The Codeword – Novella Five - 4. Part 5: Teach Your Children Well

Part 5: Teach Your Children Well

Bobby's almost finished.

What am I afraid of? Is trust such a difficult thing to extend or be open to receive? Or are we just frightened and intimidated by societal clichés that they use to keep us down? The disgraceful image of the self-pitying weakling, the tormented sad sack, the laughing stock too scared of his own shadow to stand up for himself.

I know we are stronger – that I am stronger – than the hateful image mainstream TV and movies try to reflect back to us as what 'real Gay people are like.' That's all discriminatory, and hateful; it's all bullshit.

I swallow down my fear. "Do you happen to know, Blakie Williams?"

Bobby stops preening for a moment, and I feel my hair pulled at an uncomfortable angle, locked and frozen in his grip.

He watches me in reflection, saying, "Yes, I know him. Why do you ask?"

I rotate my head to see his reaction directly. "He sent me here today."

"Oh, did he now?"

We continue this come out dance.

"Do you also know, Jamieson Jones?"

"Yes, him too." He rains a sly smile down on me. "I know both of them."

I turn back around, and Bobby Strand eventually continues cutting. Truth is, just at that moment, I lose my nerve. Now I feel my jaw clench as if biting down my jitters. Bobby is almost done with my haircut, but will I have the balls to utter that obscure word?

It seems my whole life is on the balance scales: on one side is misery and isolation, on the other is a chance at connection. I feel scared again, but do I not want to live in the shadows like some other boys, and also, I feel gratitude for Blakie Williams. How can I come this far only to let him down now, even if I consider letting myself be disappointed in my lack of guts?

˚˚˚˚˚

A couple of days after the goodbye hayride and party, I was walking home as usual. As I crossed the street towards the church, I noticed Blakie leaning on that building's far corner. He wore his navy-blue windbreaker, and it flapped lightly in the spring breeze as I approached nearer to him. He had a couple of textbooks leaning on his waist, held there by his right hand, and he looked to be waiting for something. I saw him pull out his plastic lemon and squirt a shot of reinvigorating juice into his mouth.

When I got to about ten feet from him, he tipped his chin up at me in greeting.

"Hey," he said.

"Hey. How's it going?"

"Fine. You heading home?"

"Yep. You?"

"Yep. Wanna walk together?"

"Sure."

We kicked off the corner and walked towards West Main Street. This was sort of repeat deja vu, but I concentrated on the warm sun on my cheeks and the blue sky blooming invitingly over our heads.

"Congrats on getting through to the State finals. Jodie told me."

"Oh yeah. Thanks."

"I told Jodie I think it's great you came back to help her out."

"It's no problem. I really enjoy Speech and acting. It's what I want to do."

"Cool."

"You're close to Jodie, huh?"

Blakie's cool demeanor seemed to warm as the afternoon sun and breeze slightly ruffled his dark hair.

"Yeah…"

"Me too."

I said a bit too enthusiastically: "I'll be starting Judas Tree High in the fall!" Then I dialed it back to the level of 'cool' by sticking my hands in my pocket. I added, as I kicked some gravel, "What's it like there?"

"It's ok. I have a group to hang around with, and the school's large enough that you can find people who like and do the same stuff as you."

"Oh. I hope so."

"You'll find a place, don’t worry. I did. Jodie tells me you were about the only guy who welcomed Dustin Day into your class when he was held back."

"Oh yeah, I forgot. You know him because you were in the same class."

"Yep."

"Well, I like Dustin. He's a great guy."

He actually smiled at me.

I said, "I like him too; I always have."

Suddenly I thought about Ralph and what he had said about Blakie getting him his job at the supermarket.

"You know, I bumped into Ralph working at your store a little while back. He seems to like it there."

"Oh yeah, what was he doing?"

"He was putting rubber bands on broccoli."

Blakie laughed with a good-natured openness. "Yeah, my dad hates to do that, so I guess Ralphie gets that chore all the time."

"Um. I'm just curious, but how do you like him, you know, as a person."

"He's cool. Truth is, there used to always be this little dark cloud over that kid, that's why I thought maybe him helping out at the grocery would clear his mind a little bit."

