by John Donovan
When we are alone, Mother tells me she is sorry I have the cut and that she would not know what to do if anything serious happened to me and I had better watch out in the future when I take a shower. I tell her I won't fall again. Our words are clear to me. They are the first we have spoken since Fred died which are not about what happened that night. Not that we have spent all our time talking about the actual event. We have spent most of our time not talking about it-and obviously not talking about it. Mother hasn't been on her juice as often. She hasn't become a saint in two months, but she has managed to take only two or three drinks in the evening, no more. She has tried to interest me in the activities of the Reform Democratic Club of the Chelsea area of New York City. If I didn't know better, I would think she was a member. She is afraid to join though. She thinks politics is to discuss, not to do anything about.
Tonight she kisses me about eighteen times. She's a regular Florence Nightingale. By nine o'clock she has begun to feel the absence of Fred in our lives, so she has broken her rule about drinking in moderation. She falls asleep on the living-room couch. There is no Fred to walk, so I have nothing to do but go to my room.
When the telephone rings, I answer it. It is Altschuler.
"Are you all right?" he asks.
"Sure."
"I'm sorry about what happened in the shower."
"You are?" I say.
"Of course. I didn't want to hurt you. I didn't, did l?"
"I'm all right, I guess."
"That's good."
There isn't anything more to say, so we pause for a minute and say nothing. Finally Altschuler says he will hang up. I tell him that's fine with me, and we both hang up. Then I tell him to run along and screw himself. No one hears me. Except me.
y cut ear makes me the greatest hero our school has ever had. Most of the kids don't know, or forget, that I got the cut in the shower room. Every time I walk down the corridor this path is cleared for me, with kids looking at me on either side. Me and Moses, leading the people through the waters. I'm hopeful that the baseball season won't last too much longer. I feel like such a phony.
Fortunately there are only two more games. I can't play the first one. The second is against a team made up of boys living in Harlem. They are such good players that my real talent gets back into perspective, and we are slaughtered. Whoever said "fame is fleeting" knew what he was talking about, because the day after that game against all those black boys, I join the ranks again. Even Frankie Menlo has a hard time hiding his contempt.
I feel so happy about this turn of events I even ask Altschuler if he wants to walk home from school with me. He says that he does. When we come to Mrs. Greene's candy store, we go in, and she starts to cry because we have ignored her so long, and then she starts to give us one piece of about every candy in the store. It is almost like it was several months ago before everything happened.
"Don't you ever buy anything from her?" I ask Altschuler after we were out on the street again.
"I used to. At first, when I went in with Wilkins. After a while she wanted us to sample everything and tell her how we liked her candy. She used to say it was market research."
"My mother talks about market research," I say. "At the advertising agency where she works, people spend millions of dollars to find out what other people think of products."
"Not Mrs. Greene. Just hundreds of pieces of candy." We both think Mrs. Greene's way is the preferred way, and I plan to tell my mother a few facts about market research that evening.
When we get to my corner, it is awkward. This is where I used to ask Altschuler to come and see Fred on the times we walked home together before. We stand there for half a minute and don't say anything. Finally Altschuler says something about how strange it must be to go in and not have Fred jump all over me.
"Yes," I say.
"He was really something," Altschuler says. "The way he would squirt in a little puddle when we came into your apartment. Did he do that when it was just you coming in too?"
"Yes," I say, and it really hurts me to remember Fred's dumb little puddles. I would get angry at him, because I knew my mother could tell what Fred had been up to, no matter how well I tried to clean up his squirts. They were only little ones. I would tell Fred how terrible it was to get so excited. I think he used to tell me how terrible it was to leave him alone for so long.
"What did you do with Fred?"
"What do you mean?"
"Is there any place you can go to visit him? Like people?"
"No," I say. "He is cremated. I decided that."
"Wasn't that hard?"
"Of course it was." I am angry at Altschuler. Why does he want to talk so much about something like this? "You're kind of morbid, aren't you?"
