out and rip in half with my teeth. Joe Eddie takes the gum-wad from me and tosses it into his perfect mouth. He chews cool-like and nods approvingly. "I like grape," he says, and I feel a little turned on watching him chew gum that I too had chewed. I don't really know what to do with turned on, so I just wait for the feeling to pass, and eventually it does. Joe Eddie and I hang out for at least a little while every day for nearly two years. Sometimes I silently pretend he is my boyfriend and sometimes I pretend he is my brother, only nice to me. I especially like the nights when he sleeps over and we share my bed and room. I like sleeping with somebody who can look so peaceful and comfortable in just underwear. We have a lot of lunches together, but mid day meals have quickly returned to normal. Gone are the bologna sandwiches cut on the diagonal, and there usually isn't any cheese or mayonnaise on them either. My mom and I have stopped pretending we are something special. Then one day, after a lunch where Mark throws food and fits and my sister Marsha repeatedly says, "Son-of-a bitch!," Joe Eddie and I step out onto my back porch. We don't sit. "I gotta tell you something," Joe Eddie says. "What?" "We're moving to Idaho. We're leaving Saturday." I immediately start crying and turn away so Joe Eddie can't see. He turns me back around and holds onto my shoulders like steadying me. "It's all right to cry," he says. "Hell Billy, I might cry too." "Why?" I manage to eke out. "Mom's new husband Stan is a Latter-Day Saint, and he wants to go there and save souls. He's all about saving souls. I told ya how he wants to save mine." "There's nothing wrong with your soul," I tell my friend. "Well, Stan thinks different about it than you do." "Stan has hair growing out the top of his nose," I say. "Yeah. I don't like him either. Fucking stepfathers. Bob was all the time tryin' to get in my pants and Stan wants to save my soul. That Juanita can really pick 'em." "What ever happened to your real dad?" I ask. "I ain't seen him since I was a bout 5. Him and my mom got a divorce. It was pretty bad. He was fucking my mom's sister, Aunt Marilyn. They moved to Rhode Island where my grandma lives. He took a clock with him. It was silver and shaped like a fan. It had red roses around the face of it and diamonds instead of numbers -- not real diamonds, but it was a nice clock. Mom was real mad about Dad taking it." "Do you want to stay with me today?" I ask around sobs. "Spend the night maybe?" "I can't. Mom and Hairy Nose are picking me up in about 20 minutes." Now tears are flying out of my eyes and I spend a couple of minutes barking into my sleeve. I recover enough to ask a question I've always wanted to ask. "Will you tell me why you even ever wanted to be friends with me?" "Sure. I wanted us to be friends because you're not regular." "Shit, Joe Eddie!" I squeak. "So this is good-bye?" "I'm gonna go inside and let Mark smell my hair some, and then it's good-bye." Joe Eddie turns to go in. "Joe Eddie?" "Yeah, Buddy?" "You're not regular either, are you?" "All's I can say is, I hope I ain't." A horn honks. I looked up and see Juanita's big blue Chevy Impala. Joe Eddie's new stepfather is behind the wheel and Juanita's sitting all the way over beside him. Joe Eddie disappears inside the house. After a few minutes he steps back out onto the porch. "Wait here a minute." He says. "I got something for you." Joe Eddie runs down steps and a minute or so later he returns with a small record player in tow. It's olive green and has a cream-colored handle so you can carry it like a suitcase. "Here," Joe Eddie says, "I want you to have this." I sniff. "You shouldn't give me your record player." "Why not? You ain't got nothin' to play all them records we stole on, and Stan won't let me listen to music anymore. He says rock and roll's recorded in hell."
One afternoon, three years ago, my lover Sam informed me he was leaving me to move in with a girl. A week or so after he left, I gathered up every photo of him and of us together -- every letter, card and gift he'd ever given me during the six extraordinary years we were together -- and stuffed a surprising amount of thoughtfulness into a large box that I keep other such momentos in. Crying so hard I couldn't see, I hoisted the box onto a top shelf in my bedroom closet. I gave it a final shove and something fell out of it. Something red and silver. I picked it up, wiped my eyes and not remembering, I frowned. I turned the card over. The blockish handwriting hadn't faded: "It's stupid, I know, for a boy to give another boy a Valentine, but I felt like being stupid. Joe Eddie Singleton."
You are the face That heaven shown me When I needed someone Someone to love And stay You showed me The quiet kind of love behind your face...