"What do you mean, exactly?"

"I mean that I figured Ralph is a good guy, but he spends a lot of time in his own head. So, being out in public may help him see and socialize better."

"And did it?"

"Hell yeah! He met Mindy, didn't he?!"

"He has a girlfriend..?"

"Yes, he has a girlfriend, and once he met her, his whole attitude and outlook on life changed."

"Oh yeah, how?"

"I don't know Simon, it may sound really simplistic, but in a nutshell, he just became happy. He started smiling, he started walking with his shoulders back, and he started acting confident with people – and it was like all his fear evaporated."

"Wow. That's awesome."

"It was pretty incredible to watch."

In my mind I celebrated for Ralph; we all deserve our individual shot at happiness, and it seems the lonely and isolated Wendy's Hamburger boy of a redhead had found his bliss in the form of his girlfriend Mindy. I could not be happier for him.

Soon enough, we were approaching his house, and I was nervous. What did Jodie mean when she said we boys don’t help each other? Why did she want Blakie Williams and me to get to know one another?

Blakie rested his hand on the fancy iron gate leading from the sidewalk to his front door.

"Wanna come in?" he asked in a pretty low voice. "We can listen to some music, if you want."

I'm positive I smiled like a dolt, but nevertheless, I chirped: "Sure!"

˚˚˚˚˚

Blakie's room was in the rear corner of the second floor of his Victorian house.

Windows on two walls let in lots of shaded currents of springtime air, which rustled his light curtains in a gentle way. Birdsong called from the nearby poplar trees that lined the back of their property.

I stood at the window and let the musical offerings of KWK, 106.5, trickle into my mind.

The station always played the best music in the couple of hours after school let out, and now they were spinning that new song that always made me think of the back of the dollar bill, that 'eye in the sky song' by the Alan Parsons Project.

The song was cool; it was mellow and had a good beat.

I turned around. Blakie was sitting on his bed with his legs folded under him. He had kicked off his suede shoes and changed from his school button down shirt into a yellow, green and red striped tank top. He looked refreshed as he swayed his head and examined an album cover.

Blakie's personal fashion sense was of the highest taste, very restrained, but everything he wore both fit him perfectly and made it look like there was good money in selling groceries.

On his bedside cabinet sat his squeeze bottle of lemon juice: the yellow plastic lemon with green top.

On the walls of his room were a variety of posters. The one over his bed was framed in brass and looked old. Other ones were pinned around here and there and included a concert image of Blondie on stage, a blow-up of The Carpenters' Made in America album cover, and a dark one of musical staves and notes with KFUO-FM, 99.1 emblazed on it; that's the local classical station.

Looking around, it was clear to see that this room was Blakie's inner-sanctum; his fortress of solitude, like Superman's ice cave.

I placed my hands behind my back, just above my beltline, and leaned on his window ledge. "So, what exactly is Judas Tree High School like?"

He raised his head with a built-in sneer on it. He half laughed, saying, "It's like a bigger, more aggressive version of Saint Lazarus. I like it there. Some of the teachers are really great, and I have a few close friends, but I can't wait to get out of there."

I chuckled: "Why? Are you impatient?"

The song changed, and I infectiously began to tap the window frame because I really like this half-rock, half Hippie tune. I think Joan Jett is gonna have a number one hit with 'Crimson and Clover.'

Blakie smiled to see how into the song I was. "Yes. Impatient to get out of Judas Tree, and on to New York or Hollywood. I have dreams."

"You're saying people in Judas Tree don’t have dreams?"

"I'm saying that if they do, they don’t show 'em; they never talk about them anyway."

"Man, maybe you're right about that one. People are pretty quiet around here."

"They're not quiet about beer and drugs, but they are stone-cold mum about how they feel, or even, if they feel."

I thought of 'fortress of solitude' again, and of Terry's literal fort escape place.

I asked Blakie, "You know that junior, Terry, don’t you?"

"Yeah."

"Are you close with him?"

