by Chris Rush
I was shaking when I got to her desk. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Galdi. I really am.”
“I don’t understand, Mr. Rush. Are you in some kind of pain?”
“No, not at all.” Strangely, I was smiling, the way my mother did when someone asked her a difficult question.
“What is the meaning of this, then?” She held up the letter.
“I’m trying to find God. Like Gilgamesh.”
“That is nonsense!” It was the first time I heard anger in her voice. “I will not discuss such foolishness with you. I teach you history and that is all. We will not speak of this again. Take your book. And please do not take drugs in my class.”
I left in tears. In the woods, I burned the letter. It was addressed to Pauly Pinucci. I never wrote to him again.
* * *
AFTER THE ENCOUNTER with Galdi, a terrible melancholy overtook me. I called my mother and told her I wanted to come home, just for a visit.
She said it wasn’t a good time—that she and Dad were going to Spain.
“You’ve already been to Spain,” I said—and then I shouted: “Are you lying? I bet you’re not going anywhere!”
“What has gotten into you? We are absolutely going to Spain—and you’ll be coming back for Christmas, for God’s sake.”
To spite Mom, I went home anyway. I got Max, a handsome senior, to drive me, bribing him with some weed. When we arrived, my brothers were watching The Partridge Family and eating TV dinners.
“What are you doing here?” Michael said. “Are you in trouble again?”
“Where’s Mom?”
“Away,” said Steven. “Gramma Loey is babysitting—but she’s asleep.”
“Who’s that?” Michael asked, pointing to Max. “Your boyfriend?”
When Loey finally limped into the kitchen, Max and I were eating frozen pizza. I kissed my grandmother hello. She looked terrible, nearly bald, her frail legs sticking out from a too-short pink nightgown.
Old and fat, she sat down beside us, sipping a vanilla milkshake through a straw.
“The only thing I can keep down now, I’m afraid.”
Soon she headed back to bed—her steps slow and agonizing. With Max there, I was too embarrassed to get up and help her.
My grandmother was dying; that weekend would be the last time I’d ever see her. I didn’t know any of that, of course—but I wondered why Mom would leave a sick person to watch my brothers. They seemed oblivious; I could hear them laughing in the TV room.
None of us really knew this woman, our grandmother, our mother’s mother.
Later, feeling guilty, I peeked inside my parents’ room and saw Loey sleeping. I wanted to wake her, crawl into the bed with her and say: Tell me about your life, about my mother. Tell me everything. But I just stood there, frightened by the sound of her breathing.
What would she have said?
My boy, it’s all so sad. My first child died as he was born. He would have been your uncle! But the doctor killed him, crushed his skull with those awful forceps. Your mother was next, a year later, but my husband, Bill— your grandfather—was still heartbroken and raised her as a boy. He was too tough on her, kept her hair short, allowed her only boys’ clothing. When your mother’s pets would die, he’d stuff them for the shop! She even had to go to the zoos with him, to shoot the old lions. In high school, you know, she had to testify against her father in court, tell the world that he was beating me. Such terrible memories! My darling, I’m so glad you’re here next to me. It really does help …
* * *
MAYBE MOM COULDN’T face her mother failing, maybe that’s why she left for Spain. Sickness was frowned upon in our family—any sort of weakness.
“In the woods,” my father had once told me. “An animal goes off to die alone.”
I let Loey sleep and went downstairs to find Max.
He was already passed out on my bed, dimly lit by a strand of blinking lights. When I lay down beside him, I touched his hand as if by accident.
He bolted awake. “What the fuck are you doing?”
“Nothing,” I said. “Uh, maybe I should sleep on the floor.”
I put some blankets next to the statue of Mary. In the middle of the night I jerked off. Max snored through, but the Virgin saw everything.
* * *
ART CLASS became my refuge at Star Farms. From lumps of possibility, flowers and towers were pushed into being. I molded a fist thrust into the air. I pretended I was some kind of revolutionary, but I had nothing to revolt against—except my own unhappiness.
