The Boy - 3. Chapter 3

Part III

I knelt on the curb, doubled over, the silent scream of anguish hanging on my lips as my brain tried in vain to shut out the horror of what I just witnessed. If I had just been sliced from waist to chin and I was now struggling to keep my guts from tumbling out onto the pavement, could I be in any more pain than I was just then? I doubt it - but did the exact measure of my grief really matter? I would never move from this spot; I would either kneel for eternity - how would Dante have it? Oh yes, on my pile of burning sand, under rain of fire - or I would simply keel over dead of shock and horror.

Could I have done something differently, and saved us from this?

Hours earlier:

We're meeting for a third time, and today it's downtown near the old port. I love it there - the smoky smell of grilling food pouring out of the pubs and the mellow tang of saltwater on the breeze, it melds together to something altogether unique. And it's intoxicating to me.

But I'm not feeling so intoxicated right now; though the day is bright and the air is clear and comfortable, I'm not at ease because I am wholly preoccupied with my companion. He is both a blessing and a curse, because he is the focus of my thoughts, waking and sleeping. And here we are again, walking, talking, at his request, about trivial things, about him, about me, and about us. I ask myself, silently, why we are here - this place is so personal to me; this is where I come to be alone, though surrounded by people, so I can try and feel normal when I feel like I have no one to be with. The port is a maze of narrow streets, flanked high on both sides with brick buildings, some hundreds of years old, once homes for merchants and townspeople and now attractive shops for tourists. I can, and often have, lost myself in a throng of people for hours on end, each person shifting by me an imaginary friend for imaginary companionship. When "he" asked me to choose our destination, I chose without hesitation. But why here?

I know why, of course, though I don't want to admit it. I brought him here because I like him, I trust him (though only God knows why), and for some reason I want to share a little bit of the man I keep hidden inside. That's so very much unlike me - but it's how I am when I'm with him.

"...have the freedom to do whatever they want to do, as long as it's not hurting anyone else, though? I mean, if you want to get tattoos, or live in a cardboard box, or marry another man, or eat nothing but tofu for the rest of your life, what can anyone else really say or do about it?" He's been expounding upon the erosion of individual rights and privacy for the last few minutes. I think it's cute to see his face twisted-up in thought as he talks, but it's difficult for me to pay attention to what he's saying with all that's going on in my head at the same time.

"Well, of course I agree with you," I reply, "but if you're talking about something like gay marriage, it's complicated. From what I can tell, there are two primary types of people who oppose gay marriage - people who want power, and feel more powerful by trying to exert control over others - in this case, people trying to feel superior by telling gays it's immoral for them to marry - but then there are other people who honestly think gay marriage is wrong and harmful to them or society. I can't really relate to that point of view, and obviously I'm biased, but honestly, if marriage in this country already has a failure rate of over 50 percent, gays aren't the threat that some people like to say they are. There's a bigger problem..."

He's making my use my brain - something I haven't felt the desire to do in a while.

"What about me, though?" he asks. "I hardly have rights at all, because I'm under 18. Why don't I get to choose things for myself, like who runs the country, or who takes care of me, or things like that?"

I think for a moment. "I think it's because most people under 18 need someone to make choices for them - maybe because they're young and inexperienced, or because sometimes they think with their hormones instead of their brains, or maybe it's a combination of many reasons. A lot of teenagers just don't think, period."

He looks at me, sideways, looking a little suspicious. "You don't think I'm like that, do you?"

"No!" I laugh. "Not at all. If there's one thing you're not, it's a thoughtless or immature teenager."

The conversation is smart, and light, but in my mind, I know the issue he's dancing around. He has feelings for me - I don't know how far those feelings go, exactly, but he definitely has them, and I have feelings for him too. He wants to talk about it - he wants to make his case and prove to me that I didn't have to deny my feelings on the beach, days ago. But I've made my decision - I'm not going to risk hurting this boy, no matter how much he thinks he knows what's best for him.