Blakie tossed his album aside to lean back on his hands. Apparently I had hit upon an interesting topic. "Not particularly. But he is popular, if at least for his easy stream of drugs for sale. Why do you ask?"

I pushed off from the windowsill and started to approach the bed. "Tell me, what’s he like at school?"

Blakie thought it over for a moment or two while I scanned the titles of books on the wall shelf over his desk.

"He's reserved, friendly in the hallways, sits in the back of class like a reigning monarch, but that's because of business reasons." His eyebrows danced as he said those last two words. "But seriously, why do you ask?"

I considered if I should betray Terry's confidence and tell Blakie that Mr. Reigning Monarch and I made out in the fort. I decided not to.

"You know," I chattered dumbly. "He and Jodie were going out for a while. Then, he broke her heart."

"Yeah." Blakie blinked knowingly. "He was not right for her."

"Because..?" I tried to lead him on.

He smiled and lay back on his elbows with his hands supporting his lower back by his kidneys. He looked like he was enjoying this. "Because…I don’t know, Simon…do you? If so, you can tell me..."

The song on the radio had changed. That hit Hippie song from the Bible, and from way back, was playing smoothly; Turn, Turn, Turn.

The breeze wafted in, and the words filtered in too, and it was right; all of it was right. There is a time to sow, and a time to reap; a time to mourn, and a time to dance.

I moved towards Blakie on his bed. His smile drifted up to me as I leaned on his wall and looked at the poster above his bed. It was moody: a mother gripped her child and raised her hand to the viewer. To her side was a red cross and large text at the top warned complacent Americans that "There Are Children Starving in Europe." I knew from the style that it was a World War One poster, and an original one too.

Blakie licked his lips slightly and I glanced down straight into his large brown eyes. He murmured something, something like poetry.

"Of brass and mud,

And a ringing in the ears,

This sweat and blood

Becomes the sum of our fears."

"You like Lost Generation poetry too, like me?"

He nodded. "Yes, I knew that."

"How did you know I do?"

"Jodie mentioned you and I have a lot in common."

I sat on the bed next to him and he sat up to stare at me. There was a half-inviting, half-off-putting glint at the corners of his mouth. Being this close, I could see just how handsome his dark features were. His eyes were deep brown – a caramel with flecks of molasses stirred in. His cheeks were blemish-free and his dark brown hair was smooth and had not a strand out of place.

He reached for his lemon bottle, then came back to look at me while he popped the top. Instead of having some, he held the plastic citrus out for me to take.

Without a word, I slid my fingers over his for a moment, and took the bottle. Holding it up to my mouth, I thought of how intimate this action was. My lips were soon to be where only Blakie's had ever been. He raised a corner of his mouth while I scrutinized the cap. There was no opening, only something like a pinhole.

"How..?" I asked.

"Just squirt it in. It's good."

I did. The bite was instantaneous and made my whole head pucker into a pickled scowl. I shook my braincase like a wet retriever to try and re-find my consciousness. My lips made slushy sounds while I shook them.

Blakie laughed in delight, and took the bottle.

As I squinted, trying to catch my breath, he squirted a long line of lemon juice into his mouth, and swallowed with satisfaction. "There," he said. "Now you and I are connected. I hope you appreciate it someday." He laughed again, but this time it was as if in slow motion.

I moved in closer, and whispered: "Who said I don’t appreciate you right now?"

Blakie began to breathe a little choppy, and somehow it seemed his lungs were taking in extra air for my heart, for it was beating fast.

The song continued. There is a time to split, and time to mend; there is a time to keep quiet, and a time to speak – and now it was my time to speak.

I swallowed and scanned his face as I said, "About the World War One poets, their poetry is all based on something I think of as, man-to-man tenderness."

He grinned in a sad way. "Tenderness, I agree. But you can also put another word to it, so can I, so can anyone with half an open heart."

"Love..?"

"Yes. Love."

"It's true. Those men loved one another."

"It's more than that," he laughed.

"How so?"

"They were often in love with each other. That's the source of the emotion of those poems."

I had to agree. "You're right. Although I could always 'feel' that aspect, you've opened my eyes to the meaning of them. You've just confirmed what I already knew."

