Remembering Tim - 1. Chapter 1 - Stevie and Kiel

A new family moved into the Carlson house almost exactly two months after my best friend died. I read about the accident in the morning paper while eating my usual breakfast of unsweetened wheat puffs floating in homogenized milk. (I liked going to the Milk Barn with my dad because he always asked for two homos and a pint of cream. The clerk never flinched, but I was practically busting a gut from laughing inside. I don’t think Dad ever realized what he was saying.)

A gasoline truck had been speeding down Oak Park Boulevard, ran the red light at One Hundred Fifth, jackknifed to avoid a bunch of kids in the crosswalk, then rolled onto its side, split open and splashed its deadly cargo through the open windows of the Carlson’s Buick parked in front of the National Bank of North Park. The fire department said it must have been Mr. Carlson’s cigarette that ignited the gasoline. Mr. and Mrs. Carlson, Stevie, Melinda, and little Amy were engulfed in flames before anyone had a chance to react. I wanted to think they died quickly, but knew they suffered horribly as fire burned them inside and out. To die in a fire has to be the worst kind of death possible. I should know, I’ve tried to kill myself quite a few times, but never, ever considered self-immolation as a practical method to off myself; of course, I’m not a Buddhist monk living in Vietnam, thank God.

To celebrate the death of my best friend, I tried to kill myself, but that’s another story for another time because what’s important right now is the new boy next door. I hated Kiel the moment I saw him carrying a birdcage up the Carlson’s sidewalk. Mr. Carlson was allergic to birds, especially obnoxious chirpy canaries like the ones in Kiel’s cage. He looked younger than me. Black hair cut so close his white scalp practically made him look bald. Black eyebrows looked like disgusting caterpillars crawling across his milky forehead. The red ears were comically hideous in their insignificance. Nose small, normal, almost perky. Lips thin, moist, stretched out into an unnatural smile showing shiny metal covered teeth. Lanky body with hands so large they seemed to belong to someone else and they were red, too. His feet were covered with black high-tops. Blue jeans tapered so much his tiny ass looked strangely appealing, but his legs were so skinny his body looked like it was stuck to a moving pedestal. A long-sleeved white dress shirt too big for his body. He definitely wasn’t Stevie Carlson and I swore I’d never speak to him for moving into my dead best friend’s house.

When his big breasted, older sister came out of their rusty ’59 Chevrolet station wagon, I ran up to my bedroom to see if the birds ended up in Stevie’s bedroom. It was directly across the adjoining driveways from my room. I didn’t want the boy in that room, but I sort of did, too. I definitely didn’t want his sister in there. I waited for nearly an hour before the light came on and a woman who must have been his mother came in and looked around. The light went out, I heard their car start, and they left.

Three days later I was out in our backyard pathetically trying to shoot hoops when I became aware of a shadow on the driveway. It was long and didn’t move once after coming to a stop. Of course, I missed a rebound and turned to watch it head for the street, but it didn’t get far because someone stopped it. Up close he was maybe an inch shorter than me, but possibly the same height because he slouched; my mother was always getting on to me about slouching; “What do you want, sloped shoulders?”. Well, frankly, straight broad shoulders were for jocks and I hated jocks, but I didn’t slouch, for Mother’s sake.

“Hi, my name’s Kiel,” he said. He pronounced it like Kyle and for the longest time that’s how I thought it was spelled. A nervous smile made his lips quiver slightly. He was wearing the same black high-tops. They were Converses, but they looked too big for his feet and they were too new, too clean. All of his clothes looked too clean. What kind of kid wears a white shirt when going out to play?

“Geoff,” I said as Kiel dribbled in and made the most perfect layup I’ve ever seen.

The ball was sailing back to me before I knew it and I flubbed the catch. My right thumb took the brunt of the impact. The pain was instant and distinct, bringing tears to my eyes.

“Hey, sorry,” Kiel said, running over to me as I turned away so he couldn’t see me cry.

