Alter Boys

by Chuck Stepanek

  “Hello children, my name is Miss Hymen. Now I want you to say it with me. Miss Hiiii-mennn. Good! Now shall we try it again. Miss Hymen.” Ms. Hymen seemed unfazed in repeating the surname that had been the bane of her youth and had driven her into elementary education. It was a career in which parents and faculty had to be respectful and the young students were oblivious to the sexual innuendo. That is at least for a few more years.

  “And I know each of your names.” This of course was a bold faced lie. Each child’s name had been printed on a lanyard which swung proudly from the neck of their owner.

  “There are many things all of us will do in kindergarten this year. But first, I thought it would be nice if we started our first day with a story.”

  This brought no response and none was expected.

  The opening day story routine was an ages-old teaching technique designed to help teachers learn the names of their students. The story, “Little Black Sambo,” Lily Hymen knew by heart. By holding the book face out to the children they could look earnestly at the pictures while she matched their faces to the names on the lanyards. If she screwed up the story, all the better. It would help her identify any self-righteous snot-drop who might pose a challenge to her authority.

  “I’d like you all to move up into our story circle in front of this chair.” Ms. Hymen touched the adult size chair with one hand and held the promised storybook temptingly with the other, and then prepared to take inventory.

  Little Jimmy Cotner and one of those stupid Bushnell kids (was this one Andy? Randy? Christ they all look and act the same each year) scrambled up like rabid beavers. They elbowed each other and exchanged menacing hisses, then tumbled at Miss Hymen’s feet wrestling to gain vital inches of prime seating.

  Valerie Chinook, the female version of Poppin’ Fresh, waddled up and plopped herself next to the wrestlers. She commanded her space by girth and oblivion. Everything was for her, about her, and judging by the size of her waist, inside of her too. She took no notice of the brawling boys to her left or the other kids settling around her. There was an adult in the room and it was adults that serviced her.

  ‘High maintenance and high cholesterol’ Miss Hymen mused. “Hi Valerie” she voiced. Valerie shifted her weight importantly. She raised her chin and lowered her lips in smug validation of the acknowledgement. ‘I’m here now, get on with the story’ her expression conveyed.

  Georgie and the rest of the more placid personalities moved toward the chair. Name attachment for this group was more of a challenge. But when it came to maintaining control in the classroom, the quiet ones were a blessing.

  And whether by accident, or by virtue of years of practice of parking himself in front of the TV, Georgie found an open spot five feet unobstructed to the chair and waited for the show to begin.

  It was more show than he was expecting.

  After the children had settled and she had nailed 5 names (the easy ones) to memory, Ms. Hymen stepped forward with Sambo in hand.

  She stooped to take her seat, and her mid-length dress hitched and buckled. As she bent her legs and settled her body, the fabric crawled up and over her knees. She shifted once, side to side, and then wrapped her ankles around the chair legs. She was ready to start her story.

  The story ended up being just ok, but the view was exquisite.

  Georgie had never seen pink underwear before.

  Ms. Hymen’s legs were a smooth creamy tan, that angled in from the floor, up the sides of the chair, ducked under the canopy created by her taut dress, and ended in magical little world of pink.

  He felt he could crawl into that warm soft cave and lay his head against the pink pillow that puffed out slightly in the middle and then tapered off up and under to places unknown.

  “And the second tiger said: Little black Sambo, give me your jacket and I won’t eat you up!”

  Beyond the pink fabric there was another deeper cave. Georgie could vaguely see the darkness behind the pink and he ached to know what might lie beyond. He spent the entire story time staring directly ahead, imagining things that he could never understand. He envisioned miss Hymen letting him touch the pretty pink patch, removing her underwear and letting him see the cave within the cave, allowing him to feel the silkiness of her legs and the mysterious place where they connected.

  “But little black Sambo ate 72 pancakes. The most pancakes of all.”

  The book cover closed on the final illustration, and the legs came back together like theatrical stage curtains.

  The show was over. But definitely not forgotten.

  Miss Hymen gauged that she had matched about a dozen of the new names and faces (or reasonably so). That would be put to the test when they were sitting elsewhere. She had tried to identify the boy sitting directly in front of her, but each time she scanned him (unlike the upraised expressions of his classmates following the pictorial adventures of Sambo) his eyes were fixed straight forward. So she had been denied a good look at his face and besides, his lanyard had flipped over concealing his name.

  He was one of the quite ones, which was good, but for taking inventory part of the toughest of the bunch.

  The rest of the morning passed unremarkably. There was coloring to be performed with waxy Crayola’s that had seen better days 4 or 5 years ago. The few good colors were eagerly snatched up by the first in line, the rest had to settle on stubby blacks, browns and totally unsatisfying whites. There was a session listening to nursery rhymes played on a 78 RPM phonograph, and then came an odd practice known as rest time; each student laying on the linoleum floor with nothing more than a thin towel between them and the hard cold surface.

  As the day ended Ms. Hymen trilled (knowing that many parents were just outside the door and within earshot) “Children we have had a wonderful first day and I can’t wait to see you all again tomorrow.”

