Remembering Tim - 9. Chapter 9 - Uncle Jerry and the Scarlet Letter

I have to go to school tomorrow after being away for over a month, but today Tim is taking me to meet his Uncle Jerry for some reason. I wasn’t listening to his explanation. We’re taking him to lunch down on the waterfront, a place I had heretofore avoided for reasons I’ll get into later. Mostly, though, it wasn’t the kind of place a kid my age ventured unless he was interested in boat things or teamsters and longshoremen doing their thing on the docks and in all the warehouses. There was, though, a famous restaurant down by the ferry dock where we could get seafood.

Uncle Jerry was a Corsair pilot in WWII who was shot down and received a bunch of medals "simply for being a damned good pilot". He was an ace in a war that produced over a hundred aces from the United States alone.

According to Tim, he’s lucky to be alive. I’m a little nervous about meeting him. Tim said Uncle Jerry is good with guys who have problems like mine. I have a psychiatrist. Why do I need another older man to talk to about why I have to kill myself? Yet, Tim thinks Uncle Jerry can help me. Who am I to deny my boyfriend the opportunity to attempt to help me?

"You’re awfully quiet today," Tim said as his car did a little wiggle in its lane. Tim still can’t talk and drive. He’s a killer on the tennis court, can swim like a fish, and sucks dick like a pro, but if you get him behind the wheel of a car don’t you dare say a word or you’re going to hear cars honking all over the place commenting on his erratic driving.

"Watch where you’re driving," I said. "Listen to the radio. It’s a lot more interesting than my problems. What is that song? What station are you listening to? I’ve heard that stuff before. My sister used to listen to that stuff. What station is that?"

"Sheesh, Geoff, there are only two rock and roll stations around here and you haven’t listened to either of them? Damn, I’m beginning wonder about what kind of boyfriend you really are," Tim said just before the car did a wiggle in its lane.

"I’m the kind of boyfriend who isn’t turned off by the thought of your cock in my mouth," I said in a slightly angry tone which surprised the shit out of me because I like Tim too much to get angry about him saying or doing anything. "Don’t they play all that new stuff kids are supposed to like? They have a little ditty they sing, too, something about not being queer at all. You’d think someone would complain about that. I certainly would complain. If I listened to that station, that is."

"You don’t listen to this station?" Tim asked. That’s what I liked most about him, his interest in getting to know me better.

"I don’t have a radio so how can I listen to a radio station?" I answered. And, I didn’t. "Who’s that? They sound like they’ve got some kind of an accent or something. Are they foreign or just from another part of the country? Well, is their name a secret?"

"The Beatles, you’ve never heard of the Beatles?"

"No," I mumbled. It’s embarrassing when someone finds out you’ve never heard of the latest and greatest. Not that I spoke to that many people, kids or adults, about music, but when I did it was mostly to admit my ignorance to current events on the record scene. I didn’t have a record player either. Sally had one that played LPs and my older sister had one that played 45s, but she took it with her when she went away to college a year ago.

"Where do you live? In a bottle? Don’t you do anything for fun? Gees, Geoff, you’re sixteen and you don’t even know about the Beatles. Everyone knows about the Beatles. What do you do for fun?"

"I suck your dick for fun," I said. I didn’t smile. I wasn’t in the mood to smile. This interrogation was making me nervous. Tim had never gotten this angry with me before, at least he sounded angry.

"Besides sex, what do you do?" asked Tim.

"Read a lot, learn foreign languages, do math problems, jerk off," I mumbled defensively.

"Jerking off is technically sex, so you can’t count that," Tim said. Obviously tired of this line of conversation, he asked, "Are you going to be able to go tomorrow?"

The car was weaving down the road. I was surprised we hadn’t sideswiped the cars parked along the side. It was a good thing I was paying attention to what he was saying, otherwise I would’ve been paying attention to his driving and that was scary.

"Yeah, just a little nervous," I said. Well, I was a whole lot nervous, but I didn’t want to worry him. "Not everyone gets to spend time in a shrink shop and come out without a big red "P" stapled to their forehead."

"What red "P"?" Tim asked looking over at me. The car swerved in my direction so I just glared at him before he nearly sideswiped a cop car. Why didn’t it chase us down? Tim was obviously a danger to anyone else out on the road. At least he didn’t drive slowly or we’d have a long line of cars behind us. As it was, he was driving just a bit faster than the flow of traffic, meaning we were swerving as we passed a few cars.