“Damn, damn, damn,” was all I could say as the searing pain climbed up my arm.

“Come on, you need to ice that,” Kiel said, pulling my other arm, practically dragging me to my back door.

“What’s wrong, honey,” my mother said as Kiel pulled me through the door. She was ironing my sheets. She ironed everything, including my t-shirts and briefs and Dad’s argyles when he was home from his endless sales trips. Who cares if their socks are ironed? Who is going to notice if you have wrinkly socks? Probably the same people who will comment about your wrinkly underwear.

“He jammed his thumb when I tossed him the basketball,” Kiel said. “Hi, I’m Kiel Elkins from next door. I think he needs some ice on that.”

“Put your thumb under the tap,” my mother said, turning on the cold water in the laundry basin. “Kiel? Would you like some chocolate chip cookies? They’re fresh.”

“Okay,” Kiel said, following my mother into the kitchen, leaving me in the laundry room.

I couldn’t quite hear what they were saying because of the running water. My thumb hurt, but the cold water was starting to numb it a bit. I couldn’t believe Kiel caught me off guard with that pass. He was definitely better at basketball than I was, but that wasn’t any reason for me to like him. After all, Stevie Carlson was better at basketball than I was. Heck, nearly everybody in the world was better at basketball than I was. It seemed the more I practiced, the worse I got. I was pathetically incompetent at basketball no matter how hard I tried, but shooting hoops was better than being inside and having to put away folded and ironed underwear.

“Cookie?” Kiel said, holding one up to my lips. He was smiling, the steel in his mouth sparkling. He was so close I could smell the tartly sweet scent of his perspiration.

“I can feed myself,” I said reaching up with my good hand to get the cookie away from my mouth. He let go an instant before I could grab it.

“Uh, huh, sure you can. You don’t play football do you? I’d hate to throw you a pass.”

I looked down at the cookie on the floor. Then watched him squat down to get it and come back up. He practically pushed it into my mouth. His movements seemed to flow like water. It was as if he’d rehearsed this very thing and was playing out all the movements to an invisible audience. I wasn’t certain I hated him as much as I thought I was going to, but I wasn’t certain I could like him. He seemed too sure of himself. He definitely wasn’t as uncoordinated as I was. That was not a plus in his column.

“I called Doctor Connor, he’ll meet us at his office,” my mother said, walking into the laundry room. “Here put your thumb in this bag of ice. Kiel can you watch Sally while we’re gone? She’s up in her bedroom playing.”

“Sure, I’d be glad to.”

“You’re going to leave Sally with a stranger?” I asked as Mother pulled my good arm. Mother winced when the screen door slapped shut because I couldn’t catch it with my bad hand. I think mothers the world over hate the sound of a slapping screen door.

“Kiel’s not a stranger. I know his mother from work.”

“You know those people next door?” I asked as I got into Mother’s car. She shut the door, since I couldn’t with my hand in a bag of ice.

“Of course I know them, silly,” she said when she got in on her side. “How do you think they found out about the house?”

“But, you didn’t say anything to me.”

“Why should I?”

“I thought you would at least let me know someone you knew was moving in. Stevie was my best friend.”

“I know, honey, but it’s time to move on. That’s what Doctor Morgan told you. Don’t you remember him telling you that?”

“Yes.” Of course I remembered everything I was told by the fat, bald headed, so-called child psychologist my parents hired to get me through the grief over Stevie’s death. Only, I don’t think he got me far enough because I was still crying myself to sleep most nights. I wasn’t as loud as I was in the beginning, but I was still doing it. And, I found out where my dad hid the key to his gun locker. I figured the .38 caliber revolver would do the trick when the time came. I’d already secreted a couple bullets out of the box and had them hidden in the bottom drawer of my dresser. I figured I needed two in case I missed my head with the first shot. When you’re pathetically uncoordinated, you consider things like that.

