Winter came, and with it winter sports. I warmed the bench for varsity basketball. I couldn’t dribble or shoot, and I fouled everyone who came near me. Chris and Moonshot came to all my games, I think just to embarrass me. They piled into the top bleachers and yelled at the coach, “Put Pete in!” I scored one basket all season long, and Chris and Moonshot went wild in the stands, stomping the wooden bleachers until they shook, and yelling Indian war hoots. I was so embarrassed, I could have drowned myself in the water bucket.
T.J. played squash, a racquet sport I had never heard of before coming to Briarwood. Chris explained to me that squash was “a game for fruits named after a fruit.”
T.J. invited me to one of his matches. The squash courts were in an old unheated shack behind the gymnasium. I didn’t understand the sport — two players swatting a tiny black ball around a dusty, white cubicle — but I enjoyed watching T.J. play so hard to win. I had never seen him so serious and competitive. T.J. was good at squash. His legs weren’t very strong and his knees barely bent when he moved, but his reflexes were fast and he could control his racquet and make trick shots. He was seeded number two on the squash team and won more than half of his matches. He won the day I came to see him play.
Chris was a star on the hockey team. Just like his brother, he was terrifically tough for his size. Hockey players twice as big would smash Chris into the boards, shaved ice would fly, skates would cross like knives. Chris would pick himself up off the ice and impossibly score the winning goal. The biggest game of the season was against Whitehaven, Chris’s old school. Chris scored two goals and got into a fight with Whitehaven’s goalie. The overweight goalie pushed Chris’s face down and pulled his jersey over his head, but Chris drove forward frantically on his skates and they both fell over into the hockey net. Moonshot, T.J., and I hollered, “Kill ’em, Chris!” from the side of the rink. After the game, Chris skated straight to the locker room. I wondered why he didn’t stay on the ice to talk to his old teammates.
Have I told you about Moonshot Lewis? His real name was Ronnie; we called him Moonshot because, in certain biological aspects, he resembled almost literally a Saturn booster rocket.
Moonshot was a miscreated black boy whose face, from certain angles or depending on your mood, might strike you as deformed. To me, he looked like a genetic mutation. His chin was elongated and triangular, his eyes blurry quarter-moons. His body was long and thin, all smooth black muscle, arms, legs, and torso assembled with a deranged sense of disproportion, as if collected from different bodies. Moon-shot was ugly, but intriguingly attractive: an overall effect of demonic sleekness and tight-twisted reptilian power.
I suspected Moonshot and Chris were doing drugs together. They seemed to have secrets, things they never told me or T.J. I watched in envy as Moonshot whispered confidential matters in Chris’s ear at dinner, or ran off to Chris’s house for the weekend. (If it wasn’t Chris’s house, then it was Shelton Buckey’s, or Mark Fix’s.) Moonshot was one of the most popular boys at school.
Ronnie and I were never that close. If we were ever alone together, we hemmed and hawed until Chris or T.J. got back. Perhaps he thought of me as a rival, or perhaps I reminded him, like a mirror, that he was black, and made him wonder what he was doing being friends with these two white boys. For whatever reason, Ronnie didn’t talk to me much.
Still, I always suspected that he liked me. Something out of the corner of his eye, something subtle in his stare reached me, more like a radio signal than an expression. I felt at times a telepathic contact with something deep in Ronnie’s mind, a not quite perceptible command to come to him and surrender. Perhaps the toxic chemicals or radiation exposure that had mutated his body had also gifted him with ESP.
If I could barely recognize Moonshot’s hunger for me, it was because his lust was a quite different thing from T. J.’s. Moonshot just wanted to fuck me. My ass was the thing; my face and dick were superfluities to him. I learned from Ronnie that the sexiness of black and white were very different things, traveled along different wavelengths to separate regions of the brain. I felt warmly preyed upon when Moonshot smiled at me in the shower, his lip curled upwards and his eyes, half-closed, angled downwards towards my rump. I imagined french-kissing his ugly face, and sucking him like a slave.