"Like the Scarlet Letter only this one stands for psycho. Kids are going to find out. Someone knows where I’ve been and he’ll tell everyone else I’ve been out at the fruit orchard and I need to be avoided at all costs. There’s always someone who knows the secret, always."

"You’re being paranoid. No one knows shit."

"Someone knows and he’ll let the secret out," I said. Someone always tells. Secrets like mine are the fodder of gossipers. Innuendo is a powerful tool of those who aren’t crazy as a loon. "People are going to avoid me like the plague."

"So, what? How many friends do you have at school?" Tim asked as my stomach did a loop from the sensations it was getting from the car that was now weaving through a bunch of cars, while at the same time using up most of its lane and often a bit of the lane beside it causing the offended car to callout a warning. Where were the police? Why aren’t they around when you need them, not that I wanted Tim to get in trouble. I just wanted out of the car.

"Well, you, Monica, and maybe Mark, but you know I don’t want to be his friend. There was that other guy, but we won’t mention his name, okay?"

"No, we don’t say his name." Tim said.

That was Kiel. I was still bothered by his death. I still saw him; not regular like before I nearly hung myself, but enough to know I still had a problem with him jumping off the bridge. I felt a tear trickle down my cheek. I wiped it away. I glanced over at Tim. He was looking at me.

"Pay attention to the road," I said.

"Stop thinking about that boy," Tim said. "There’s Uncle Jerry over there in front of his apartment building."

Suddenly, Tim did a U-turn in the middle of Columbia Way causing four lanes of cars to honk their horns.

"Nice trick. Did your father teach you?" I asked.

"Yeah, but don’t tell him. I don’t think I was supposed to learn that maneuver. You’re going to have to sit in the backseat. Uncle Jerry has to sit up front."

When Tim stopped at the curb, I jumped out. Uncle Jerry was standing a few feet from me. He had to be in his early forties, yet he looked a lot younger. His black hair was neatly trimmed short. His closely shaved face was more round than long, he had a small nose, and his ears weren’t the same size. It kind of gave him a lopsided appearance. There was one of those hooky-pinchy things where his right hand used to be. The left hand was missing two fingers. I was staring.

"It’s all right, son," Uncle Jerry said. "If you think I look bad now, you should see me naked. Hi, my name is Jerry Chambers. You must be Geoff Johnson."

I mumbled something incoherent and took his hook in my hand. His eyes bore a hole straight through my head, then he smiled.

"Nice to meet you Geoff," he said as I started to get in the car.

"You’ve got a good looking boyfriend, Tim," Uncle Jerry said after he closed the door. "Is he a good fuck or are you still bottoming?"

I stopped breathing and died. I wanted out of the car. Then Tim opened his mouth.

"I did it once, but I still have a short fuse," Tim said, over-adjusting the wiggle causing the car to swerve out of its lane. More cars announced their disapproval of Tim’s poor driving skills. "I mostly suck him. All Geoff has to do is kiss me and I come. Sometimes I come when I’m sucking him. It’s pretty pathetic."

"He likes being fucked then," Uncle Jerry said.

"Oh, yeah, well, you know about his obsession with Kiel Elkins," Tim said.

"That kid deserves to burn in Hell for twenty eternities. So, Geoff, you like a big dick up your ass?" asked Uncle Jerry.

"Uh, yeah," I mumbled, too shocked to say anything out loud. Who was this man? Tim’s uncle, his Sex Ed teacher, or some pervert?

"Well, I guess you’re kind of out of luck with the two of us," he said. "I’m too old for you and, well, you’re already acquainted with Tim’s equipment."

"Boy, ain’t that the truth." Tim said causing the car to nearly bounce into the other lane.

Thank god nothing more was said until we were down on the waterfront looking for a place to park. I have three uncles and none of them are anything like Uncle Jerry. I was beginning to wonder what exactly his relationship with Tim was. Then I got out of the car and I thought I felt a hand on my ass. When I turned, Tim smiled. I turned and Uncle Jerry smiled. I didn’t know which one touched me.

"He’s sensitive as shit, Tim," Uncle Jerry said, "but I bet you are a good fuck. You like it long and slow, or quick like Tim?"