**********

Kiel was reading a story to Sally when we returned. My hand was wrapped up, but nothing was broken. I could have told my mother that, but early in life I learned never to tell my mother anything when she was on a mission of mercy.

“Mommy? Can Kiel come over and read to me again?” Sally asked when she noticed us walk into the family room. For a mistake, my five-year-old sister was about as obnoxious as a chirpy canary. I was supposed to be the last mistake coming along four years after my older sister, Trudy, but somebody didn’t learn their lesson and nearly ten years later Sally showed up. Now, my brother Karl was in Southeast Asia helping the keep the Commies from knocking down all of the dominoes all the way to Australia, Trudy was down in Oregon, a freshman at Springfield Poly, and I was stuck with the little sister.

“Were you a nice little girl?”

“She was a snap to watch Mrs. Johnson, no problem at all,” Kiel said, closing the book and handing it to Sally. He came up out of the sofa into a standing position seemingly by simply straightening his legs. I’d never seen anyone do that before. He was so skinny I couldn’t see how he had enough muscles to do anything.

“Here, take this,” my mother said, holding out a five-dollar bill.

“No, that’s all right, she wasn’t any trouble and you needed me to be here,” Kiel said, walking toward the door. “My mother wouldn’t want me to take money in such a circumstance. I’ll see you around, Geoff. Sorry about the thumb.”

“Yeah, sure,” I mumbled watching the front door close.

“What a strange boy,” my mother said. “You were paying attention? Right?”

“Yeah, I suppose, to what?”

“The way he wouldn’t take my money, silly.”

“Yeah, I suppose. Was that good?”

“Yes! That’s what you’re supposed to do. You don’t take money when people need you in an emergency.”

“I would.”

“You’d better not.”

“Why?”

“Because it isn’t nice, it’s not Christian. Don’t you pay attention to anything Pastor Fischer says? I think you’d better go up to your room and read your Bible.”

“Okay,” I mumbled walking toward the stairs. We’re not as religious as Mother makes us out to be, but you never know when she’ll turn something into a Bible lesson. Here I am suffering from a jammed thumb and in trouble for thinking Kiel should have taken the five dollars. Heck, I take any money that comes along. If it’s offered, I take it. Why worry about trying to be a good Christian?

Kiel was in his bedroom when I walked into mine. He waved. I waved back. He shut his curtains. I sat down on my bed and heard the phone ring.

“It’s for you Geoff,” my mother called out. “It’s Kiel.”

I almost ran out of my room. Then wondered why. I still wasn’t too certain I liked him. He was obviously nice, but he seemed too sure of himself. Heck, I could trip over my two left feet on smooth carpet. Maybe I’d run better if I had expensive shoes, but I didn’t, so I wasn’t. So I slowed to a walk.

“Hurry up, silly.”

“I’m coming,” I said, looking at my feet while I came down the stairs. I always worried about stumbling on the stairs. I’d always heard people died if they fell down stairs. At least they all died in the movies.

“Yeah?” I said after taking the phone from my mother.

“Hey, Geoff, are you well enough to go down to drug store with me?”

“Yeah, I suppose.”

“My dad needs me to pick up his prescription and Mom isn’t back from my Aunt Leona’s.”

“I’ll be over with my bike.”

“Uh, I don’t have a bike. I never learned how to ride one.”

“You don’t know how to ride a bike?”

“No.”

“I guess we’ll have to walk.”

“That’s what I do best.”

“I’ll be over in a sec’.”

Well, I’ll be, Mr. So-Sure-Of-Himself doesn’t know how to ride a bicycle. Everybody knows how to ride a bike. Heck, even Sally knows how to ride a bike. Maybe Mr. Perfect isn’t so perfect after all.

**********

It was nearly a mile and half down to Oak Park Drugs and down is the key word. It was all downhill from our house and uphill the way back. Going you could walk straight down One Hundred Thirteenth for six blocks which, in places were so steep it seemed to be nearly vertical. Definitely not for the faint of heart on a bicycle, especially the stop sign at Oak Park Boulevard at the bottom. Four lanes of constantly busy traffic were a certain test of brakes. Coming back, I usually went down to One Hundred Second because the slope was easier. It added another half mile to the trip, but you weren’t so tired at the end. No use getting bushed just for an errand, especially if there was no money offered.