But I was too afraid to approach him. The feelings Ron aroused were new, harsh, scary. As long as he would allow it, I was satisfied to drop my bar of soap on the shower floor, bend over slowly, and glimpse Moonshot’s vicious, imploding leer, upside down from between my legs.
This group of boys — T.J., Chris, and Ronnie — dominated my emotional life that third year at Briarwood. At the center of us all was T.J. Adams. He brought us all together. He loved Chris, he was Moonshot’s best friend, and he was seducing me more profoundly at every turn. Though Chris had the most money, Moonshot the biggest dick, and I got the best grades, I really think T.J. was the brightest light among us. He had the most nerve. We were all reacting to him.
There was diversity and electricity in our little queer enclave. Together we formed an underground network of open and closed desires, affections, loves, and hurts. The separate facets of our homosexual matrix gleamed and receded variably, like points of light on a sparkling diamond, taking turns in prominence.
11
It was a warm afternoon in the spring. Moonshot and I were in Chris and T.J.’s room, listening to records. Chris wanted to score from his drug connection in Pomfret, Connecticut, and he wanted us to go with him.
“I’m telling you we can make it.’’
“We’ll all get kicked out, Chris,” I said.
“No we won’t. We go to dinner, right? After dinner, we cut down the hill behind the chapel and hitch into Hartford. We take the train to Pomfret, score, hang out all night. My friend will drive us back. We’ll be back here before breakfast.”
“Who’s gonna be looking for us on a Saturday night?” said Moonshot.
“Right,” said Chris. “And it’s gonna be worth it, too. The best black hash and cocaine. Mix them together, whoosh, to the moon. Ronnie’s going. Right, Ron?” Moonshot and Chris slapped each other’s palms. “Come on, Givens. You’re so straight. I thought black guys were supposed to have balls.”
“I’m not doing cocaine,” said T.J.
“Me neither,” I said.
“So, come along for the adventure.”
An hour after dinner we were on the train to Pomfret. It was getting near dark. Chris lit a cigarette and took a long draw. “You guys are going to really like Gusto, ” he said.
“Who’s Gusto?” asked T. J.
“He’s my dealer. Gusto’s a maniac. In 1954 he drove his Jeep onto the outskirts of an atomic test site in Nevada. The blast turned his hair white and took away his color vision. He went nuts ’cause he thought he was gonna die of cancer. So he bagged college, spent ten years in Japan, but he never got sick. He’s been dealing hash out of the Far East ever since.”
“He can’t see color?”
“That’s what he says. Everything is black and white. Says his hair used to be red, but now it’s white.”
“You sure he doesn’t change into a giant purple monster at night?” I said.
“He’s still waiting to mutate. He says it could happen any day.”
Chris was seated across from T. J. in our railroad car. He shunted downwards and put his foot up on T.J.’s seat, between T.J.’s legs. He looked odd that way, with his raised desert boot and his shoulders shrugged as if he didn’t have a neck.
“How you doing, buddy?” he said to T.J., shaking his cigarette ash between his legs onto the floor.
“I’m okay,” T.J. said quietly. He leaned back and turned to look out the window. We were passing through thick forest. The trees seemed only inches away from the glass.
“I love riding on trains. This scenery is really cool, right?”
“Yeah,” said T.J.
“Why won’t you get high with me?”
“I just
don’t want to do drugs.”
Chris flicked more cigarette ash on the floor. “We should have sex together. With two girls, I mean. We could get two babes, blow some hash, and ball them together in the same room.”
T. J. smiled and flushed red.
“We’re roommates, man,” Chris said. “And we’re going to be business partners in the future. We can do stuff like that. It’s like being blood brothers. I know a cabin in North Hartford where we could go and do it. I know two girls, too.”
“How come you know so many girls in this area, Chris?” I asked.
“I’m not like you dorks. I scout out my territory before I move in.”