"I'm sorry. I thought if there was a place, you and I could go there sometime. That's all."
"Oh," I say. And I'm not angry at him anymore.
We tell each other good-bye. When I get to Mother's apartment, I am too much aware that Fred is not there to jump on me. If I were still a little kid, I guess I would have gone into my room and cried for a half hour, especially since Mother is not home. But between what happened to Grandmother in the fall and how I created an ocean by crying so much about that, and what happened to Fred a few months ago and I cried a lot about that, I don't have it in me to cry too much from now on. Instead, I feel sad, not for myself but for the two guys I loved, Fred and Grandmother. What do you do if you feel sad and you don't want to moon around all the time? You do things, I guess, just as I did things with the baseball team. It was because of becoming a big fake hero in school that I was able to stop thinking about Fred all the time in the first place, wasn't it?
The first thing I do is straighten out my bureau drawers, which are a mess from having my things stuffed into them. That takes me twenty minutes. Then I rearrange the pots in the cabinet in Mother's kitchen. In New York cabinets, pots have to fit inside other pots, because there is no room for each pot by itself. Mother doesn't bother to arrange her pots correctly, so there are always a few sitting on the stove and on top of the refrigerator. That takes about ten minutes. Then I think that I will arrange all Mother's books alphabetically by author, until I remember that some of them don't have regular authors. They're things like dictionaries, and an encyclopedia in one book, and a whole lot of other things which make that plan difficult. It takes ten minutes to decide I won't do that. The next thing I do is put all the spoons in the spoon part of the tray, the knives with the knives, and so forth. Those are about all the things I can think of to do, and only an hour has passed. I figure that Mother will be home soon and there will be plenty to talk about with her, but she calls to say that she will be very late and I should make my own supper.
I call up Altschuler. I tell him that he can have supper with me if he would like to, but his mother won't let him. I also tell him that I'm sorry I have been acting so unfriendly.
"That's OK," he says.
"Would you like to go to the Museum of Natural History on Saturday?"
Altschuler asks his mother if he can go out with me on Saturday, and she says it's OK, so we make a date to meet at nine fifteen at the corner of his street. I call up my father, but he isn't home. Stephanie is. I tell her that I'm going to the museum with Altschuler on Saturday, so they don't have to make plans to see me.
"Is that the boy..." Stephanie starts to say, then doesn't finish.
"He's my friend. Did my father tell you something?"
"No, Davy, only that he was a best friend, if that's the same boy."
"It is."
"That's great," Stephanie says. "I'm glad you have a good friend. But can't we see you anyway? I'd like to. We'll take you and Altschuler to lunch. You'll save your money that way."
Stephanie is a real practical lady, so I tell her that it will be fine to take us to lunch. She says we'll go to a place near Central Park called Reuben's, because it has delectable sandwiches. She tells me how to get there and that we should com
e at twelve thirty.
I write down the directions, making a note on the paper: Saturday, May 11, 12:30, Alt., Stephanie, Father, and me.
he sandwiches at Reuben's are delectable, and so is the strawberry cheesecake. It's probably the best lunch I ever had. Altschuler thinks so too. Afterwards, Stephanie and Father walk with us to the zoo in the park. When we come to the seal part, I remember about how Fred honked at them when he came, so I don't enjoy the seals. The whole zoo turns me off this time. I had liked it before, in spite of what Stephanie had said about animals in cages. That morning at the museum, Altschuler and I hadn't seen too many things before we had to go to lunch, so we decide we'll go back there for the rest of the afternoon. Father tells us that he'll see us around, and Stephanie asks if she can walk with us through the park. Altschuler likes Stephanie, so he is delighted to have her with us. Stephanie talks to us as though we are people, not kids and something apart from other people, so I guess most kids would like her anyway. What I mean is that she treats us like equals. Not too many old people do.
