Chronicles Of An Academic Predator - 4. Chapter 4

Chapter Four

March 26, 1962

Philadelphia, PA

I'd just left the airport where I’d dropped Peter off. Tears rolled down my cheeks, but only because I was alone. Crying was something that I didn’t do in front of other people, not even family members, but when I was by myself, tears were allowed. I was a solitary person anyway, so saying goodbye usually meant I was damning myself to more solitude, which was one of the reasons that I hated them. But even more than that, just as had happened now, saying goodbye to people I cared about pulled my emotions out of my psyche and tossed them out where they might become visible. To me, it was a horrible invasion of privacy. I spent a good quarter of an hour lamenting my weakness, my fear and abhorrence of being lonely, and only after I was done with that would I allow my mind to refocus on Peter.

That was probably the most confusing thing of all. I barely knew Peter, but now that he was gone, I found myself in agonizing emotional pain. Why did his departure affect me so badly? Maybe it was because he was the only man I'd really had sex with, the man I'd lost my virginity to. Maybe it was because he was the only person that I'd ever been able to be completely honest with, at least about my sexuality. Maybe I just craved love and affection. Whatever the reason, his departure had left me feeling hollow and empty. Add depressed and moody as well.

I'd decided last night to spring for a plane ticket instead of damning him to a cross-country bus ride. The bus would have been a lot cheaper, and that introduced a whole new wrinkle. Normally my parents didn’t raise any questions about the money I spent, but this one I'd have to explain. It's not every day that I buy a plane ticket from Philadelphia to Los Angeles for someone named Peter Gordon. But in the end, it wasn’t about the money. My parents would accept a simple explanation, and then they’d forget about it. The reason I’d sent him on the plane instead of the bus was because I'd grown attached to him, and I wanted to. That, and I was worried he'd blow all the guys on the bus as he traveled from coast to coast. He had this disturbing way of making me jealous, yet another thing for me to spend time spearing my psyche over.

I'd given him the ticket, a new wardrobe, and $250. I wasn’t all that up to speed on the cost of living in Los Angeles, but it should still be enough money to tide him over for at least a few months. I decided that two months should give him ample time to use his considerable charm to find something productive to do. I made him promise to write and gave him my address in Claremont, but I doubted he would. It’s not that he didn’t appreciate what I had done for him, because it was obvious that he had. It was just that he didn’t seem like the kind of guy who would sit down and actually write a letter. I wiped away another tear as I decided that I'd probably never see him again.

The Pontiac seemed so empty and lonely without him. He'd been here, making stupid jokes, making me laugh, making me feel good. Now, being in this environment without him, was sheer torture. I caught myself glancing repeatedly at the empty passenger seat, and decided that I needed to take a break and pull myself together.

I took a detour to the Jersey Shore, and found a secluded beach to walk on. The weather was cold and misty, miserable in other words, just like me. I wasn't anxious to get home. I knew the change, the shock of transitioning back into my normal life, would be jarring. I tried to avoid jarring. Jarring made me lose control, something that was unacceptable. Yet I'd lost control with Peter. I'd shared my thoughts with him, I'd let him see into my soul. Was that my major weakness? Would I let my guard down to any guy who sucked my dick or let me fuck him?

I chided myself for being a spoiled, ungrateful brat indulging in a useless pity party. I had the world by the balls. I had a great education, all the money I'd ever need, a family that loved me, good friends, and a great car. I smiled back at the parking lot where the red Pontiac seemed to gleam at me. So what if my career was in limbo? I'd land on my feet. So what if I was in love with a straight guy? There wasn't a better person in the world than André, and I was lucky that he was my friend. So what if Peter, the guy who popped my cherry, was gone? He was off to start a new life, and I had been the one to make it all possible.

Still, I felt unsettled. I walked up the shore, and then back, listening to the surf and feeling the wind pierce through my new coat. I ended up back at my car wet, cold, and still miserable. I started the engine and headed back to Princeton when the answer hit me. I was lonely, not for friendship, but for love. I remembered the look on Peter's face when he’d said goodbye, knowing he was sharing my misery. I etched that into my memory and then I buried it deep. As of this moment, loneliness was not an emotion that JP Crampton was afflicted with.