"Anyone," Blakie said like it was way obvious. "Who denies that basic tenet of why they wrote them will never be fully able to understand those poems, much less feel or agree with them."

"Like the way, you feel them, Blakie?"

"Yes. Like the way, you feel them too, Simon..?"

I leapt to my feet in joy. I felt like I had discovered a new world.

"Yes! Definitely! And now I get it."

"Get what?" Blakie refolded his legs and sat Indian-style on the front edge of his bed.

"I get why Jodie wanted us to hang out together."

"Didn't she tell you that I was Gay?"

"Nope. Did she tell you about me?"

"Nope."

I chuckled. "Funny. I guess straight people treat it like a secret, even after we stop thinking of it that way anymore."

"Yeah, funny. We come out to them, meaning it's no big deal anymore, but they continue to act like it is to others. Oh, well."

"So, do you have a boyfriend?!" As soon as I said it, I knew I sounded a little too chipper. I didn't want Blakie to think I was offering myself up as a candidate.

The grocer's son didn’t seem to think that, because he immediately smiled sweetly. He said in soft tones: "Yeah, I do. Me and Jamieson Jones have been going together for about a year now."

"Ah, man – that's great. He's really nice."

I could see that the high school guy mentioned would make a perfect partner for Blakie. He's way cool, a sophomore in high school, and steady as a rock in his demeanor. Jamieson went to Saint Lazarus, and his younger brother Jackson – who is in 5^th grade – still goes there. Their folks moved to Judas Tree a few years ago, and to date they are the only Black family in town.

These brothers made a study in contrasts. The smaller was free and easy, befriended everyone equally, and never knew any reticence at all. Jackson's juvenile laugh came naturally with bending shoulder movements, and a big upward flash of pearly whites.

His older brother was magnificent. Handsome and composed, Jamieson held himself upright. He did not allow much arm-swinging, and I can see him in my mind's eye, as he strode down the sidewalk after school, his wrist bent hard over a small pile of books he carried home for his assignments. He walked the ordinary and chipped pathways of my town as if his Hush Puppies barely needed to touch the pavement; like a taut dancer gracefully unwinding the coiled tension of his body. Jamieson rarely smiled, rarely let his guard down, but he always protected his brother.

They would walk together, side-by-side, the small one like a yapping puppy at the heels of his sire. In Jackson's little hand would be artwork the teacher had praised – and at those moments, the noble impulse in the still and placid big brother made a hand go to the top of Sibling's head. Jamieson would slip it down to the boy's back, jostle the lagging but radiant young man forward a bit, and utter a phrase like: "Good job." And then, like storm clouds parting, he would smile.

The music suddenly shut off. Blakie had stood and fiddled with the stereo. Now the turntable console light was on, and he was squatting on his haunches looking through his record crate. "Sit on the bed. Be comfortable!"

I did, and thought to myself that since Blakie and I have come out to each other, Blakie's guard was totally down.

"If you want, I can get you a lemon bottle of your own. I give them out to a few friends."

"Where do you get them?"

He turned around and squinted at me like it was obvious. "At my folks' store. It’s free, or at least free to me!"

"Ok. I'll take one. Thanks."

"Do you like classical music at all..?" he asked, returning to sorting through his records.

"Ummm, my dad bought me an old Strauss waltzes album. I like that."

"Cool," he mumbled distractedly, then he brightened as he pulled out an album. While he unsleeved it, he told me, "This is something I think you'll like. It's by Cecil Coles." He set the record on the turntable.

"Ok. I don’t know who he is, but, ok."

"Coles was a composer caught up in World War One too. He's the musical counterpart of the Lost Generation of poets."

"Oh. That is cool."

"I know, right?"

He positioned the stylus carefully, and after a few sputtering cracks from the needle in the blank margin, a low rumbling sound of snare drums came out of his speakers.

As it started to play, Blakie came back to his bed and sat next to me with hands kicked out behind him. His face was expectant and happy to watch mine as I listened to the music.

The melody was drawn out in a slow sadness, while all the while, the snares form the marching drum kept the sense of slow and steady movement.

"What's this one called?" I asked.