  Tomorrow? This was news to Georgie.

  He left the room with the other children and easily found mommy. She was off by herself from the other parents aggressively extracting a greasy nugget from her nasal cavity. From a distance you could almost have confused her flailed fingers and twisting hand as a wave. Ms. Hymen began to raise an obligatory hand in return, then recognizing the act, turned quickly away as if tending to another matter. “Oh my God, how disgusting!” she breathed.

  She may not have been able to recognize the little boy, but the mother she could never forget.

  3

  They left the building and he trailed mommy wordlessly to the car. A less than routine driver, mommy was already in deep conversation with St. Christopher, the patron saint of travelers, about their journey home. “Saint Christopher lead me safely…if the brakes fail…blessed saint of the journey…the shifter is shaped like an “H”…Jesus on a donkey, gas in the tank.”

  Once they were rolling though, the drive became stone-dead silent. Mommy had to focus all of her attention on navigating the car and its riders the fourteen blocks from school to home. Finally in the drive, engine off, she sent up prayers of thanks more fitting for those who crossed the Dead Sea out of Egypt than for a three minute errand on blacktop. Georgie didn’t stay to listen though. TV was waiting.

  Kindergarten had put a big dent into Georgie's TV viewing. He was lamenting what he had missed as he settled himself back in front of the tube. It wasn’t all that bad though, there had been the pink underwear and that made up for something. He thought about that warm cave of pink again and again as the noon “N,” “E,” “W,” “S” became the afternoon soaps. Eventually he began to feel at ease that perhaps the worlds of television and kindergarten could co-exist.

  It took mommy a good two hours of pacing, fretting and praying to overcome the daunting adventure of first taking the kid to school and then having to pick him up later. When she believed that she had prayed enough to express an acceptable amount of gratitude for two safe journeys, she turned on her son.

  From the kitchen doorway: “I had to drive twice today because of you… and thank Saint
Christopher…and then tomorrow I…” she visibly shuttered at the realization, “Again! And every day!...show mercy on me God…I hope that you…did you read?!...and they laughed at you!”

  No, Georgie did not read and no they did not laugh at him. But his mother needed something. Something from him to justify the trial she endured and would continue to endure. With all sincerity he gave her the one fact that to him embodied all of the first day of kindergarten.

  “She has pink underwear.”

  Mommy went silent. The tidy bowl man gratefully filled the dead air. Then in a voice commingled with mortification and amusement: “You looked up a little girls dress!...I see London, I see Saint Francis of Assisi…dirty Georgie Porgie girl!”

  Georgie had not looked up a little girls dress. Had not even thought about it; until now. But it was not a bad idea. There must be lots of pink underwear. But this was his first time and that made it special, plus this was an adult, an adult authority figure. Someone who could give him love, acknowledgement, affirmation, and most important, had willingly shared it with him. Not just a brief glance, but a long satisfying view.

  He clarified his statement.

  “The teacher. The teacher has pink underwear.”

  “The teacher!” Shrieking. “And just how do you know that Georgie Porgie girl?...shall not covet thy neighbor’s wife…did you crawl under her like a dog?”

  Georgie was starting to think that it had been a bad idea to share his new found interest. What had felt so good to him when it was his and his alone now felt tainted and wrong when shared. But he was in too deep. “During the story. When she’s sitting. I can see it.”

  Mommy considered her next move and thought it to be brilliant. “I’m gonna tell your teacher that you saw her underwear… sackcloth and ashes…her pink underwear” she punctuated. It had a two prong effect. The boy would never dare speak of it again and he would be ashamed for being the dirty Georgie Porgie that he was.

  Georgie squirmed uncomfortably. And at this, mommy was delighted. “I’m going to call your teacher right now!” She beamed. “I’m going to tell her…over the fields and everywhere…that Georgie Porgie girl saw her pink underwear!” She turned back to the kitchen and marched to the phone with faux intent.

  Guilt-induced horror rocked his body. Pleadingly, the words ‘no…please, don’t’ formed in his mind but could not find their way to his lips.

  He tried to mute his anxiety by turning back to the non-judgmental television. Part of one ear he kept tuned toward the kitchen; awaiting the pending rattle of the handset, the swoosh-clickity clack of the rotary dial and the one-sided conversation that would incriminate him.

  No such call was placed. But the potential that it could be placed was more unbearable than if it had been done and over with.

  Ms. Hymen’s pink underwear had been such a wonderful discovery, but just like teaching himself to read or wanting to be a priest-- (don’t go there!) Just like everything else that made him feel good, there were consequences. The vast black void inside him that begged for recognition, for any small morsel of ‘feel good,’ rumbled savagely in protest.

  Things that he craved for fulfillment were always wrong. It was so much easier just to hate.