I got home and was relieved to find that the house was empty. I took some time to unpack, settle in, and take a shower. That had an overall calming and centering effect on me. I strolled over to the table and saw that there was a letter from my mother sitting there waiting for me, so I grabbed a beer, sat back, and opened it.

It was post-marked last Thursday. Inside were two sealed envelopes, one for me and one for André. My mother always sent him a note when she wrote me. I was tempted to open them, but that was dishonorable and I knew I could never violate the trust of these two people who were so important to me. That would be like rummaging through his room, an invasion of his privacy that I'd never do, and neither would he. Mutual respect had made us such great roommates. I put his envelope aside, then read my mother’s letter.

Dear Jean-Paul,

I cannot wait to see you next week! It has been too long, and even though you have been away at school for the past 7 years, the house still feels empty without you here.

That made me smile. I take after my mother, so much that it is no great secret that I’m a total ‘momma's boy’. My mother is without question the most unique person in Claremont, and probably the most unique in all of Ohio. She was born and raised in the Champagne province of France, to a family proud of its lineage but with little else to show for it. She'd met my father in the 1920s, when he was an engineer in the army and had been sent over to France to evaluate the Maginot Line. He thought the Maginot Line was impenetrable, but I gather my mother was not. In any event, after a speedy courtship and wedding, my mother was transplanted to Claremont, Ohio, with only a rudimentary knowledge of English and little idea of Americans. Yet despite that handicap, she had adapted marvelously, and fit into the city like she'd been born there.

When I think of my mother, the two adjectives that pop into my mind are kindness and elegance. She's not just kind to me, she is kind to everyone. Her giving personality had ingratiated her into Claremont, and she's universally loved by the townspeople. With her refined manners and her unimpeachable social skills, she had almost single-handedly brought class and culture to Claremont. Even the other town matriarchs have learned to respect her, although I suspect they call her ‘Eurotrash’ behind her back. And she has been adamant that Jim and I follow the same rules and habits she does, so much so that we speak French at home when my father isn't around, and in all of our letters.

It has been an interesting month. Tonto has managed to anger the entire town with the new high school, but she has so roped them in to her elaborate plan there really is no way out for them. You'll remember that she led the drive to build the new Claremont High School near the center of town? Well it's nearing completion, and it really is beautiful. The huge stadium will probably bring a whole new level of esprit to the fans. In any event, last week at the school board meeting, which she chaired, she announced that since the new school had such a large capacity, there was no reason to have two high schools in town, and successfully headed a motion to close Claremont East High. With this one stroke, she's achieved her ambition to integrate the high school. I told her “well done”.

That made me laugh out loud, especially when I thought about what a spitfire Tonto is. Tonto is my aunt, Gail Schluter. She got her nickname because when I was a little kid I called her ‘tante’, the French word for aunt, but she thought I was calling her Tonto. The nickname stuck, and it seemed to solidify our friendship. Tonto is an amazing, formidable woman, one who is always fighting for a cause and striving to end injustice. The east side of Claremont is the poor side of town, the side where all the pollution from the mill ends up drifting, and a part of town that is rigidly segregated between poor whites and coloreds. The district lines had previously been drawn to keep most of the white kids in Claremont West, while most of the Negros ended up in Claremont East. Tonto had been bound and determined to make sure Negros could go to the same schools as white kids and get just as good an education, and it looked like she’d tricked the bigoted civic leaders into doing just that.

I'm worried that things will be hard for the students, but Vella tells me that Sammy has been doing fine at Claremont West. I'm not sure that is representative though, since he is a very large boy and plays on the football team. You'll be amazed at how much he's grown, and Vella tells me that he is a good student as well.