For the moment, however, he's content to aimlessly wander with me from shop to shop, peering into windows to see what treasures lie inside. These streets would normally hold melancholy comfort for me, alone in my lonliness but with him, the atmosphere is comepletely different. We talk, and joke and laugh, and enjoy the gentle afternoon's sunny warmth. Cutting through an alley to another row of kitsch-laden stores, we step around behind a young man, kitchen help, dumping a load of garbage into a small dumpster as he whistles along to the guitar solo of the 'Crowes "Sometimes Salvation" drifting out from the restaraunt's back door; we smile at him as we pass. From time to time, when the conversation dies for a few moments, when we're walking from block to block or waiting for a traffic signal to change, I hear a quiet sigh; at first, I think it's contentment, but then I start to suspect his mind is wandering back to the subject of "us".

Up ahead on the right is a small shop, one of my favorites - it's a little jewelry store that sells all sorts of simple silver items that the owner brings back from his trips to Mexico. Rings, bracelets, necklaces, pendants, and trinkets of all kinds are spread out in a glittering display in the front window. I tell him to wait outside for just a moment, and slip into the store.

A few moments of browsing, a brief haggle, and some amount of money later, I emerge with a small bag. He looks at my inquisitively but I say nothing, but I gesture down the street to say that I'd like to keep walking, and I put my hand gently on the small of his back to steer him in that direction. He leans back into my hand a little bit, as though he enjoys the contact. I do too, but I tell myself that it's a friendly gesture...nothing more...

We walk a few blocks and turn right into a small garden or courtyard, maybe thirty feet square, set between a couple of buildings. It has a few small trees for shade, and a park-style bench dedicated in loving memory to some rich guy's long dead wife. I sit, and he sits beside me, half turned with one leg tucked under his rear. He looks at me, an expectant glint in his beautiful eyes, but he says nothing. I reach into the bag and pull out a small box, about three inches square and about an inch deep. I hand it over, and as he cradles the box reverently, he slowly removes the green cardboard cover and, with a small gasp, lifts off the tissue paper to reveal a silver chain.

It's a tightly woven serpentine chain, the delicate silver links entwined so tightly that no light passes through it. It's round, like rope, giving it a weighty appearance, though it's maybe a quarter-inch in diameter at most. The ends, each half of the clasp, are solid silver and hook together in a ring-and-hook arrangement. The whole chain is covered in a gentle tarnished patina that gives it a very old, well-worn look.

"Old, like his soul," I think to myself.

"It's awesome..." he says, simply. I think I see his eyes welling up a bit.

"I thought it suited you," I begin, and almost stop, but I press on, feeling like I need to say something to justify the gift, but also reinforce the idea that it's platonic - strictly platonic. "It looks like it has some history to it...and I've never met anyone your age with so much wisdom. An 'old soul' if there ever was such a thing. I'm glad you like it."

I reach down to pick it up, and he turns around on his seat so his back is to me so I can fasten it around his neck. As I fasten the simple catch, sliding the end of the hook through the loop, my knuckles brush the back of his neck and it's as though tiny electric shocks jump from his skin to mine, of maybe from mine to his, more of a tickle than pain but enough to make me inhale sharply at the sensation. He glances back at me, his expression unreadable, but then he raises an eyebrow in question, giving no indication that he felt anything at all. I, on the other hand, definitely felt *something*...and now, I feel more relaxed, emboldened, perhaps, certainly "free-er" than I did a few moments ago. Brave enough to talk about what we both know we need to talk about.

"Listen, we really should talk about the other day on the beach," I say. He turns to face me, looking at me attentively but neutrally, waiting to see what I'm going to say about it. "I'm not going to lie to you, I think you are an amazing young man. No, that's way too simplistic a thing to say; let me try again. You're unique, you're energentic, you're probably the most 'present' person I've ever met, you are so in tune with other people's feelings that it's a bit eerie. You're caring and compassionate, and you're more mature than just about any adult in my life right now. But I'm twice your age, and unless I'm way off base, you're interested in me, in a way that's not really appropriate for people of...our respective ages. And given that situation, I...I don't see how I can be any more to you than a friend - a platonic friend. And that's something I'm very much interested in - I mean, I care about you a lot, the person you are, I mean, independent of your age, and...and more that I would have thought possible for someone I've only known for a few days. So I think what's best, or, uh, even really the only option we have, is to keep this relationship strictly as a... friendship."