"I don’t know," I whispered. I wanted out of this. I wanted to walk uptown and catch a bus home, but Uncle Jerry had his arm around my waist.

"Come on, Uncle Jerry, quit trying to make out with my friend," Tim said. "You’re going to scare him."

"Oh, I’ve already scared him. I’m surprised he hasn’t pissed his pants."

"Come on, Geoff, we’ll go get a table," Tim said, pulling my arm. "He walks slowly with his prostessis or whatever you call that foot he wears."

"It’s prosthesis," I said. Looking back at Uncle Jerry I saw him smile and give me a little wave.

"Well, he isn’t going to do anything to you so just humor him, okay? Try to laugh it off; it’ll go a lot easier." Tim said.

"Are you mad at me?" I asked. Tim’s tone worried me.

"God, Geoff, quit being so submissive. Tell him to stop talking to you like that. He’ll do it if you ask. You have to ask, Geoff. Uncle Jerry doesn’t like kids who don’t stand up for themselves. He’ll keep bugging you until you put your foot down."

"Sure," I mumbled.

**********

I do not like seafood. Fish is okay, sometimes if they’ve lived in fresh water part of time, but clams, oysters, shrimp, and crabs are arthropods like insects and spiders. Insects of the sea. Imagine a big, juicy ant smothered in a garlic tomato sauce on your dinner plate and you’ll know why I do not eat bugs from the ocean. Tim had the Captain’s Plate, lots of different bugs. Uncle Jerry had sautéed prawns, big bugs in butter and garlic. I ordered a salmon fillet with a baked potato. It came with a side salad or cole slaw. I had the cole slaw. They put in on the dinner plate.

I did not like being in that restaurant with such a forceful man like Uncle Jerry. In many ways, he reminded me of my dad. I could almost see him telling me to stop being queer, but he seemed to not care about that.

I tried looking out the window at the waterfront, but it was November, raining, and cold. The seagulls were huddling together along the piers. The boats that were out were working boats, tugs, ferries, and a couple small freighters. No pleasure boats. It was the beginning of the gray drearies. We probably wouldn’t see the sun for another four months, definitely not a time to suffer from depression.

"Hey, Geoff, come to Earth and join the party," Uncle Jerry said bumping my foot with his.

"Huh, oh, sorry," I mumbled, not looking at him. I wanted to go home. There wasn’t anything for me at home, but at least I wouldn’t have to be with this man.

"You ever go to the john here?" Uncle Jerry asked.

"Uh, no," I said, not liking this line of conversation, either.

"Come on, I need to pee. They’ve got a guy in a tux in there who’ll wipe your ass for a buck. Come on; get your ass out of the booth. I’ll give him a twenty and he’ll lick yours with his big soggy tongue."

I looked at Tim, but he only shrugged. Now was the time to put my foot down. I needed to do something about this man. So, I slid out and followed Uncle Jerry to the men’s room. I looked back at Tim. He shook his head and turned away.

"Hurry up, Geoff, I don’t want you peeing your pants, again," Uncle Jerry said loud enough for a couple booths full of people to hear. "God, kids these days."

I think he thought he was being funny. I was very close to hating him, only I can’t hate someone, it’s not in me. I don’t hate Kiel for taking away my chance at jumping off the bridge. I don’t hate him for making me hang myself, even though it wasn’t actually him. Maybe I don’t have the hate gene.

The restroom was huge, but there wasn’t a man in a tuxedo. There was a little kid standing in one of the stalls with his pants pushed down to his ankles. The door was open showing his bare ass. He was peeing. Most of it wasn’t hitting the toilet because both of his hands were clinched at his sides. Poor kid probably had a mommy who wouldn’t let him touch Mister Pee-Pee. You can almost imagine what their bathroom smelled like.

"Come on, Geoff, back here," Uncle Jerry said beckoning from the last stall.

All I had to do was turn and go back out the door. I didn’t have to follow Uncle Jerry. I didn’t have to do this. I locked the stall’s door and turned to see Uncle Jerry sitting on the toilet seat as a healthy stream loudly splashed in the bowl.

The toilet flushed.

"Come on, let’s go," Uncle Jerry said. "You thought I was going to suck your dick, didn’t you?"

"Uh, yeah," I mumbled. He was standing close to me, close enough to kiss me.