When we get to the museum, Stephanie says that she enjoyed meeting Altschuler. She gives me a big kiss right in front of all those noble words about Theodore Roosevelt and nature and conservation that are cut into the stone there. Altschuler tells me that between my mother and Stephanie, if I ever get a choice, I should live with Stephanie. Before I know it we have moved into the stuffed North American animals part. I look for the place I remember from before and to the case with the coyote in it. The coyote is still there, and I hurry to it. Altschuler asks me why I am going so fast, but there isn't time to explain. The animal is standing in the exact position he was in before. When Altschuler catches up with me, I point to the card which still says that coyotes make good pets and are tame if they are caught young. Nothing has changed.
"Isn't he great?" I say to Altschuler.
"I guess so," he says. But he isn't enthusiastic about the coyote.
"Hello," I say to the animal.
"Come on, Davy," Altschuler says. "Don't be crazy."
"Hi, friend, coyote friend," I say. I press my hand against the case at the point nearest his muzzle.
"Davy, it's stuffed," Altschuler says.
"This one is different," I say. "Look at him."
Altschuler looks very close at the coyote. He tells me that it is a nice coyote but that I shouldn't talk to stuffed animals.
"What the hell do you mean I shouldn't talk to stuffed animals? Look at that animal. Look into his eyes. He sees me. He understands me."
"Those eyes are glass. Everyone knows that."
"They aren't," I yell. "This coyote is a strange creature. He understands. I know he does."
"He's dead and stuffed! Are you nuts?"
"He's a pet. He was somebody's pet, and he will be a pet forever. Why don't you get lost in some dinosaur bones if you don't want to look at the coyote?"
"You're nuts to think stuffed animals understand you."
I grab Altschuler's arm. "Don't keep telling me I'm nuts. I don't like it."
"Tough," he says, and he pulls away.
"I think I don't like you again," I yell.
"Would you rather talk to a stuffed animal than a person?"
"It's not..."
"Look at it." Altschuler points to the coyote. "What is it if it isn't a stuffed animal?"
"It's a pet."
"He's dead, Davy," Altschuler says.
"He looks friendly, don't you think?" I say.
"Sure."
"Let's go," I say.
We go back out into Central Park. I tell Altschuler I'm sorry that I got angry at him. He tells me I shouldn't be sorry. He's not, and he got angry at me too.
"Life should be beautiful," says Altschuler the kid philosopher.
We walk all the way back home from the park. We walk on Ninth Avenue, past a lot of meat markets, fruit and vegetable markets, bars, and the Port Authority Bus Terminal. And we talk.
For the first time in my life I talk about some of the things I am afraid of that I think about.
"Look, Altschuler," I say after a few minutes. "I think we have to talk about this queer business."
"OK."
"That was a very peculiar night, wasn't it? I don't want you to think I've done that before."
"OK," Altschuler says.
"Is that all you can say? I mean, didn't it upset you?"
"Sure it did. But it didn't feel wrong. Did it to you?"
"Look what happened."
"What happened to Fred had nothing to do with what we did."
"Maybe it did."
"Go ahead and feel guilty if you want to. I don't."
"You don't, really?"
"No," Altschuler says.
"I guess the important thing is not to do it again," I say.
"I don't care. If you think it's dirty or something like that, I wouldn't do it again. If I were you."
"Maybe if we made out with some girls, we wouldn't have to think about, you know, the other," I say.
"I guess so. I hope I find one who won't laugh at me."
"Me too," I say. "Especially the first time."
"After the first it will be easy."
We don't say anything for the next few minutes. It is a warm spring Saturday, and a good day to look at all the junk on sale in sidewalk stands along Ninth Avenue.
"I guess some day we'll be old, like our parents," I say.
"I hope not like my parents," Altschuler says.
"Me too." I laugh. "My mother, she's really something. I can never tell whether she's going to be my big buddy or a regular witch. She's either slobbering all over me or ready to boot me out of the house. How she feels depends on liquor mostly."