Kiel was waiting for me out front, but I went out our back door anyway. The front door was for company and I never used it. He had that quivering shy smile I’d seen earlier.

“Hi.”

“Hi.”

“We have to go to Greenwood Drugs because Dad hasn’t moved his prescriptions to Oak Park, yet.”

“Okay,” I said, mentally picturing the two or three mile walk ahead of us, not counting the trip back.

“I hope you don’t mind, with your sore hand and all.”

“No, I don’t walk on my hands.”

“I can.”

“But, you can’t ride a bike. Why didn’t your dad teach you?”

“You’ve never met my dad.”

“No, I’ve never seen him. I saw you, your sister, and your mother the day you brought out your birds, but I didn’t see your dad.”

“He’s in a wheelchair. He’s paralyzed. A car hit him when he was riding a bike. He was ten.”

“Oh, man, that sucks.”

“That’s all right. You’ll like him. He saw you shooting hoops this morning and sent me over to give you a few pointers.”

“I’m not that bad.”

“Do you play any other sports?”

“I golf.”

“That’s a sport?”

“It’s on TV.”

“Demolition derby is on TV, too, and that’s not a sport.”

“It’s on Wide World of Sports. I watched it last Saturday.”

“Oh, yeah, I did, too. My dad likes watching that.”

“Your dad sounds cool for a, uh …”

“Crip?”

“I wasn’t going to say that.”

“Yeah, you were. Everybody says that.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Hey, no problem, like I said, everybody says that.”

“I don’t want you to think I’m like everybody.”

“Tell me about Stevie Carlson.”

“He was my best friend, he’s dead.”

“I know.”

“You know?”

“Yeah, my mom told me you two were close.”

“Stevie was special,” and I told Kiel everything I remembered about Stevie. Well, almost everything. I left out he was the first boy I ever kissed and, for what it’s worth, he was a great kisser; not that I had that much experience kissing. Plus, I didn’t tell him Stevie and I had been all the way once; and, I especially didn’t tell him that I sucked Stevie’s cock on a regular basis. I figured Kiel didn’t need to know I might be queer, not right now anyway. He definitely didn’t need to know Stevie liked doing it with guys. No use ruining a dead friend’s rep when he can’t defend himself.

**********

“Geoff?” A somewhat familiar voice said in the telephone handset I was holding later that evening.

“Yeah?”

“Can you help me?”

“Who is this?”

“God, Geoff, it’s Monica. It’s been like, what, three weeks since schools been out. You’ve forgotten the sound of my voice already?”

“Oh, Monica, yeah, the short dumpy girl with miniscule breasts who keeps asking me to take her to dances. How’s it going, Monica?”

“Don’t get smart with me, Geoff, or I’ll have Mark rearrange your face.”

“That would be Mark, the defensive tackle, or Mark, the tight end.”

“Does it make a difference?”

“I can run faster than the tub of lard who can’t see three feet past his helmet, but can smell a quarterback a mile away.”

“No, the other one.”

“Oh, yeah, him.”

“So are you going to help me with my homework from summer school?”

“Which class?”

“I only have to take algebra.”

“Monica, I thought girls were supposed to be smart.”

“Well, I’m not.”

“So, what’s the problem?”

“Can I come over?”

“Sure, maybe the new boy next door will come over and dazzle you with his athletic ability.”

“You mean, Kiel Elkins?”

“Don’t tell me you know him, too.”

“Yeah, he goes to my church. He’s kind of skinny for me, but you should like him.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“God, Geoff, you act like you’re the only person in school who doesn’t know you’re queer.”

