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Chapter 5 |
Well, that's not exactly true. Before I close my eyes at night I think about Sandburg. My world must be black or white. I need rules, clear, defined, absolute. With my 'condition,' I can't tolerate ambiguity in anything. A leads to B leads to C, no deviation. My condition makes me a freak in a real man's body; rules help me hide it. Let's review. My mother left because I was born a freak. If I continue to be a freak, my old man will hate me. If I am the perfect son, he will love me. A perfect son is a good student, a great football player and a real man; doesn't flunk classes, get kicked off the team, or think about anything but girls. I must be a real man. I have to be. It's that black or white. Except that brings me back to Sandburg. Sandburg does not play by the rules, does not fit neatly into a category. No black or white for him, he's way out there in his own grey zone. A freshman, even though he's only 16. A geek, but cool. Pretty, but a guy. Wide open, but with something secret and wary about him. We have nothing in common, but he knows about my 'condition,' the first outside my family. And he thinks I'm 'gifted,' not a freak at all. The first anywhere. Not a real man, I don't think, but he's not a freak, either. I have never known anyone like Sandburg. I think about him in ways new to me. Like holding him down on the table that day Johnston found us in the library. But not in anger, never again in anger. I think about my hands on him and the way he looked up at me. I think a lot about leaning over and touching his lips. Think about it so much I end up humping the sheets at night, a corner of the pillow stuck in my mouth so no one will hear me call his name. And the next night I do it again, and the night after that, for weeks. I know what gay guys do. At least, I think I do. Every all-American insult includes a reference: 'cocksucker'; 'shove it up your ass;' 'buttfucker.' I can't actually imagine the mechanics of it, don't really want to. I just want to have Sandburg on his back looking up at me. Beyond that, the details are grey. Those feelings don't fit into my neat black-or-white world. I don't know what to do with them. No rule applies here. I'm not gay, real men aren't. Gays are worse than freaks, my old man said so. He won't love me if I'm a freak, but if I was born that way, maybe he isn't ever going to love me. One more thing to hide from the therapist. I'm careful to keep it hidden from Sandburg, too. If I said, 'hey, Sandburg, I think about touching you,' he'd lean forward in his intense way and start talking. And by the time he finished, I'd believe that black was white, white was black, grey was beautiful, and nothing was against the rules. ~*~ Thursday noon at the library. My English final is later this afternoon and though we're having one last tutoring session, I don't really need it. No headaches, no premonitions of an episode, just a fairly confident feeling I can pass the final. I'm really here to see Sandburg one more time before Christmas break. I'm going to tease him about his five layers of flannel and his perpetually cold fingers. About that ugly scarf from god-knows-where and wearing two pair of socks and Birkenstocks in winter, for crissakes. And if I can formulate the words, I'm going to thank him for getting me through this semester. Not just academically, but in so many other, more important ways. Sandburg gave me unconditional friendship, taught me how to handle my curse, guided me in the right direction. There are no easy words to convey that, but I've been rehearsing some phrases. This is important to me. Here he comes, long hair flying out from under his wool cap. His glasses must be fogging up from the warmth of the library because he's a little wobbly on his feet, half stumbling against a table. 'Sandburg!' Jesus, his lip's split, blood coating his chattering teeth and dripping down his chin. Instinctively, I reach out to him, trying to oh-so-gently touch his lip. A near-silent moan and leans his face into the heat of my palm. 'Sandburg? What happened?' I wish I knew how to hug someone, really, I do. I think he wants me to. He leans in my direction, then with a shudder, he straightens up in his chair, uses the end of his scarf to wipe away the blood. With an effort I can literally see, he stops shivering, clenches his teeth still, cleans his glasses. 'Football team seems to be recruiting me, man,' he says with a pained smile. 'They're trying to teach me to tackle or something.' His chin quivers a bit and he struggles for some control. 'No,' I breathe, trying not to think of what Johnston and Keane and that crowd would delight in doing to him. A quick inhalation and an angry 'Yes!' Sandburg's eyes are red-rimmed and won't hold mine for long. 'Yes,' he says again. 'You think you're the freak on campus? Do you, Jim? Big, strong, football quarterback, general all-round all-American boy like you? You've got the looks, the clothes, the car, the money, the size. Whatever you consider your freakiness is hidden. If you saw it for the gift it is, you would have nothing to hide. After all, man, how many people look at you and think "freak"? How many?' I'm startled, taken aback. This is so personal. I can't handle someone else's feelings, can barely handle my own. I'm frozen. 'Try being a skinny little Jew boy on this white-bread campus. Imagine being younger and smaller, and yes, smarter, than a lot of your classmates. That's the way to be a real freak on campus.' First time I can remember Sandburg sounding bitter. 'I am the freak here, Jim, no matter what you think. And all my freakiness is on the outside, right out there where everyone can see it. No hiding for me. Nope, I'm proud of it. I like my earring and my clothes. I won't change my music.' Sandburg is really wound up now and though his voice is low-pitched, he's practically spitting with anger. 'And I'm not cutting my hair!' After a few moments' silence, he says, 'People don't like freaks, but if nothing else, they should be grateful to us. Who else would make them seem normal?' He dabs at his lip again. I slowly exhale, not sure what to say. I'm no good in these situations, where someone needs something. Sandburg, as always, makes it easy for me. I watch him do that same thing he did at Thanksgiving, simply take whatever's bothering him and bury it deep. How many times has he had to do that? 'So. You're ready for that English final, big guy? You feeling pretty good about it? You should, you know it backward and forward, so don't let me down.' He punches me on the shoulder. I try frantically to think of a plausible reason to touch him back because he's standing up and adjusting his scarf, and I haven't thanked him yet. 'You'll do fine, Jim,' he looks me full in the face now. 'Get into that Ellison Zone and ace it, man. And do what it takes to score the winning goal, or whatever quarterbacks do. You'll win the big game, even without me on the team.' He gives me a faint semblance of the Sandburg smile. 'Have a good break, Jim.' With that, he's gone. And I never even thanked him.
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