“Line ’em up and knock ’em up, right?” said Moonshot.
“And your own private sex cabin?” I offered.
“Damn straight,” said Chris. “I’m a spoiled preppy brat and I want everything.”
Chris shifted up in his seat when he said “everything” and almost kicked T. J. in the testicles.
“Ooops!” said Chris, pulling back his boot.
“Hey, watch it!” grinned T.J.
“Sorry, pal.” They looked at each other for a second. Chris rested his foot back between T.J.’s legs and they both relaxed into their seats. No one spoke for a minute.
“Damn, boy, I could use some pussy right now,” said Moonshot, grabbing his dick through his pants.
“So could I,” said Chris blandly, dragging on his cigarette and likewise grabbing his crotch. He smiled at T.J., and a beam of red light from the setting sun mixed into the amber hue of his eyes for just a second.
“Gusto says you never really know a guy until you’ve watched him fuck. Then you get a sixth sense about him. You can read each other’s thoughts.”
“That’s weird,” I said.
“I think it’s like a war thing. Martial philosophy. Gusto’s been in ’Nam, Korea.”
Chris moved his foot from T. J.’s seat and leaned forward. He put out his cigarette. “You want to try that, sometime, T.J.?”
T.J. didn’t answer Chris. He just looked wanly out the window. We were passing over a huge wooded canyon with a rushing, shallow stream beneath. A man dressed in denim was standing by the side of the stream. I wondered what he might be doing there. On the horizon, the sun was hiding behind rust-colored clouds.
Gusto lived in an old-fashioned white house surrounded by hedges. There was a wide lawn in front, and a dirt walkway went from the road right to the front door. It was dark when we got there, and I could see all the windows in front were lit with the curtains drawn. Our taxi dropped us off in front, and we walked around back. Chris knocked on a screen door.
A man in his forties with long brown hair came to the door. “Who are you?” he asked.
“We’re looking for Gusto,” said Chris.
“I said, ‘Who are you?”’
“I’m Chris Blackwood. He knows we’re coming.”
“Yeah, he told me. Come on in.”
He led us through the kitchen into the living room.
“Gus’ll be back in a few minutes. Make yourself at home, fellas.” The man went down a flight of wooden stairs to the basement.
The living room could have been a room in Mr. Chase’s house. There was a black sofa and two loveseats, both covered with white flower-print upholstery. There were plenty of green plants. At one end of the room was a stereo with speakers as large as small refrigerators. From down in the basement, we could hear rock music playing.
We heard the screen door in the back creak open and slam shut. A man in his midthirties came into the kitchen.
“Gusto!” said Chris. As Chris had told us, Gusto’s hair was white, cut short with streaks of faint yellow, as though someone had splattered drops of yellow dye on a white sheet. He was tall and thin and wore a white, slightly soiled sleeveless t-shirt, tight black corduroy pants, and brown boots. He had black and red cotton wristbands around each wrist.
“Thayer! I can’t get rid of you, can I?” He threw a bottle of beer into the refrigerator.
“No way, Gusto,” said Chris.
Gusto reached out to shake Chris’s hand. “Good to see you, Blackwood.” He turned to the rest of us.
“You guys are Blackwood’s buddies?”
“This is Moonshot, T.J., and Pete Givens,” said Chris.
“And you’re at this Briarwood School now?”
“That’s right.”
“The Briarwood School. Whooeeee.”
“I got one more year, then I’m bagging it,” said Chris.
“I’m not going to ask about Whitehaven.”
“They caught me nailing this chick in the dorm. I was already on probation for drugs, so they asked me to leave.”
“For getting a little pussy? They shoulda pinned a medal on you.” Gusto winked at me and Ronnie. “How come they call you Moonshot?”
“It’s a long story, Gus,” said Chris.
“Oh ho,” laughed Gusto. He put his arm around Chris’s shoulder. “Let’s go upstairs for a minute.”