The first time ever I saw your face I thought the sun rose in your eyes And the moon and stars were the gifts you gave To the dark and the empty skies, my love, To the dark and the empty skies...
Do You Realize - that you have the most beautiful face Do You Realize - we're floating in space - Do You Realize - that happiness makes you cry Do You Realize - that everyone you know someday will die...
So take a good look at my face You'll see my smile looks out of place If you look closer, it's easy to trace The tracks of my tears…
I want to see your face in every kind of light In fields of dawn and forests of the night And when you stand before the candles on a cake Oh, let me be the one to hear the silent wish you make…
I see your face before me Crowding my every dream There is your face before me You are my only theme…
It must have been cold there in my shadow, to never have sunlight on your face. You were content to let me shine, that's your way. You always walked a step behind…
Baby Face, You've got the cutest little baby face There's not another one could take your place, Baby Face…
Look at that face just look at it! Look at that fabulous face of yours, I knew first look I took at it, This was the face that the world adores, Look at those eyes…,
I'll treat any bitch like a whore 'Cause it's the way I like to fuck It's face down and ass up!
Pink Sparkly Dust...
Current mood: blessed
Category: Life
The big red digital numbers on my alarm clock say it's 10:09. I swing my legs over the side of the bed and try to remember what day of the week it is…
… Saturday.
A few minutes later at my desk, I swallow a Zyrtec and think about how to best spend my day off. Cleaning? Writing? Reading the book I started?
I shake my head. I should get out in the world. Maybe shower, get dressed and drive to this café I like. The one with the tables in front where I can smoke. It's a nice day, the food's good and at least one waiter there is dreamy. Too young for me, but dreamy.
I sigh. I'm 55. With the exception of John McCain, everyone's too young for me. Fuck it. Whatever. My old ass has to eat. Then maybe I'll see a movie. There's something I recall being gay-themed playing at the Village 8. The Houseboy?
I light a cigarette. Yes. I'll do lunch and a movie. By my pathetic self.
It's nearing noon when I seat myself at a small metal table outside the café's expansive windows. It's kind of wild inside: a restaurant built around an Elvis museum. The dreamy waiter — today in sand-colored cargo shorts and a tight black T shirt — hands me a menu and asks what I'd like to drink.
I'm tempted to answer, "A can of Drano," but worried he'll take me seriously, I smile and just say, "Coffee, please."
The waiter leaves and returns quickly with coffee. He asks if I need a few minutes before ordering. Working hard to ignore his smiling knees, I tell him I do.
It's really a nice morning. The sun is shining. Traffic whizzes by. Hipsters who've escaped cubicles downtown hum and chew at nearby tables. A bird in a tree somewhere calls out for some loving company.
My head feels clogged as I narrow my choices about what to eat. I sniff and wonder… did I already take a Zyrtec? Honestly unable to remember, I take one… or another one.
Deciding on the BLT, I close the menu, look up and I'm startled to see — in the chair across from me — I have company.
"What are you doing here? You're… dead, Mom."
Looking up from her own menu, my mother smiles. "I suppose that's true. In a sense."
"Mom… I'm a little spooked. How is it that…?"
"Honey, Relax. I'm kind of AWOL from heaven, is all. But you know me. If I decide to have lunch with my son, God and heaven won't stop me. Oh Bill, honey, it's so good to see you again."
"It's wonderful seeing you too, Mom."
"You're looking at me funny, Honey. What is it?"
"Nothing, Mom… You just look awesome. I love your hair. You've got the short, straight Ellen's mom cut I always wanted to give you."
"I do?" Mom touches the top of her head. "Honey, there are no mirrors in heaven, but I guess whoever issues us our hair agreed with you." Wearing the pink jogging set that she was buried in, Mom unfolds a napkin and lays it across her lap.
"Your clothes, Mom… have you been wearing them for five years?"
"No, Honey. This is the first time I've worn this outfit since the funeral. I normally wear a white gown made of a kind of silk, so luxurious it feels liquid. The first thing you do when you get to heaven is check your clothes and the body that's in them at the gate. You're immediately given a locker."
"A locker?"
"Yeah. The number on the front of mine was 128, easy for me to remember because I was born on January 28. And knowing I couldn't walk around in public down here in a filmy gown, I went looking for it. I found it and slipped right back into my old clothes and body and well, here I am!"
The waiter with the cute knees — with the cute everything — returns to take our food order. I order the BLT with mesquite chips and Mom wants the chicken salad sandwich with the basil coleslaw. She smiles at us both.
grateful
good
froggy
blessed