Vella is our maid, and her husband Abe is our gardener. They've been with my parents for years, and to me, they’re part of our family. Sammy is their only son, a really nice kid with a great personality. My parents built their house in the West Hills shortly after they were married. They’d created a large, sprawling structure, done in Frank Lloyd Wright's Prairie Style, which had been all the rage then. They'd hired Abe and Vella about the same time they moved up there, and built a house for them on our property, so that put Sammy in the Claremont West High boundary.

Business has been good for your father, and he decided to celebrate by buying me a new car. He of course wanted me to get a Cadillac, but I just loved my last Oldsmobile and couldn't bring myself to get anything else. When you get home, you'll have to take it for a drive. It's not as fun and flashy as your car, but then, neither am I. I wish that, instead of buying me a new car, he'd take a vacation. He works constantly, and Jim is just the same. I try to bring balance to his life, but it's hard competing with a successful business. Well, I must write some more letters. Drive safely and give André a big hug for me.

Love, Maman

Her mention of cars really made me chuckle. We always bought General Motors vehicles. Always. When I told my father I wanted one of the new Ford Thunderbirds, I thought he was going to have a stroke. I waited a day and told him the Pontiac was much better. That made him happy, and he bought me one. The Hendricksons always bought Ford products, while the Schluters owned Chryslers. It was easy to spot my dad in his Cadillac, or Bill Hendrickson in his Lincoln, or Barry Schluter in his Chrysler, and it was a sign of their status that they got a new car every year. Marjorie Hendrickson usually had a Lincoln that matched her husband's but in a different color, while Tonto drove a massive Crown Imperial. There was something comical about seeing Tonto, this small frumpy matron hop out of that huge steel beast. My mother, on the other hand, insisted on buying Oldsmobiles. She thought Cadillacs were too pretentious, and she liked to pretend that she was above these outward displays of status. Secretly, I think she liked rebelling a little bit, and she knew how uncomfortable it made the other ladies when they thought about what the townspeople said about them. The irony of it was that her 98 was almost as expensive as my father's Cadillac, but that just made it seem even classier. The ladies got new cars every other year, but NEVER took their husband's cars as ‘hand me downs’. It just wasn't done.

1962 Oldsmobile 98

March 27, 1962

Claremont, OH

We entered Claremont from the east, driving through the gritty working class neighborhoods that seemed to be covered by a perpetual layer of soot from the mill. The closer we got to downtown, the more unkempt the shotgun houses got, and if that didn’t clue us into the general poverty of that part of town, the fact that the stores and some of the houses had bars on their windows would have convinced us. As if to toss additional truth onto that argument, we were confronted with the inevitable pawn shops that seemed to be pervasive in these more blighted area. Once we got downtown, the scene changed again, switching to the familiar signs of a bustling retail and commercial center, the one that never seemed to change all that much. The same stores that I'd gone to as a child, the same restaurants, and the same parks were all pretty much as I remembered them. Still the stark contrast from east to center struck me as never before. I wondered if that was because the divide was wider, or because I was just really noticing it more now that I'd moved away.

André babbled on happily next to me, pointing at this, that, or the other thing. He had adopted Claremont as his hometown and had spent the last two summers here, so he knew the town almost as well as I did. He'd chattered almost the whole way here, but I knew he was just as excited to see my parents as I was, and that was just his way of showing it. It was a sign of how much I loved him that his constant chatter didn’t bother me, whereas if it came from another person, it would have been intensely annoying.

At the western edge of downtown we turned off Main Street onto Skyline, the road that would take me home. It wound up into the west hills, to the area known as Claremont Heights, where most of the wealthy people had built their homes. I personally thought it was a very picturesque road, lined with stately homes, big trees, and providing spectacular views of Claremont. It had become desirable primarily because of those views, and also because the prevailing winds tended to blow the pollution toward the east and kept the air here relatively fresh.

At the top of the hill was a simple mailbox in front of a winding road and a sign marked “Private Property.” We drove up the road, past the stands of trees that hid the house from the road, past Vella and Abe's house, through open gates and into the large circle drive. I turned off the engine and set the parking brake, and that seemed to symbolize the end of our journey. We’d made it home.