"You’re a good kid and I’m not that kind of man. You need to quit letting people push you around. Here’s my phone number. Go on, take it. If you ever need to talk about shit, anything, give me a call. I’m not a bad guy. I’m not family. Okay?"

"Yeah, sure," I said, taking the slip of paper and putting it in my wallet.

"I do know one thing, Geoff. You need to laugh more. Who’s your favorite comedian on television?"

"I don’t watch TV. Tim has already complained about me not even having a radio to listen to. I didn’t even know the group that was playing on the car radio."

"You don’t watch TV? What do you do? Jerk off all the time?" asked Uncle Jerry as he practically pushed me out of the stall.

There was a man standing at one of the urinals, but he wasn’t peeing. He looked at Uncle Jerry and then at me. He smiled. "I read a lot," I said.

"Smart, huh?" he asked, holding the door for me. The man at the urinal winked at me, but I wasn’t having anything he had to offer.

"I had to take the IQ test four times because I kept getting too high of a score and every time I took it the score kept getting higher. They finally figured out I was just getting good at taking the test."

"Off the scale?"

"Almost," I said.

"Where are you going to college?"

"Something big back East, I guess."

"Go to Warnton, it’s in New York."

"I know where it is. I’ve been there." I said. It was in a small town in Upstate New York. The town had the same name as the college. "They want me to start in my senior year, but I want to go to something bigger."

"I went there. It’s a good school and they don’t have a lot of jocks so it won’t matter if you like boys. If he gets his grades up a little, I might be able to get Tim in there. You two could room together. Get yourselves a nice little apartment over by the city park."

We were back at the table. Tim was finishing his meal. He eats slowly, too slow actually. Ice cream melts before Tim gets done.

"Are you good with math?" Uncle Jerry asked.

"Sort of, I’m better at languages, and logic," I said. "My Uncle Walter wants me to go to USC, his alma mater. My mother wants me to go to Cornell, her father, my grandfather went there. I’ve got a year or so to decide."

"You could probably go now."

"Yeah, but I couldn’t take Tim." I said.

"Take me where?" Tim asked. He looked like he hadn’t been listening, startled out of some teenage reverie. I hoped it was me he was thinking of; I don’t know what I’d do if he was thinking of someone else.

**********

It was raining. Drizzling, actually. Thick, drizzly fog. You can’t use an umbrella because it’s raining just as much horizontally as vertically. Pleasant shit. Mother and I are in Principal Jennings’ office, he’s reading the letter from Doctor Randall, my psychiatrist. He’s slowly shaking his head, not smiling, this isn’t going well.

"I assume Geoff is on medication?" Principal Jennings asked.

"Yes, he takes a pill at breakfast and another at dinner," Mother said. She was using her official voice, the one she uses with lawyers and appliance salesmen.

"I’m not certain we can facilitate Geoff’s readmission," he said. He wasn’t looking at either of us. "We have liability issues. With Geoff’s, uh, illness we would be concerned about the safety of the other students."

"He’s not a danger to himself or others," Mother said. She was still holding her ace. "That can be validated in court if you desire."

"You see, I don’t know if I have the authority to allow Geoff back into our school," he said. He looked nervous. Sweat was beading on his forehead.

"Call your lawyer," Mother said.

"Why would I want to do that?" he asked.

"Because I’m serving you this court order," Mother said, handing the principal a little document Doctor Randall gave her when I checked out of the psycho bin. "We, Geoff’s psychiatrist, my lawyers, and I anticipated this. Call your lawyer Principal Jennings."

"Uh, well, yes, I guess I’d better," he said as he rose from his desk. "Geoff, I think it’s best if you go on to class. This is going to take some time and will probably end up in your favor, anyway. Mrs. Johnson, I’ll advise the school district."

"Thank you, Mr. Jennings," Mother said rising from her chair. "Geoff, now you call if you need anything. Okay?"

"Yes, Mother."

Monica and Tim were waiting for me outside the principal’s office. I shrugged a greeting and walked out into the hall. I had the red "P" stapled to my forehead, good and proper. It was only a matter of time before some student made something of my absence.

"Hey, Geoff, nice necklace, you make it yourself out at the cracker box?" Stewy Martin asked, walking past us toward the first floor boys’ restroom. How did he know?

