Draining the Ocean - 1. He’s Not a Communist Either - Prompt 20

You'll never believe how we first met.

The aging man glared at the words printed on the page. His therapist had encouraged him to keep a journal. It had been difficult to get started, so the Prompt Journal in front of him had been a valuable tool. John Renkin looked at the prompt for the day again. He stared at it. He didn’t like this prompt in the least. He thought about ripping the page out of the spiral-bound book and pretending the copy he bought had never contained the prompt at all.

You'll never believe how we first met.

John liked rules. Actually, he hated rules, but he found them almost impossible to break. His therapist believed rules were a part of his problem. Truthfully, he said John’s adherence to rules was a result of his problems. The man said a lot of things John Renkin didn’t like, but he had learned long ago that not liking something doesn't mean it’s not true.

Rules were good. If a person followed the rules, they could blame the rules if something went wrong. The old man never blamed anyone or anything other than himself when things went wrong, however. Failure only added to the deep ocean of self-hate he kept hidden deep in his soul.

Of course, his therapist had found John’s secret ocean almost immediately, and he seemed to enjoy sailing through the rough, unpredictable waves every Thursday at 3:45 in the afternoon. John paid a handsome fee each week for the experience.

You'll never believe how we first met.

The page was still blank. He had decided to use every prompt in the order they were printed when he bought the book. He hated that rule now, almost as much as he hated the man who had made it.

He wanted to swear, but swearing was against the rules. He set the tip of his pen on the paper and sighed. It was a profane sigh. There weren’t any self-imposed rules about that. It felt good, so he profanely sighed once more.

John Renkin hadn’t always lived by the rules. In fact, he didn’t know when his rigid adherence to self-created structure had started. There had been a time, long ago, when he had brazenly refused to recognize any rules, but he had worked hard to forget those days. The memories were confusing, damning even. It was better to leave them where he had buried them, in the hole that had become an ocean in his mind.

A tear fell onto the blank paper. He lifted the pen and smeared the salty liquid across the hated page with his fist. John Renkin slammed that same fist down on the prompt journal. The temporary physical pain masked the emotional pain of the memories now breaking free from their watery grave.

Physical violence was against the rules, but he pounded the book again. Several more salty tears splashed from the ocean of self-hatred, dampening the page further.

You'll never believe how we first met.

“Fuck!” The old man broke another rule as memories of the time before rules filled his mind.

“It was wrong!” He screamed before quietly countering his self-condemnation. “It was love.”

John Renkin couldn’t see the paper in front of him anymore. It was partly due to the tears, but also the unfocused gaze staring so far into the past. It had been well over forty years since he walked willingly into a predictable and safe world of self-limiting structure.

He didn’t need to see the page to remember the cursed prompt. He wondered what would happen if he allowed the memories to come alive once more. That was exactly what his therapist encouraged, but he had also suggested journaling. Maybe the man was just a high-paid fraudulent quack.

“You are going to have to find and remove the plug if you want to drain the ocean,” the man had said to him.

You'll never believe how we first met.

His pen finally began to move. The ink flowed onto the page as his buried past poured into his consciousness. Despite the years, John Renkin remembered like it was yesterday. He remembered him.

. . .

August, 1974

An eighteen-year-old John Renkin grabbed a suitcase from the back of his old ’62 Chevy Impala before moving towards the residence hall that would be his home for the next nine months. He couldn’t believe he was in Chicago, although his sore buttocks confirmed the three long days he had spent in the car to get there from his childhood home in Seattle.

He was the first Renkin man with both the money and the drive to attend university. His grandfather passed away four years prior leaving the boy ten thousand dollars and his Impala. John’s father suggested John use the money to purchase Boeing stock. The man had worked for the airplane manufacturer for over a decade and believed the company would thrive as the demand for air travel increased. He was right, and John had doubled his grandfather’s gift multiple times through well-timed transactions.