In a dormitory full of boys, I was dizzy with desire. Finally, I understood what Pauly had wanted. That I wanted it too both thrilled and horrified me. Sometimes, when no one was around, I’d fuck a slippery piece of clay—then smash it to pieces.
I could hear my mother’s voice: Nobody likes a strange boy.
But there were already rumors. Max, the senior who’d driven me home, had told other kids that I’d tried to blow him. Outside my room, I heard two boys having a loud conversation for my benefit.
What’s a blow job, Gramma?
Well, dear, a blow job is when one person sucks on another person’s penis. They say it feels wonderful.
Really? I wonder if anyone around here knows how to do that?
Mortified, I tried to figure out what to do, how to redeem my reputation.
Then Funky Dude popped into my head.
Funky was a tiny kid up the hall, curly hair and glasses—a child really. Everyone called him Funky Dude because he was not in any way funky. He was just uncool, wearing velvet slippers and a shawl to class—nodding to secret thoughts, singing to himself. The only thing that was clear to me, at the time, was that he was the one boy at Star Farms more fem than me.
One night, I suggested to Bopp and Bloom that we play a joke on Funky Dude.
They asked why.
“No reason.”
“So, what did you have in mind?”
We got right to it—pooling our urine in a pail. We added some paint, some dirt, a splash of cologne. We walked into the boy’s room after dark; he was sound asleep.
I hesitated, but Bloom had the bucket—and a moment later the contents were poured over Funky Dude’s face. It took him a few seconds to wake, but then he was choking, blinded by the muck, screaming in terror.
As I watched him suffer, my own horror was not without a feeling of triumph—because his suffering was not my own. It was sick, but we all laughed as Funky Dude whimpered, Why, why, why?
DEAR MR. AND MRS. RUSH, April 20, 1971
I am writing to inform you of an incident that took place Monday, April 4, which involved your son Chris. In the freshman dormitory, a boy was attacked by your son and several other students. The boy was temporarily blinded.
The actions of your son impede our attempts to create an environment respectful of all students. I have decided that Chris must rake leaves this weekend and next as punishment.
While we have no specific evidence, both faculty and student informants alike feel that Chris is one of Star Farms’ most committed drug users. I do hope that you will discuss this issue with him. He must begin to see the damage he is doing to himself and his future. In all frankness, many of us believe he has great abilities and would succeed if and when he matures.
Enclosed is our registration agreement for next year. Please sign it and return with your check.
Feel free to contact me if you have any questions.
Sincerely,
Wendall S. Stevens, Ph.D.
Headmaster
My mother did not show me this letter for forty years. When she received it, she read it once and put it away—never confronting me about the attack or my drug use.
But, a few days after the incident, when I was told I had a telephone call, I was certain it was her. I approached the phone in dread.
“Chris! Hi, it’s Donna!”
“Where are you?” I almost started crying. “I thought you were dead.”
“Don’t be dramatic. I was hanging with Vinnie—we’re back in New Jersey now—and guess what? We’re getting married!”
“Does Mom know?”
“She’s paying for the wedding.”
I asked Donna if she planned to finish college.
“No, after the wedding we’re moving to Tucson.”
“To work with Valentine?”
“Chris,” she scolded me, “not on the phone!”
* * *
THINGS WEREN’T GREAT at school. Now I wasn’t just a fag; the attack on Funky made me seem like I was a sadist, too. I didn’t want people to think of me as a bad person, and often I tried to change the subject by bragging about my great drug connections out west: Mexican gold bud—fifty bucks a kilo! The stoners shrugged, having heard it all before.
Finally, one day, handsome, hawklike Kurt Vogel interrupted me. “If—I’m saying if—you’re telling the truth, why wouldn’t we drive to Tucson, score cheap weed, and sell it here? Make some real money.”
“Oh,” I said, panicking, “my guy won’t sell in small quantities.”
“I’m not talking small. At least twenty kilos.”