"Up yours, Stewy," I said, wondering why, of all people, Stewy had to be the one who noticed the circular rope burn around my neck.

"You missed the sophomore volleyball tournament," Stewy said before turning the corner. "You missed a good opportunity to demonstrate your athletic skills, again."

"Oh, shut up, Stewy!" So what if I have the athletic abilities of a tree? I’m good in other ways. If Stewy wasn’t such an ass about everything, if he didn’t think he was better than I was, we might have had chance to get to know each other. He did have a nice ass, for an asshole.

"Geoff? See you at the Fairy Table," Monica said.

"Yeah, I’ll be there."

I watched them walk off together toward the stairs. They’d be up on the third floor for the rest of the morning. I never ventured to such lofty heights. All my classes were a lot closer to the ground; smart kids didn’t have to climb stairs. Heck, most of us were too uncoordinated to carry books, walk up steps, talk to whomever, and watch out for some muscle for brains bent on destruction of another honors student.

I turned and headed in Stewy’s direction. Pre-calc was the order of business for second period. Only I was too tired. I wanted sleep, lots of sleep. I damned near forgot to turn the corner and when I did, I saw him.

It was Sam from the walnut orchard, the funny farm that had been my home for the past month. The boy who liked me. The boy who seemed worse off than I did. He was staring at me. He must have been waiting, but he didn’t go to North Park High. He didn’t belong here. He was supposed to be at the psycho hospital, I thought. He smiled.

"What are you doing here?" I asked. I walked over to him and his eyes went to the floor. "Why aren’t you at the hospital? What’s going on? You don’t go to school here."

"I ran away," he whispered. He put his hands into his pockets. He was wearing khaki slacks, a bright red, orange, and yellow madras shirt, and penny loafers. He needed a shave, but smelled like he’d recently taken a bath. His blue eyes were bright, lively, which was so unlike him.

"Where are you staying? What’s going on?"

"I had to see you," he said. "You left without saying goodbye. I miss you."

I thought of Tim and what he’d say, but Sam intrigued me. He was so outside my normal, crazy life, I wanted to be with him.

"Can I see you tonight?" Sam asked. There was a pleading in his eyes. "I know where you live."

"What?"

"I want to see you," he said.

"Why?"

"I like you."

"Why?" I asked again.

"Because," he said. Well, he did sleep with me a few times out at the funny farm. If that isn’t liking someone, what is?

"Are you okay?" I asked. He looked strange, kind of like someone who’s crazy, really crazy. I’ve seen that in movies. The crazy person always has a weird look about them as if they’re in their own little world and don’t want you to join them.

"Yeah, we’ll talk tonight. Okay?"

"Yeah, you can come over, I guess." I said uncertainly.

Then he walked out the door. He was kind of skinny, but had a cute ass. Okay, I notice boys’ asses. They’re a lot more noticeable than that thing hidden in the front of their pants. But, what was he doing out of the hospital? I wondered if I should call Doctor Randall. If I were a good little boy, a tattletale, I’d do that. I decided to wait.

**********

Kiel’s spot at the Fairy Table, our lunch table in the cafeteria, was occupied by a somewhat familiar looking boy who I wasn’t certain I knew. It was a face I’d seen before, maybe back in third or fourth grade, but I wasn’t sure. I sat down across from him. He smiled at me then turned to continue his conversation with Mark, Monica’s boyfriend.

"Hi, Geoff," Mark said, looking up from a peanut butter and strawberry rhubarb jam sandwich. For as long as I’d known him, that’s what he had for lunch.

"Hi," I said, trying to remember who the other kid was. He was obviously older than the kid I might have known, but there were some points of recognition that were causing my mind to run through pictures of classmates at Licton Springs Elementary and Bruce Bigedic Middle School. His light blond hair was shorter, football short. He had more muscles, a thicker neck. He’d been working out. A splash of acne across his nose and cheeks was unnerving, but there was still something about him that made me keep staring.

"I’m Dick Connor," he said. There was something about his dull brown eyes that suddenly made me fear him. "I beat the shit out of you in fourth grade because you were such a smart ass about everything. That got me expelled from Licton Springs. I ended up at Thornton Meadows, then Samuel Gompers. I just transferred in from Crestline because of something someone said I’d done. I didn’t do it, but my parents thought it best I come here since it’s supposed to be my high school anyway. Why the hell are you sitting here?"