That was the start of John’s love for investing. He was attending Northwestern University with the dream of becoming a full time investment broker. Before he could get rich, however, he had to find his dorm room.

Three flights of stairs and a long hallway later, John dropped the heavy suitcase in the otherwise empty room numbered 328. The room was divided into almost identical halves with a bed, dresser, and small desk on each side.

Seven trips later, the teen collapsed on the firm bed he had picked and closed his eyes. He was looking forward to a fresh start in a new city. He was going to put his confusing past behind him and be normal from that moment on.

The teen opened his eyes as he heard heavy steps enter the room. He signed in relief as he saw the overweight, acne-scarred teenager staring at him. John wasn’t the least bit attracted to the towheaded, blue-eyed boy.

“God never gives you more than you can handle,” his mother’s voice stated piously in his mind.

“George, honey, I think I read this wrong. You are on the second floor. What kind of name is Georgio?” George Honey waved in embarrassment before following the feminine voice out of room 328 and back towards the stairway.

John Renkin chuckled, closing his eyes once more. The sounds of excited freshmen and their families weren’t distracting enough to keep the road-weary teen awake.

When he finally awoke, John saw that other half of his room was no longer empty. While someone had dropped off their belongings, they themselves were nowhere to be seen.

John’s stomach growled. He hadn’t eaten anything since that morning and was suddenly very interested in finding the campus cafeteria.

It wasn’t a long walk, and it was a beautiful evening. He found a path that took him close to the Lake Michigan shoreline. The water reminded him of home although the Great Lake looked more like the Pacific Ocean than the Puget Sound.

There were happy teenagers and twenty-somethings everywhere he looked. Everyone seemed excited for the new school year to begin.

. . .

He was sitting by himself but didn’t mind. As an only child with two parents who worked second shift, John was used to eating alone. It afforded him the opportunity to watch his fellow students. He found his eyes gravitating towards several of his male peers which made him chastise himself repeatedly. Be normal.

John had not been normal for years. There was something wrong with him; something that he could never tell anyone else about. He’d heard his parents talking about the homosexuals. They were as bad as Communists or maybe even worse. God would probably forgive a Communist, while the homosexuals were just taunting God like the unredeemable men of Sodom and Gomorrah.

As a young teen, when all his friends started talking about girls, he couldn’t stop thinking about boys. At first, he wasn’t worried. He was what his parents called a late bloomer. He knew his constantly exploring eyes were only tracking his own delayed development against the benchmark of his peers. Eventually, John bloomed, but he didn’t stop looking. That’s when he started to worry.

He began avoiding friendships with other boys because he didn’t trust that he could act normal around them. He avoided friendships with girls because most of them seemed as interested in boys as the other boys were with them. John Renkin was alone, not because he liked being alone, but because he was afraid to spend time with other kids.

His thoughts turned to the boxes that had appeared on the opposite side of room 328. John found his imagination creating images the boy who must have left them. He was glad his lap was hidden under the table. Be normal.

He tried to conjure the most unappealing roommate he could think of. Soon his embarrassment had deflated, and he found himself laughing at the grotesque image in his mind. The hideous, seven-foot-tall monstrosity would have a tough time sleeping on the small dorm room bed.

John Renkin returned the metal tray and made his way back out into the early evening air.

. . .

He returned to room 328 to find the mystery boy’s belongings unpacked and put away. The mystery boy himself was absent once more. John spent the next forty minutes unpacking his own things but was still alone in the room when he finished. It felt too early to go to bed, especially after sleeping several hours that afternoon. He consulted the campus map he had been given and discovered a movie theater about a mile away. He loved cinema, as it was something he could do in the presence of others without embarrassing himself.

John decided to walk, taking advantage of the opportunity to get to know his new surroundings better. His timing was perfect, and he enjoyed The Return of the Dragon entirely too much, thanks to the often-shirtless and sweaty Bruce Lee. He didn’t even try to be normal in the back row of the dark theater by himself.