“This has got to be the most beautiful house in the world!” André opined as we got out of the car and stared at the front door. He was exaggerating as usual, but it was a nice place. The large ranch/prairie style house sprawled across the hilltop, with a central area and two ‘wings.’ My bedroom was in the north wing, along with the two guest rooms. The central area contained all the public rooms, like the kitchen, living room, family room, and study. On the other side of the house, my parents' massive master suite took up the entire south wing. The entire structure was seemingly designed so that it flanked the veranda and the pool, while beyond those structures the neatly manicured lawn seemed to flow down the side of the hill like a waterfall. And beyond that waterfall of grass was an incredible view of the city of Claremont. My parents had designed and built their dream home, and it really was cool.

André hurried up the steps, barely remembering to wait for me, then we rushed through the front door in a more sedate manner, as an acknowledgment to the strict rules of decorum that reigned here. We found my parents in the family room watching television while also reading. My father usually reviewed contract bids or ledgers, while my mother would browse through the latest fashion magazines. My father had bought one of those new color TVs and he thought it was the coolest thing in the world. I suspected that he really didn't enjoy TV that much, but he liked the technology. They both got up when they saw us, with big smiles on their faces, and walked over to welcome us.

My parents each had their own unique ways of greeting people, and those varied depending on how close they were to the person they were greeting. I laughed to myself, thinking about how structured they were, just as if they were courtiers at Versailles. When meeting someone new or greeting an acquaintance, my mother would put one hand on the other person's shoulder, while she used her other hand to shake theirs. If she knew the person well, she would add a kiss on the cheek to the greeting. But if the person was a very close friend, she would put both her hands on the other person’s shoulders and pull that person close, not close enough for extensive body contact, but close enough to give them a kiss on each cheek. In a similar way, my father would give someone he was just meeting or someone who was just an acquaintance a firm handshake. For people he knew better, he would put his other hand on the person's forearm while shaking their hand. And when meeting a close friend or a family member, he would first shake their hand and then pull them into a hug at the same time. My brother and I had learned this from him, and we’d termed it the ‘man hug.’ Both of their techniques ensured that their shaking hands would prevent too much actual physical contact. Occasionally someone would commit the faux pas of trying to embrace either one of them in a bear hug. They both reacted the same way. They were both polite but unresponsive, and I’d noticed that after such a breach of etiquette occurred, they made a point to avoid that individual to the degree decently possible. Fortunately, André and I were esteemed enough to receive their warmest greetings.

After that ritual was complete, we sat in the living room chatting. I hadn't seen my parents since Christmas, and even though it hadn’t been all that long, they both seemed different. My father was the caricature of the American businessman, where his height and presence dominated every room that he was in. But he seemed older and more distant than ever, as if his mind was forever focused on the next ‘deal’. André had a unique ability to drag my father back into our world, another reason for me to love him, so it was fun to see my father remove himself from his commercial coma. My mother’s demeanor was the same, but she was sporting a new hairstyle, one that was both taller and stiffer. She was a devotee of Jackie Kennedy and mimicked her sleek fashion style. The fitted jackets and skirts favored by the First Lady fortunately suited her slender body perfectly.

My father had surprised her last year by working his political connections to get them invited to the White House. She told me that actually meeting the First Lady and conversing with her in French was truly one of the highlights of her life. There was a large picture of the two of them, signed by the First Lady, in her study, and since their meeting she studied Mrs. Kennedy's fashion choices with diligence. In February, when the First Lady had hosted a live television tour of the White House, my mother had meticulously taken note of the furnishings and colors she had chosen. It was no coincidence that those same colors and furnishings began appearing in our house. My father teased her, told her that she'd become a groupie, but she took it all in stride.