"I always sit here," I said, looking at Mark for some degree of help. He looked out the window at the bronze fairy in the atrium. That’s why the table is known as the Fairy Table. It takes a lot of guts to sit there. Who wants to be known for appreciating a fairy sculpture, unless you already are?

"Yeah, well, maybe you need to find a new table," Dick said. "Did you hear me?"

"Yeah, sure," I said. I stood up and picked up my tray. I didn’t know where to go. Tim was still in line. Monica hadn’t come in, yet. I didn’t know what to do.

"Are you still here?" Dick asked. He was flexing his hand into a fist. I remembered the bloody nose and the black eye caused by that fist. I remember my aching gut when that fist slammed into my stomach.

"I’m going."

"Then go!" he said.

"I’m going."

"Well, I think you need a little encouragement," he said.

He was up on his feet before I knew what was happening. A fist slammed into my face. I was on the floor, the tray of food on top of me.

"Richard Connor, I saw that," Vice-Principal Washington said, appearing out of nowhere, which is where vice-principals go when they’re looking for some stupid kid to screw up. "Come with me."

"He hit me first," Dick said.

"Like hell he did. Are you coming nice or do I have to subdue you?" Vice-Principal Washington had been in the Marines. He’d been trained to subdue. He was always pleasant. Asking if you wanted to be nice, and then giving the subtle threat of being subdued. He was over six feet tall and built like the proverbial brick shithouse.

"Do you think you scare me, ni …?" Dick started to say before a big, black hand had him by the neck and was raising him off the floor. Vice-Principal Washington was walking toward the office with a completely subdued Dick Connor before anyone else knew what was happening.

"Geoff Johnson, get yourself cleaned up and come to the office," Vice-Principal Washington said from the hall. The cafeteria was quiet enough for me to hear him. Then pandemonium broke out.

"Are you all right?" Mark asked, looking down at me from his seat at the table. He hadn’t lifted a finger to help. If he wanted to be my friend, he was losing points.

"A lot you care," I said, picking food off my shirt and slacks. My face hurt. I wanted to cry. I wanted to go find Sam. I wanted to be anywhere except in the same school as Dick Connor.

"Hey, he beat me up, too," Mark said, "and, didn’t Tim tell you about sitting at this table during lunch?"

"No."

"Well, you brought it on yourself, that’s all I can say."

Of all people, Mark should know about it being the victim’s fault. He had to sit at the Fairy Table because he didn’t have a friend left in the school, except me and Tim; and, well, Monica, too.

**********

I sat outside Vice-Principal Washington’s office. A police car had arrived when I was in the restroom trying to clean chocolate pudding from my shirt. I needed to soak it in cold water, but all I could do was daub it with paper towels, which didn’t work at all. There were brown smudges all over the front. Mother was going to be pissed. Dick was brought out in handcuffs. One of the policemen looked at me and shook his head.

"You could’ve hit something better than a psycho," he said. He seemed familiar, but I couldn’t be sure. I’d never had any run-ins with North Park police, but maybe they’d received something from Seattle to be on their guard against psycho Geoff Johnson.

"In here, Geoff," Vice-Principal Washington said. He closed the door behind me. "Have a seat."

The paddle was in the corner. It looked like an oar for a rowboat, with holes drilled in the face to reduce wind resistance. Maybe I was going to get a good talking to before getting a couple swats. Swats from Vice-Principal Washington were famous at North Park. My older brother, Karl, received a total of six, but he’s always been a hardheaded, stubborn bastard.

"I’m worried about you, Geoff. You let people walk all over you. I realize Mr. Connor is exceptional, but you could have done something to prevent the attack. Have you ever considered taking a self-defense class?"

"I’m not a fighter."

"I’m not asking you to fight. I want you to learn how to defend yourself. I know you’re seeing Dr. Timothy Randall for your problems, so I’m going to talk to him about getting you into something like jujitsu, karate, or something like that. I think the mental aspects of the Eastern martial arts will help you, too. Geoff, you’re a good kid. I think we need to help you. Okay?"

"Sure, I guess."

"Good, now I think it’s best you went home. Maybe we’ll have a better day tomorrow."

He offered his hand and I shook it, trying to remember not to give him the dead fish my father always complained about.