The teenager took a different path back the dorm, getting slightly turned around. By the time he made it back to room 328, it was getting late. Ignoring the hyper freshmen boys dipping in and out of other doors along the hall, John slipped quietly into his room. His new roommate was there, but he was asleep and wrapped mysteriously in the shadows.

All John could see of him was his dark hair. He decided that the mystery boy was likely not a seven-foot-tall monstrosity since he appeared to fit in the bed comfortably. Be normal, he reminded himself as he closed the door. There was just enough light streaming through the room's two windows for him to find his side of the room safely and silently. He quickly stripped off his jeans and t-shirt before slipping under the sheets of his own bed.

John Renkin found it difficult to fall asleep that night. In addition the noise generated by his rowdy neighbors, there was a dark-haired boy he had yet to meet sleeping only feet away. John wondered what he was wearing, if anything, as he strained to hear the boy’s soft breathing. So much for being normal.

. . .

Bright light. Noise. Voices. John Renkin slowly opened his eyes, feeling disoriented as he tried to make sense of the unfamiliar sounds and sights. He remembered: Room 328, in a residence hall on the Northwestern University Campus in Chicago, Illinois. He was suddenly both nervous and curious about the mystery boy once more. The teenager willed his body to relax so he could get out of bed without embarrassing himself.

He needed to pee. Bad.

Finally, John decided being seen with a morning erection was less embarrassing than wetting the bed. He stood, turning his body towards the wall before shuffling sideways to his dresser. In seconds, the teen had donned a pair of sweatpants and an oversized t-shirt. Safely covered, he turned in expectation and dread.

Both beds were now empty.

His roommate was gone once more, his bed neatly made. John was alone in room 328. He felt both disappointment and relief as he hurried into the hall to find the bathroom. He didn’t have time to dwell on the strange circumstances that had so far kept his roommate deeply shrouded in mystery. John was forced to rush through his morning preparations before swinging through the cafeteria for a bagel. He ate it on the way to the first class of his university career.

John Renkin tried to pay attention. He had even taken a seat near the front of the lecture hall. Unfortunately, shortly after choosing a seat, a thin, olive-skinned teenager chose the seat directly in front of him. His medium-length, almost black hair looked clean and soft, with a crisp part on the right side of his head. John spent too much of the class wondering what the teenager looked like from the front. The longer the class ran, the further his imagination roamed and the more guilty he felt. His parents’ voices rose in his mind as they talked about homosexual Communists. Eventually, he could hear nothing else.

Despite sitting in the middle of the row near the front of the hall, John Renkin was one of the first students out of the large room after class. He was confused and angry with himself. Chicago was supposed to be a fresh start. His perversion had followed him, although he didn’t know why he thought it wouldn’t. John wasn’t normal no matter how much he wished he was.

He didn’t think he was a Communist, but he was pretty sure he was a homosexual. That was the worst thing he could be. The teen found a restroom and sat on a toilet, crying silently behind the stall door. Stocks and investing were far from his thoughts, as was a university education or his future. He felt as if his life was ending, even as it began.

John lost count of how many times the bathroom door opened and closed, or a toilet flushed. As his thoughts grew more desperate, he began to forgot where he was. He also forgot to stay silent. A quiet knocking on the stall door reminded him where he was, however.

“Hey, be still man. Open up,” a quiet, kind voice urged.

John Renkin wiped his eyes quickly, trying not to panic. Standing, he turned to flush the toilet he hadn’t used. He took a deep breath before unlatching the stall door.

As it swung open, a thin teenager with familiar olive skin and medium-length, almost black hair came into view. He looked curious, concerned, and impossibly handsome. John almost slammed the door closed once more.

“Ah, hey,” he said instead.

“Are you good, man?” John Renkin hadn’t had a friend in years, so he didn’t know if teenagers his age typically seemed so compassionate.

“Not really,” he said, surprising himself with his honesty.

“Stupid question, huh?” He had an adult laugh, despite his youthful appearance. “Wanna talk about it?”