After a bit I excused myself and headed to the kitchen. Vella was there, just as I’d hoped, with genuine warm hugs. There was no physical distance with Vella; she just grabbed you, pulled you in, and wrapped her arms around you. She pelted me with questions about school and jobs, pretty much like my mother had just done. We were sitting at the kitchen table talking when Sammy came walking in, almost taking my breath away. I remembered him as this scrawny kid, shorter even than me. He'd been gone last Christmas when I'd come home, and I'd been busy last summer and rarely around, so I hadn't seen him in over a year. During that time he had exploded.

He was at least six feet tall and solid as a rock. I could almost see his muscles bulging through his shirt and pants. He’d grown from being a little kid to an ebony tower in a very short period of time. His face had gotten longer too, almost a little like Sammy Davis Jr., but with a classic wide, flattened Negro nose. Some coloreds had lighter skin, like coffee mixed with cream, while others had dark skin that approached a true black color. Sammy’s color was one of the latter. He wore a white T-shirt, which contrasted with his skin and made him look even more imposing.

He gave me a big hug just like his mother. I guess I had expected him to hug me; I just hadn't contemplated how different it would be now that he was all grown up. He had long, strong arms that firmly pulled me in and held me, and since he was taller my head ended up at his neck level, giving me a chance to study his muscular shoulders and the veins that stuck out when he flexed them. Before I had a chance to talk to him, I heard my mother calling me. Making polite excuses, I returned to the living room.

While my mother had summoned me, it was my father who was waiting to talk to me. “JP, I want you to go into Columbus with me tomorrow. There are some people I want you to meet.” My father always issued statements, not requests. He was used to being obeyed.

“So soon after he gets home? Jack, can't it wait at least one day?” This was my mother, forever fighting to keep me at home.

“I'm sorry to take him away from you so soon after he gets here, but we'll be back by dinner. It's the only time I could manage.” I smirked internally at how different his tone was when he talked to my mother.

“Who do you want me to meet?” I asked suspiciously. My parents weren’t huge matchmakers, but I was still wary of their intentions. Tonto was the worst, and had tried to fix me up with every girl in town, while my parents had let me handle my own romantic affairs, or the lack of them. On the other hand, it would be just like my father to try and set me up with the Governor's daughter or something like that. He wasn’t above suggesting a match that would have beneficial political ramifications.

“You know that I brag about my intellectual son all the time. I want to show you off. If the Governor has time, we'll have lunch with him,” he said, switching to his jovial style. This was classic Jack Crampton: First issue the order, and then turn on the charm to make sure it gets executed.

There was no point in arguing with him, and it would most likely end up as a losing battle, so I caved gracefully. “It will be good to spend some time with you, Dad.” I suddenly remembered my roommate, and felt guilty for setting up these plans that basically left him with nothing to do. “What about André?”

“He can go riding with me, if he wants,” proffered my mother. She was an avid horsewoman.

André gave her a mock bow. “That sounds keen, if I can keep up with you.”

“You do just fine,” she said, with an affectionate smile.

March 28, 1962

Central Ohio

The next morning found my father and me racing toward Columbus at ungodly speeds. I doubted that my father ever went even close to the speed limit, and I was even skeptical as to whether he knew what it was, but it didn’t really matter. The cops in this part of the country all knew Jack Crampton's blue Cadillac, and none of them were stupid enough to pull him over. So thanks to my father’s influence at the statehouse, we tore along unmolested. I began to wonder what was going to happen first: whether we’d make it to Columbus and get out of this car, or if his driving would make me puke. Fortunately we made it to Columbus first.

1962 Cadillac Fleetwood

My father squired me around the capitol with a familiarity that made it seem as if this were his home. The ‘people’ that he wanted me to meet were mostly government types, but these connections were important to him so I put on my appropriate social façade and tried to be as charming as I could. If his proud expression was an accurate indicator, I must have done a pretty good job of it. He also made a point to introduce me to a few people from the Department of Education, and even managed to swing a brief meeting with the Chancellor of Ohio State. By the end of the day, his motives were clear. He was trying to make sure I landed the job I had applied for at Ohio State.