To be honest, Monica does keep asking me to take her to dances, but she has her heart set on the mean SOB who thinks with his fists. Good thing he doesn’t play basketball because he’d foul out in the first quarter. And, other than Stevie, I thought she was the only one who suspected I wasn’t fully committed to getting married to a girl sometime after college. Now, I have to wonder how many other members of the sophomore class think yours truly can’t be trusted in a room full of naked boys, not that I’ve had any trouble so far. You can’t be too careful with teenage boys on hormone overload and scared to death someone might think they’re into a little mutual handiwork when you pop a boner in the locker room. The last thing I want is to ruin a perfect set of teeth that didn’t cost my parents a cent.

But, what is she implying about Kiel? He’s kind of personable, but standoffish too. It’s like he wants to get to know me, but doesn’t want to get too close. Maybe he does tie his shoes the other way around, like they say about us of the wandering eye, not that I’ve noticed his eyes wandering around me. Maybe I’m not his type, or maybe he’s not sure and is afraid I might notice.

I’ve been there. Last year when Stevie and I were getting close, real close, too close, Monica was the first to mention we seemed to be attached at the hip and hoped we weren’t attached front to back. I laughed it off, but Stevie practically stopped talking to me. He had his lunch changed by switching study hall with Washington State History. I don’t know how he managed that, but suddenly I didn’t see him except at third period PE and fifth period English.

For three months he stayed away from me and then one Saturday morning when my parents were out looking for a new rhododendron to put in the backyard Stevie came over and pulled me into a lip-lock that didn’t stop until he had me stripped down to my underwear. It’s a good thing they took Sally with them because my underwear didn’t stand much of a chance against Stevie’s assault, either. He was dead three months later, burnt to an unrecognizable pile of ash and bone fragments.

The following Monday, just after the funeral, I was standing on the Washington Memorial Bridge watching a couple sailboats out in Lake Union. After a few minutes I was sitting up on the railing willing myself to let go. There was nothing under me except nearly two hundred feet of air until smashing into the water below. Only I wasn’t over the water. There was a traffic filled street directly below me. I still don’t remember the policeman grabbing me and pulling me away from certain death.

I woke up four days later in County General’s psych ward among a bunch of horny crazies who thought my cute teenage ass was their personal property. It’s a good thing I met a kind soul in there or I’d still be walking around like I had a corn cob stuck up my butt. I thought psych drugs were supposed to dull the senses, but they certainly didn’t affect those guys’ libidos one iota.

I was back in school a week later with a sore jaw and a fat, bald psychologist who didn’t have the foggiest idea what made a teenager tick, let alone one who just lost his best friend, but I slipped back into being the smartest freshman at North Park High, which isn’t difficult considering all the other smarties were down at St. Xavier’s.

Monica, Mark the tight end, and Tim, who had been Stevie’s partner in doubles tennis, welcomed me back to the table closest to the rear exit with practically open arms. Well, maybe Mark was a little reluctant to get too close, but I figured he just wasn’t into buddy hugging. Maybe since he and Monica were so close, he knew more about me than I wanted him to know.

Mark was about two or three inches taller than me and had muscles where I appreciated them, but never said because I valued my teeth. His wavy dark brown hair was always, always neatly trimmed. I think his mother cut his hair every Saturday morning. He smiled a lot, for a jock. What is it about jocks that they have to look so mean and scary? Are they that insecure?

And, then, there was Tim. Tim had a hormone problem and looked like an eleven-year-old in the face. Although he lived on the prestigious west shore of Lake Mallard, he had light, nearly white skin covered with faint freckles. His light brown hair was always neat and there was a barely perceptible line of blond hairs outlining the hair on the sides and his forehead making people give him the oddest looks. I know I stared too much. His eyebrows were compact and unobtrusive. His nose was kind of pointy, but not so much it distracted your eyes from the line of blond hairs. He had light blue eyes, almost gray. His thin lips made me want to kiss him. If Stevie wasn’t my best friend, I’d want Tim, or so I thought at the time.