John Renkin weighed his options. He had committed to leaving his perverted thoughts in Washington state. Northwestern was his chance to start fresh; to be normal. He now knew he’d never be normal but saying that out loud was even scarier than the realization itself. He suddenly felt very alone. Deep down, John knew he always would. He was the worst kind of person, and no one could ever know.

“I’m fine. Just missing home, I guess.” John felt himself die a little with the lie.

“If you say so, man. If you say so.”. The boy’s eyes looked suddenly sad as he sighed.

The lonely boy from Seattle found himself wanting to tell this boy who found him crying in the bathroom everything. His heart rate increased as the boy turned to leave. John found himself panicking again.

“I’m John. John Renkin.” He thought he must have sounded like a lost puppy yipping for attention, but his desperate tone caused the teen turn back to face him once more.

“Glad to officially meet you, John. I’m Georgio Marino.” His eyes were considering as they took in John’s lonely and frightened expression.

John shuddered as the boy he had been fanaticizing about throughout the entire Western Civilizations lecture looked deep into his eyes. The boy broke their eye contact but didn’t look away. Instead, his eyes moved slowly and obviously down John’s body before working their way up once more. When their eyes met again, a knowing grin spread across Georgio’s face.

“Is this a free period for you?” he asked.

“No, but I don’t think I’m going to my economics class today,” John said shyly, his breakfast churning in his stomach.

He had never met anyone like this mysterious boy. His life suddenly seemed full of mysterious boys. All he seemed to think about was mysterious boys.

“Wanna go back to the dorms for a while? Maybe I can take your mind off of home,” he said in what the boy hoped was a seductive tone.

“Huh?” John was feeling very confused about a lot of things.

“You’re homesick, remember?” John loved Georgio’s deep laugh.

“Right, homesick,” he repeated awkwardly.

He was saved from further embarrassment by the bathroom door opening. Both teenagers turned, attempting to act innocent, despite having done nothing wrong.

Georgio stepped towards the door, and John followed. He had no idea what he was doing or where they were going, but he knew it wasn’t normal. John desperately wanted to follow this boy, who had just undressed him with his beautiful brown eyes. It had never before occurred to John Renkin that other boys might also be the worst kind of people.

The two freshmen students walked across the campus together. John was mildly surprised when Georgio led him to his own residence hall. He was shocked when the boy exited the stairway on the third floor and flabbergasted when he paused before the door marked 328.

“This is me,” he said through a huge grin. “You too, I believe. I like watching you sleep.”

“You are my mysterious roommate?” John asked, realizing that his two mystery boys were one and the same.

“You still missing home?” Georgio asked as he opened the door to their room.

John Renkin knew he would be forever condemned as the door closed behind them. Georgio Marino was not seven-feet-tall, he wasn’t towheaded, or acne-pocked. John would never be able to be normal sharing a room with the beautiful boy from the lecture hall or the compassionate teen who had discovered him in the bathroom.

Georgio was both of those boys and so much more, as John would learn over the next nine months. Neither was a Communist. They were both something so much worse, but for the first time in his life, John Renkin stopped caring about being normal. It didn’t seem so wrong to love Georgio Marino and being loved in return didn’t feel bad or evil in the least.

. . .

The old man put down the pen. He let the tears fall as he thought back to his freshman year at Northwestern University fifty years before. He hadn’t allowed himself to think about Georgio for a long time, but now that he had started, his college roommate refused to leave him alone. He didn’t hate the prompt journal nearly as much as he had.

He closed the book and set it aside for the day. John Renkin felt lighter, having written about his first love, forbidden as it was. His life suddenly felt a little less structured with a few more possibilities. Maybe the water level was a bit lower in his mental ocean of self-hate. He decided to pay for yet another session with his seafaring charlatan of a therapist next Thursday at 3:45, hoping the man might throw another lifeline and finally pull him from the depths of his overwhelming shame and guilt.