  Deep in his mind the already damaged thin membrane that separated ‘hate’ and ‘fulfillment’ became dangerously porous. New pathways bridged the lobes and synaptic impulses excitedly shot the gap. Desperate, long overdue messengers seeking love, acceptance and fulfillment found eager receptors in hate, jealousy and envy. Another tear in the wall; this one separating the characteristics of gender. Testosterone and estrogen carriers collided like Keystone Kops. Pink underwear, penises, girls are better than boys, if only I had a girl, you’re nothing like John-John, you’re just a Georgie Porgie---

  Girl.

  It suddenly made sense. He was supposed to be a girl. A Georgie Porgie Girl.

  Chapter 3

  1

  Kindergarten breezed along for Georgie. Lacking social skills, unlike his classmates, his intellectual learning progressed without distraction. He sat quietly, absorbing the lessons delivered by Ms. Hymen while observing her feminine mannerisms. He learned to jockey for prime seating (and viewing) during story time and soon discovered that his teacher sported more colors than a coveted 16 pack of Crayola’s. He liked the soft blues and yellows but continued to hold the original pink in highest esteem. Occasionally Ms. Hymen wore ordinary white panties with heavier seams and a bulky center. The shape just wasn’t right. It was as if she had stuffed an envelope into her panties; an envelope that was waiting to capture any buried treasure that threaten to fall from her hidden cave.

  Georgie felt no shame in staring up Ms. Hymen’s works. But he never again admitted to mommy that he was doing so. “Did you see her underwear today…the lord sees all, knows all…I’m going to call her.” Mommy had grilled him daily for a couple of weeks and then tired as the boy stared at the television and denied her the satisfaction of any alarmed reaction.

  “Children, I have something for you to take home today.” Momentary curiosity from the class. “I want you to take these to your parents.” A fistful of fresh mimeographed pages were displayed.

  Yet another paper, it was a common occurrence. Curiosity ebbed and the class returned to lethargic play.

  “Halloween is coming and you’ll all get to wear costumes and bring treats. So please take a paper today and give it to your parents. You don’t want to be the only one here without a costume. Class dismissed. I’ll see you tomorrow.” This paper, unlike others before it, was eagerly grabbed up by the youngsters. Georgie sensed that it held some level of importance.

  It was 2:30 before the scream came from the kitchen. Georgie had learned early on that it was best not to present things like school papers to his mother before, during or after the drive home. Instead he would lay them on the kitchen table to wait until mommy had completed her rituals. Artwork and crafts were ultimately discarded. Important looking documents, like fire safety awareness week flyers, were stressed over and held for later consultation with daddy. This one though, evoked a rapid response.

  “Bring a bag of candy! You’ll rot your teeth out!...gluttony, the seven deadly sins…wasting perfectly good money!” She rolled and unrolled the mimeograph into a paper funnel. “And Halloween! The heathen all saints day!”

  Georgie knew about all saints day, it was one of the holy days that you could not miss. He knew a little about Halloween, some from television and less so from the discussions of his classmates.

  “And a costume!...beware Satan, he appears in many forms…and what do you think you’re going to be?”

  The answer had been on Georgie's lips for a long time. Long before the drive home, long before the announcement that morning. Longer, much longer than he could remember. It went back to a time that was clouded with events and things long since forgotten. It was driven by forces he could not identity, people and faces that were buried in oblivion. And perhaps it went back further, to a time before his time. When things were pre-ordained and you your lot in life was cast before seed and ovum united.

  “I want to be a girl.”

  The answer came out as naturally as if he had declared: ‘Fireman,’ ‘Ghost’ or ‘Bugs Bunny.’

  It took mommy by surprise. She had been all worked up to unleash a tirade, whatever character the boy would choose, but something about ‘girl’ stopped her cold.

  She stood in the doorway and unclenched the funneled paper. It sprung out and rebounded to half a coil like a bobbing question mark.

  “You want to be a girl.” Plainly. Flatly. “I suppose I could get clothes at the Salvation Army.” Dressing up like a girl was harmless. No vampires, no devils (she crossed herself) and no money wasted on some cheap plastic costume that would be worn once and then forgotten.

  Georgie looked at her in outright awe. His mommy had made a statement in support of his decision. His right decision. To be a girl.

  “But candy! H
ow can I…if only the land of milk and honey…” She struck on an idea. “I could bake kolache! Much better than all that sugar! Yes, I’ll bake kolache and they’ll like it so much better than that store bought crap…praise Jesus!”

  Georgie was dumbstruck. For the first time ever he had found favor with his mother. And it had been in him all this time. To be a girl. He was gonna be the best girl that ever was. Georgie Porgie Girl.

  His classmates felt otherwise.

  2

  Unadulterated candor is the beauty of youthful innocence. It can also be the bane of little boys who dress up as little girls. And with terrors like Jimmy Cotner and Randy, or was it Andy, Bushnell to contend with, Georgie's dress up day was a hard lesson learned.

  “What are you?” Andy or Randy grilled. “I’m a girl.” Georgie replied proudly. Andy or Randy began to laugh and then caught himself. “You’re a slut!” Georgie didn’t know what a slut was and neither did Andy or Randy for that matter, but the term had an ugly feel about made Georgie reel.