I tried not to resent his interference, which probably seems hypocritical since my parents had simultaneously pushed and supported me throughout my life. But now, after all my years of education, when I was finally ready to ‘launch’, I wanted my success or failure to depend on me. But perhaps an even bigger concern was that if I got the job at Ohio State, I'd be close to home. I knew that was his goal, and while that was flattering, I'd been away too long to smoothly re-enter the calm Claremont life. In the end, I focused on the fact that he obviously loved me and wanted me around, and used that to be as appreciative as I could.

On the way home he cracked me up by telling me all the inside stories about the people we had just met. One of the Governor's key aides had a chronic drinking problem, while two of the state senators were wanton womanizers. “Supposedly the Provost of the University is a queer,” my father volunteered with a sneer. “I guess you probably run into those people all the time. Academia is full of them.” If only you knew, dad, I thought sadly. His tone, and the way he said ‘those people’, were truly disheartening, but I said nothing.

Dinner at home that night was fabulous, thanks mostly to Vella and her efforts. She had to be one of the best cooks around. Everyone was in good spirits. My father was keyed up from our successful trip to Columbus, while André and my mother were still flushed from their ride. I found myself relaxing around these people whom I loved more than anything and found that I was truly enjoying myself. Then with my typical masochism, I destroyed my own good time by reminding myself that I was a total fraud; that the person they loved, that the person they thought I was, didn't exist. If they knew the truth, knew that I was a fag, this dinner would be entirely different. I probably wouldn't even be here.

March 29, 1962

Claremont, OH

I was willing to acknowledge that I was a creature of habit, and those routines seemed even more amplified when I was home. Since this was the day after I got into town, more or less, that meant it was visiting day. Visiting day was my time to go around town and visit friends and relatives, and those visits always started with Tonto. As usual, André tried to get out of going, but I thought it would be rude to leave him at home all by himself again. Besides, Tonto would kill me if I didn't bring him along, and so formidable was her reputation that merely mentioning that to him was enough to shut up his objections.

Unlike almost all of the other wealthy families, like my parents and the Hendricksons, the Schluters hadn’t succumbed to the trend to move up to the Heights, but they had remained downtown. There were some beautiful old homes in downtown Claremont, but in my opinion, their house wasn’t one of them. Their house was a monstrously huge Victorian thing, with gables, turrets, and excessive ornamentation that made it seem gaudy and ugly to someone like me, who appreciated clean lines. I assumed it must be appealing to those who liked that kind of architecture, and Tonto certainly treasured it, but if it were up to me, the hideous house would have a date with a bulldozer. I drove through the front gates and parked in back, then entered the house through the kitchen. We found Tonto there, drinking her morning coffee and reading the paper. When Tonto saw us, she all but leapt out of her chair.

“JP! Come over here and give me a hug! And you brought André. How wonderful!” Tonto had none of the reserve that my parents exhibited, even though her husband did. She hugged us just like Vella did. “You two look so handsome! André, if I were a few years younger I'd be chasing you around the house.”

He laughed at her and smiled. “I might let you catch me,” he said, flirting. I rolled my eyes at him, while he just winked back at me.

We spent some time on the mutual admiration bandwagon, then I redirected the conversation to more meaningful topics. “My mother tells me you've been busy pissing off the whole town.” I said this with an approving smile.

“Humph,” she said, in one of her characteristic yet less than ladylike gestures. “So what's new? Those bigots on the board would never have integrated the school without being forced to. They're just mad because a mere woman out-smarted them.”

“You’re no ordinary woman,” I said with real admiration.

She smiled at me, then continued on with her rant. “It hasn't made me very popular in town. Come see what they did to my car.” And with that, Tonto led us out across the yard to the big garage. It had to be big to hold her huge, white Imperial.

We looked at her car and saw that someone had spray painted “Negro Lover” on the driver’s side in large letters. “Doesn’t look so bad to me,” André quipped.

1962 Imperial

“Well, it didn't say Negro Lover at first, but I got some spray paint and fixed it. You should see the looks I get when I drive around town. And best of all, no one asks me to drive when we go out to lunch.” Typical Tonto: loud, brash, and outspoken.