"How my mother feels depends on who's around," Altschuler says. "If it's me, she screams and yells all the time. If someone else is around, she acts like the people in television commercials. Just nice people. My old man is another story. I don't know what he's like. I don't see him often enough to know him. I guess he's got his own life."
"I think I know my father a little," I say. "Except he seems more or less absent to me. When we see each other, everything has to be arranged. You know what I mean?"
"At least you see him," Altschuler says.
"I don't want to be like my parents either."
"Who do you want to be like?" Altschuler asks.
"Me," I guess. "And guys like my grandmother. There was a great old girl. She was real stiff by nature, but she had respect for me, and I respected her. It was the same way with Fred too. We respected each other."
"I respected Wilkins," Altschuler says.
"I guess we could respect each other," I say. "Do you think so?"
"Sure," Altschuler says.
REFLECTIONS ON THE 40TH ANNIVERSARY OF I'LL GET THERE. IT BETTER BE WORTH THE TRIP.
We Got There. It Was Worth the Trip
BY BRENT HARTINGER
Wow, what a ride.
I'm not just talking about John Donovan's book, I'll Get There. It Better Be Worth the Trip. I'm talking about how much the world has changed in the forty-one years since it was published in 1969.
Now, after all these years, we've finally arrived at the "there" referred to in the title.
Where is that exactly?
I'll get to that, but first let me point out that John didn't just write a terrific, surprisingly timeless book. He founded a genre.
The genre of gay teen literature started, as both genres and movements usually do, with a single book: the one you now hold in your hands. Incredibly, it was the first teen novel to deal openly with the theme of homosexuality.
Since I'm-ahem-slightly more than forty-one years old myself, this genre, and all the many social changes it represents, has happened entirely within my lifetime.
Heavy.
John's remarkably prescient novel came a mere two years after Robert Lipsyte's The Contender and (especially) S. E. Hinton's The Outsiders completely upended the genre of young adult literature
, which had previously offered mostly only idealized notions of childhood and held that children's books should teach by example, offering young readers the paragon of the virtuous teen. Instead, this new wave of teen books highlighted flawed, confused, and very human characters, and embraced the realism and social consciousness that had long since invaded the rest of the arts.
In short, these new teen books were doing what good literature has always done: responding to and commenting on the major issues of the day. More importantly, they were relevant to the lives of actual teenagers, speaking to them not in a preachy, instructional way, but in a personal, intimate one. Not surprisingly, this was also the start of a massive shift in reading habits where more and more teenagers started actually buying and reading teen literature rather than skipping directly to adult books-a trend that has kept accelerating until now.
I'll Get There... doesn't have quite the same level of emotional realism as The Outsiders-in part, because the main character is himself emotionally repressed. But its subject matter was more daring-and is, even now, more controversial-than anything you'll read in the Hinton book. If The Outsiders was a cataclysmic earthquake that changed the entire literary landscape almost overnight (and it was!), I'll Get There... was a glacier-unchanging and motionless at first glance, but the start of something unstoppable.
The book opens on the death of the main character's grandmother, who has been caring for him since he was five years old. Now the rest of his family, including Davy's mother, have to decide where he is to live-and this is pretty much as good a description of the feelings of gay teenagers as I've ever read now, but even more so in the 1960s: a sense of dislocation, a feeling that you don't quite fit in anywhere, that you don't really belong-not to mention the feeling that decisions being made for you by adults aren't necessarily in your own best interest.
But, of course, death isn't really about endings; it's about change. As the saying goes, the fire comes ripping through the trees, wreaking havoc, but also transforming the forest into something new, and planting the seeds for more changes yet to come. Sure enough, Davy's life changes dramatically, just as the life of almost every gay boy or girl changes in his or her teen years-generally the time that a person not only comes to terms with his or her own homosexuality, but also untangles the even more difficult puzzle of how to merge that self-perception with the perception of him or her by others.