Bloom and Bopp looked at me. “Faggot is full of shit. Faggot lie.”
“I’m not lying. I just have to make sure I can trust you.”
Kurt opened his arms as if allowing me to perform an examination.
“Fine,” I said. “I’ll make some calls.”
* * *
DONNA AND VINNIE were already in Tucson on their honeymoon. I couldn’t ask my sister about buying pot on the phone, so I mentioned a summer visit and the word product.
She understood, told me to come out. “It’ll be fun!”
When I told Mom that a visit to the Southwest would be educational, and that my friend Kurt was willing to drive, she said, “Well, we can’t have another summer like last year, with you moping around this house. And who is this Kurt fellow?”
“His dad is a brain surgeon.”
“Really?”
After calling the brain surgeon and his wife, Mom was impressed. “Nice people. Austrian, I think. They feel very strongly about their son’s independence. The sort of people I hoped you’d meet at Star Farms.”
The trip was on.
* * *
HOME FROM SCHOOL, I assembled my new backpack, poncho, sleeping bag, and canteen—but there was one thing missing. Money. I had a little saved, though not enough to buy a bunch of pot. Kurt and I were supposed to be partners.
When Dad wandered in half-drunk, his timing was impeccable. I was trying on my poncho. The plastic hood was over my head.
“Are you going somewhere?” he mumbled.
“Yes, I’m—”
“Norma!” he shouted. “Get my good blue suit from the cleaners. I’m meeting with clients tonight. I’m taking a nap now.”
In our home, Dad’s afternoon nap was a time for family reflection, a time for calm and quiet voices—and the best time to rob him.
Sneaking into the darkened bedroom, I saw him on the bed, asleep in his boxers. As usual, Dad’s clothes were laid out beside him. I slipped the wallet from his trousers and opened it—reverently—as if it were a prayer book. I pulled out a fan of hundred-dollar bills and bowed my head.
Thank You, Father.
* * *
WHEN KURT’S NEW VW van glided into our driveway the next day, I ran out to greet him. Mom followed close behind. I could tell she liked Kurt, with his clear blue eyes and short dark hair. They chatted and laughed while I loaded my stuff. Having just come home, it was strange to be leaving again.
“You’re both so young!” Mom exclaimed, kissing me, and then Kurt. I watched her slip her arms around his waist. He smiled at her and flirted—but as we drove away, his mirth instantly disappeared.
“Your mom wants to fuck me. Too late, Mrs. Bitch!”
He lit a cig, continued. “Listen closely. Here are the rules. You pay for the gasoline and I drive. You sleep outside and I sleep in the van. You buy your own food and I’ll take care of mine. As for the radio, I control it at all times. Do not touch it, ever. Understand? Never touch any of my shit.”
I gulped, nodded.
“Verbal confirmation, please.”
“Yes,” I said. “I understand.”
I’d just turned fifteen. For my birthday, I’d received camping gear, a new pair of Wallabees, and the book Be Here Now. I felt prepared—and nervous. I buckled the seat belt. When I asked Kurt if I could roll down the window, he told me, “It’s a free country,” and suddenly we both burst into laughter.
PART II
GIVE ME A HOME
8.
Peter Pan
KURT WAS VERY ORGANIZED. Tire pressure checked each morning. Sixteen cigarettes a day, at one-hour intervals. Everything he ate or drank was nutritionally sound and methodically shoplifted. Kurt said it was immoral to spend money on food that could be spent on drugs. While grocery clerks followed long-haired me around the store, clean-cut Kurt stuffed prime rib in his shorts.
Grilled to perfection on his Coleman stove, each of Kurt’s steaks was carefully timed—two and a half minutes per side, with a five-minute rest before consumption.
He said: It’s the blood that nourishes.
He never offered me a single bite, but I made do with my purple jelly sandwiches. On the sides of superhighways, preparing for sleep, I watched Kurt inside the van. It reminded me of the way I used to look in at my parents when I was playing in the yard after dark: watching from the lawn, seeing them kiss or shout at each other. They could have been anyone’s parents, or actors in a play. I wondered if Kurt, too, was performing for me when he slowly took off his shirt and yawned. But then, a moment later, the interior light would click off.