“Good for you Tonto,” said André, in between fits of laughter. Tonto led us back into the drawing room, where we sat down to chat. I heard myself talking only occasionally, throwing in the odd piece of info or nicety, while André picked up the bulk of the conversation. I was distracted by two large paintings, displayed side by side, on the east wall. On the right was my cousin Billy, the first guy I'd ever blown, and after André, my best friend. On the left was his brother, Steven. Steve had died in Europe during the final months of World War II. Even though I’d only been a little kid when he’d been killed, his death had been one of the most traumatic things I’d ever experienced. Steve was like a god to me: he was the older guy that I worshipped, and the older guy who would actually spend time and pay attention to me. I felt tears forming in my eyes and forced myself to look away. After the sadness had passed, I found myself drawn right back to his picture again, as if it were a magnet that wouldn’t release me.

Tonto followed my gaze. “I just had them made; the artist did them from photos.” She got up and we followed her over to them. “I think he got the likenesses damn near perfect.” Billy certainly did look just like himself, and so did Steven. Looking at Steven made me blush slightly, as I remembered our more intimate time together. He was the first man I'd seen fully naked. One time when he’d been home on leave, he'd caught me watching him masturbate. I was a young, curious kid, but rather than ridicule me, Steve had taken time to explain how things worked and the changes my body would go through. He was the only one who ever bothered to tell me about that stuff. As much as I masturbated, I guess I was really in his debt, I thought with a smile.

I distracted myself by inspecting the picture of Billy more closely, not that it was much help since they looked so much alike. Billy looked almost exactly like Tab Hunter. The same square chin, the same prominent cheekbones, all combining to make him one handsome man. The artist had gotten his strawberry blond hair down better than a color photo. Looking at him brought back childhood memories, memories like the first time we'd jacked off together, and memories of getting to explore another boy's body for the first time. I shook off the memories before my pants tented.

That evening my brother Jim and his wife Donna came over for dinner. It was great to see them both, but even more fun to see my niece and nephew. Richard was the older, just turned three, while Vanessa was only six months old. I always felt a little uncomfortable around little kids, and even more uncomfortable around babies, but I had fun with them anyway. André had no such issues, he was great with kids, so he played with Richard until it was time for them to go home.

While André kept Richard distracted and occupied, Donna filled us in on all the details with her family. Her father was all up in arms over the anti-pollution measures he was going to have to install on his plant to get emissions down. He blamed Tonto for that, for her activism in pointing out how the soot and smoke was destroying the quality of life for Claremont’s poorer citizens. He was just as pissed off at Barry Schluter, but for an entirely different reason. He was trying to buy some land to expand one of his buildings, but Barry owned it and he was driving a hard bargain. In the meantime, Donna’s mother was busy setting up a commission to save Claremont's historic buildings. Even though Donna didn’t point it out directly, it was obvious that she thought Tonto’s activism was inappropriate and most unladylike as compared to the conventional charitable works her mother was doing.

After such a busy day, I was relieved to escape to my bedroom to be alone with my thoughts. I put aside my normal self-criticism and lay in bed reflecting on what a lucky guy I was. I had a great friend, a terrific family, and a wonderful home to come back to. Of course, ending my day on such a high note was not something that my masochistic tendencies would allow; especially when I attributed much of my cheerfulness to the copious amounts of wine I’d had that night. I found myself thinking about Peter, wondering whether he was safe, what he was doing, or even more disturbing, who he was doing. Then I started thinking about our last night together, how good his ass felt, and soon my memories had transmitted themselves to my right hand.

March 31, 1962

Claremont, OH

Our trip had been shortened by André’s altered work schedule, and that had made the time here seem so much shorter. Since this was our last night in Claremont, André and I decided to go out on the town, such as it was. When I was young we hung out at the local malt shoppe, but after high school we migrated to Dino's Bar. It was on the west side of downtown and attracted a younger crowd; it was rare to see someone over 30 in there. So it was to Dino's that we headed.