"Cortège."

The music changed, and a second theme was introduced: a broad and beautiful melody of longing and of something like the love of a breaking heart.

"Cortège? What's that mean?"

"Um, in the military, when someone dies in action, they sometimes have a sort of funeral parade. The body will be placed on a gun carriage, and the hero's boots will be placed backwards in the stirrups of his horse. That procession to his grave is called a cortège."

"Oh…" It just hit me. The image was perfectly clear. "You mean, like they buried President Kennedy."

"Exactly. He had a cortège."

Suddenly the music was imbued with all the emotional impact of fallen comrades and loved ones. But, even so, all I could think of was Blakie and Jamieson walking down the sidewalks of Judas Tree; even though out in a public that could only guess, they still made an ideal couple.

"How did you and Jamieson meet?"

"What do you mean? In Saint Lazarus."

"Yeah, I mean. How did you know!"

"That he was right for me?"

"Yes."

"In drama club. He has dreams too. He wants to be a professional dancer, you know, on the stage – and he's so good too. I love the way he dances. After we graduate, both of us are going to New York or Hollywood together."

"But he'll graduate a year before you."

"Yeah. We have it all worked out. I'm saving everything I can now from working at my parents' grocery, and after Jamieson graduates, he'll stick around here for a year, get a job, save, and then we'll be set to start out together."

He looked sad all of a sudden, a sweet sad. "I love him, Simon. I really do."

"Ah, man – that's wonderful…" I tried to sound happy for him, but I think I failed. I glanced at Blakie's happy face, and added suggestively, "I bet he's a good kisser too."

Blakie blushed and laughed at the same time. "Yep. Fantastic kisser – and more – remember, he's a dancer!"

"Ah…man…" I became emotional. "That's so great, I wish I had someone in my life like that. But, how to meet boys? I just don’t know."

Blakie Williams laughed at me like the answer were obvious. "You can meet boys!"

"How?"

"Bobby Strand."

"The barber, Bobby?"

"Yes. The very one."

I guess he read my puzzled scowl, for he went on in a tone like he was reduced to talking to a kid.

"Ok. It’s this way. Bobby and Elvid – his partner and lover – host what they call 'soda socials' for boys like us who are under twenty-one. His coworker Stella does the same for the girls. They have these parties twice a month, on alternating Friday nights."

"Wow. But how do people know? How did you find out?"

"It's all word of mouth, like this, from one Gay kid to another. That's how we learn our history, and I guess, our future too."

"Where do they hold these soda socials?"

"In their salon, but you have to be invited."

"So, how can I get invited?"

"You have to mention the codeword to Bobby. It’s all hush hush."

I must have looked anxious, because Blakie instantly reassured me with a growing chuckle: "Don’t worry. I'll tell ya – and you need to realize, you're not alone. We're never alone. You might be surprised whose face you'll see there Friday night."

"The next party is this Friday?"

"Yep."

"Oh man – "

"But," he cut me off. "Be careful with this knowledge. Bobby, Elvid, and Stella are doing good, but others would freak out on them if they knew."

"Ok. Got it. I'll only ever mention it to Gay kids, like us."

"Yeah. That's right. We've got to protect Bobby, and be careful of his reputation so he can continue to help young people who feel alone and isolated."

"It's the worst to feel isolated, and I promise I will be careful." I drug out the vowel sound and stopped, Sooooo…"

After a pause, Blakie asked, "So…what?"

"So! What is the codeword?!"

Blakie stood from his bed, and stepped right in front of me. He came close, and forced my legs to part so he could stand as close to me as possible. He bent at the waist, and cupped his hand to my left ear. He whispered it, and as a grating and breathless pair of syllables, the word sank straight into my long-term memory.

After he straightened up and stood akimbo before me, I asked, "That..?"

He nodded with a serious, downward cast. "It has to be a word people are not likely to say, and if they ever do, Bobby can tell by the context that they are not trying to come out to him. Can you remember the codeword?"

I nodded. "Oh yes. I'll remember."

"Good. Now, before you head home, stop by his shop and make yourself a haircut appointment. And make it for before Friday!"