“Why don’t you guys put on some music?” said Chris. “Yeah, I’m sorry, fellas. Help yourself to the fridge, play my records. I got to talk to Blackwood here for a second, and then we can hang out. I want to get to know you guys.” Chris followed Gusto upstairs and the rest of us sat down on the loveseats. T.J. searched through the record bin and put on an Eric Clapton record. Chris came back in a few minutes.
“What’s up?” T.J. said.
“Gusto’s making a phone call. I got the stuff.”
“Isn’t he afraid of getting busted?” asked Ronnie, looking through the curtains.
“Not here. He doesn’t keep anything big here. If they busted him here, it would just be a possession rap.”
“He stores the stuff someplace else?”
“I’m not supposed to talk about his business,” said Chris. Chris pulled a pipe and a chunk of black hash out of his pocket. He stuffed the hash into the pipe, lit it and drew a puff, then handed the pipe to Ron. Chris started playing an imaginary electric guitar.
“Clapton can wail. You guys want beers?” asked Chris, jumping up and going into the kitchen.
Gusto came downstairs. He’d changed into a black dress shirt and white jeans.
“You’re T.J., and Moonshot, and Pete Givens, right?” he said, sitting back on the sofa and pointing to each of us.
“You got it right,” said Ronnie, handing Gusto the hash pipe.
Gusto took a long draw on the pipe. “We’re going to know each other before this night is over.”
“How does it feel being radioactive?” T. J. asked Gusto. It was about eleven o’clock, and we’d been talking and listening to music for hours. Gusto and T.J. were sitting close to each other on the floor with their shoes and shirts off. Chris was asleep on the sofa, stoned from too much hash. Moonshot was downstairs with Gusto’s roommate. I was sitting in a loveseat with my legs swung over the arm.
“Well, I thought I was going to die at first. I sat around for three years just waiting to turn green. My hair turned white. I used to be a brunet. First I got this long white streak in my hair. Then it all turned white.”
“Bullshit,” said T.J., chuckling.
“You’re a wise guy, huh, Mr. T.J.?”
“You don’t know the half of it,” I said.
“I should call up some chicks. We could have an orgy,” said Gusto.
“No, this is cool,” T.J. said abruptly.
“What did the blast look like?” I asked.
“Oh, I didn’t see the blast. I heard kind of a popping sound in the distance. I turned towards the pop, and I got hit by this big wind of hot air, and then the sky turned dark. Damn, I was a hundred miles away from the blast.”
T.J. started shaking his head and laughing uncontrollably. Gusto looked at him wide-eyed, and then smiled tenderly.
“Didn’t you see the warning signs?” I asked.
“Hell, I was twenty years old, I was stoned. I was getting into it, out there all b
y myself. I thought, just that much radiation” — he pinched two fingers together and closed one eye — “would make me a true mystic.”
“I did something stupid like that when I was a kid,” I said. “I saw Peter Pan on television, and I really wanted to fly, so I got this battery charger from my father’s tool drawer. Then I cut off an extension cord and hooked it up, and plugged it into an outlet. I thought the extra power charge would make me able to fly.”
“Jesus, what happened?” asked T.J. He was lying flat on his back now, with his feet crossed at the ankles.
“I blew out all the electricity in our apartment. I’m lucky I wasn’t electrocuted.”
“’Cause you thought it would make you fly,” said Gusto.
“It’s like believing in the Tooth Fairy,” said T.J.
“Right,” said Gusto. “When you’re two years old you believe in the Tooth Fairy. When you’re a little kid, you believe in Peter Pan. And when you’re twenty, you believe two kilorads at a hundred miles will turn you into Carlos Castaneda.”
“And when you’re fifty years old—” I said.
“Then you believe the most outrageous shit of all.”
Gusto turned and looked at T.J., and T.J. laughed. It was his most precious, pixie, Third Form laugh. I hadn’t heard him laugh quite like that in two years.
The Color of Trees Page 14