The bar was full of people I knew, which was no surprise for a place like Claremont, where most of the people I’d gone to high school with still lived here. I used to worry that André would feel out of place here, but he was such a social beast it never fazed him at all. He made friends easily, and in no time at all he had sidled up to Vivian Strepper, the daughter of one of the town's doctors. He'd picked well. She was usually pretty easy, or so I heard.

A large guy blocked my way purposefully and I looked up to find myself staring face to face with Frank Hayes. Frank had been a bully in high school and probably always would be one. I was never one of his victims for the simple reason that Frank was afraid of only one man: his father, Fred Hayes. Both Fred and Frank worked at the mill, and I was too well connected for him to mess with me. A word from my parents to Bill Hendrickson would have brought the wrath of Fred Hayes down onto Frank. I never had to threaten him with that kind of reprisal, it was just one of those social facts we both silently accepted. Still, even though he couldn’t intimidate me with his size and he couldn’t lay a finger on me, that didn't stop Frank from doing just about anything else he could to annoy me. “Well lookee who blew into town. What brings you back here Crampton?” The words sounded friendly, but they were said with a sneer. I could smell the alcohol on his breath.

“Just visiting, Frank. How are things with you? Your wife and kids good?” My voice was very calm but friendly, my façade in action.

“They're good. You know we got two kids and we’re working all the time on making another one,” he said with a leer as he trumpeted his sexual bravado. “So when you gonna get married and settle down, or don't you like girls?” He grinned at me, proud of his little taunt.

“I'm just waiting for the right one. I'd hate to marry someone I didn't love so I had to beat her up every night when I went home.” That zing hit home, I could see his brows furrow. His father was notorious for beating the shit out of his mother. I guess bullies father bullies.

The bartender walked up and I ordered a beer and bought one for Frank. After that, we actually had a friendly conversation before he headed back to his table. That was the way all my interactions with Frank went. He'd start off taunting and provoking me, then I'd piss him off, then he'd act like a normal person. It was pretty sad that all the Hayes men tended to be asshole bullies like Frank, but were also gifted with good looks and amazing bodies. The one big exception to the Hayes asshole genetics was Aaron, the oldest son. I’d met him when I was a kid, and he’d seemed like a cool guy. He and Steven had been really tight, but he’d joined the Marines even before Steven joined the Army, and sadly enough, he’d ended up getting killed before Steven had as well. With the exception of Aaron, the rest of the kids were like Frank. Their father sure had fucked them up.

I took a swig of my beer and let my eyes take in the bar, and while doing that they refocused on Frank Hayes, who was hanging out with his friends. They were, to a man, a rough and tumble blue-collar bunch. As obnoxious as he was, I couldn't help but notice how handsome he was. But for the fact that he had light brown hair, he looked like Tony Dow on steroids. I remembered how hard it had been not to stare at him in the locker room in high school, and how he’d caught me glancing at him a few times and teased me about it until I wanted to curl up in a ball and die. I pushed those bad memories aside and thought about how much more handsome he would be if his posture wasn't so aggressive and how much more charming he would be if he actually smiled, genuinely smiled more often. Instead, he leaned into people to intimidate them, and used angry looks or snide smiles, including the occasional snarl, to complete the process of proclaiming himself as THE alpha male.

My attention was refocused when more old friends came by. I sat at the bar and drank with them, reminiscing about the past and talking about the present. They didn’t focus much on the future. It was as if the only joy they would get would be from living for today. I glanced at my watch and was surprised to see that it was almost 2am, which was very late by Claremont standards. I resolved to go home and rest up for the drive back to New Jersey tomorrow.

I scanned the bar, which was almost empty now, and found André off in a corner still talking to Vivian. He caught my eye and walked over to me, even though his walk was more of a strut. “JP, Vivian wants to show me her new car.” He winked at me. “If it's OK with you, I'm going to have her drive me home.” I rolled my eyes at him and nodded. The guy was incorrigible. I drove myself home, alone.