At five each morning, he kicked my sleeping bag and we’d drive till dark. The whole country flew by, unexplored. Kurt said Middle America was a waste of gasoline.
His plan was to go to Boulder for the pussy, then Tucson for the pot.
Sometimes we stopped by some lonesome river, to wash and swim. I’d steal glances at Kurt. He wore his naked body without apology. He knew he was a man, just as I knew I was not. I never loved Kurt, but I loved looking at his beautiful dick—even as I tried to look away.
* * *
THE WINDSHIELD of a ’71 VW microbus was like a movie screen. Sitting in the front row, I watched the world fly by. When I saw snowcaps on the horizon, I started to yell. Kurt was excited, too. He pushed the van as fast as it would go. At the bottom of those celestial peaks was famed Boulder, Colorado.
Kurt pulled over on a tree-lined street, and we walked to the town park. There seemed to be a thousand kids sprawled on the lawn—smiling faces, blond guitars, various kinds of smoke. I took off my shoes and wandered around barefoot. People waved at me as if they knew me. When I turned to tell Kurt how great Boulder was, he wasn’t there.
I retraced my steps but couldn’t find him. And then I started to run in circles, like a demented dog, calling his name.
Freaking out, I headed back to the van. It was gone, with all my gear inside. I tried to stay calm, standing like an idiot in the empty parking space.
Kurt had ditched me.
I sat on the curb, angry. My anger grew to include Mom. Why had she let me leave in the first place? Why weren’t we all on a family vacation, heading out to see Donna?
I went back to the park and sat on the dandelion lawn. From a nearby blanket, a tiny boy, with the quietest voice, spoke up. “Hi. I’m Peter. From Florida.”
Blond and blue-eyed, pale and girlish, he was a miniature version of me, both of us with hair past our shoulders. “Do you want to go down by the water?” he asked me.
I joined him by the roaring river that split the park in two. Twice we saw guys try to swim in the water and almost drown. Peter explained that the river was snowmelt, fast-moving and dangerous.
We talked for a while—I mostly rambled on about Kurt, nothing about my family. Peter was a bit more
forthcoming.
“When I first ran away, I didn’t have anything either,” he said. “Not even fifty cents.”
“I’m not a runaway,” I said. “My friend’s coming back.”
“From what you just told me, he doesn’t sound like a friend. But I know a safe place you can stay.”
By dark, it had started to rain. It was cold, and all I had on was a T-shirt. Peter escorted me to a shelter at a church, not far from the park. He coached me on what to say. In the office, the two counselors asked me a lot of questions. I was nervous. They made me call home.
Mom was not pleased to get a collect call at one in the morning. “Just a little mix-up with Kurt. I’m sorry, Mom. Just tell them it’s okay for me to stay here.”
Once approved, Peter and I were sent to the dormitory—a large room full of twenty or thirty metal beds, all of them occupied—more a jail than a church. It smelled of sweat and disinfectant. There were no windows at all, a single flickering bulb.
In the half-dark, an excited kid ran up to us, talking at high speed. He followed us into the bathroom. “Did you see my guitar? It’s cracked and shit but it still works fine. I can’t believe someone gave this as a donation. I’m going to play guitar and drums. Do you guys play anything?” He said he was from a town I’d never heard of. “It’s in Alaska. But I had to leave because my brother beat the shit out of me, every day of my life.”
Alaska told us he’d hitched a thousand miles and, like me, had gotten to Boulder only that day. The three of us snuck outside, walking past a big black sign—NO DRUGS OR LEAVE NOW!—to smoke a joint in the courtyard.
Alaska wore no shirt, the cold rain dripping on his muscles. He just stood there, rambling on about his life, showing us scars on his back where someone had whipped him, over and over. Peter gently patted the boy’s arm.