He's listening patiently, letting me try to mold my mind's turmoil into words that I can share with him. As I fumble for words, he tries to keep a straight face, because it's obvious that I'm trying hard to explain my feelings, but I see a hint of a smirk at the corner of his mouth...and I understand why. I sound like a babbling fool, trying to impose logic on a situation that, in a very real way, defies logic.

"No, really. On every level we have a problem; society won't allow us to be together; I'm sure your parents won't either. And being in an adult relationship is probably not something you're ready for, no matter how adult you seem; and the last thing I want to do is cause you any kind of emotional harm. And it's...well, I mean if we...well, many things that we might do, maybe someday...uh, would be illegal..."

He holds up his hand, to stop me gently, and when I pause, he takes my hand in his. Surprisingly, even though we're in a very public place, it doesn't bother me that he's being so affectionate. As he holds my left hand in both of his, he speaks. "I like you. I like you a LOT. You seem to appreciate me for who I am, and you accept things about me that would concern some people. You have issues, to be sure, but I think you have a good soul. And it's clear to me that you have no desire to hurt me. And you have feelings for me too. In my mind, everything else is negotiable." He smiles at me, reassuringly.

I pause to gather my thoughts, and take a deep breath. He just came right out and said that he likes me - and I'm not used to that at all. But what rattled me even more was that he seemed to be completely unfazed by all of the reasons I gave why we couldn't be together. I need to say more - but the words don't come.

His smile has faded a bit, and his brow is furrowing. "I have faith in us, and I have faith in this world and the possibility that it would allow two people who should be together, to be together regardless of the details."

Oh man, the optimism of youth.

I'm getting desparate, and honestly, a little irritated. "What will you do, tell your parents you're in love with a 29-year old man? What should I do, tell my family I'm with a boy young enough to be my son? Will we be walking hand-in-hand down many streets, when we're out for evening strolls? It's not about *us* - we live in a world that won't ALLOW us to be together, and no matter how right it might seem to us, it's plenty wrong to the people who would love to lock me up for a couple of decades!"

His eyes are welling up once again, but this time it sure as hell isn't because he's not overwhelmed with happiness. He stands, dumping the paper bag, the tissue paper, and the green cardboard box on the ground, and strides off out of the courtyard and back onto the street. I have to chase him - I wanted to push him, nudge him away a little - not wound him. I stop him a few dozen yards down the sidewalk, now in full view of the public, but for the moment, I don't care - he's the only thing that matters.

I catch up to him by the crosswalk at the corner and put my hand on his shoulder, and he turns to face me. I put my other hand on his other shoulder, and wiping away a few tears, he looks into my eyes. "I'm sor..." He interrupts me. "No, you're right. You're right. We should be together, but we can't be. Not now, in this time and in this place, that's so unaccepting. But at least we found each other, right?" He sighs, leans in, and gives me another big hug - right in front of everyone on the street, faceless bodies walking around us on both sides and onto the crosswalk. Did I feel a slight tingle, or maybe just imagine it because I'm expecting it? No time to analyze, it's over as he pulls back, and steps backward to the street, joining with the other foot traffic. With a calm, but still slightly hurt look in his eyes, he says "I need to go - I'll call you..."

As he takes one more step backward into the crosswalk, both of us too emotionally stirred and focused on each other to notice, a blur - a big blur, a moving wall, a bus hurtles past out of nowhere right across the spot where the boy is standing. In shock I close my eyes, and sickeningly, I *feel* more than I hear the dull thud of impact of many tons of steel against a young body. I can't feel it but I know that I was so close to him that right now I must be covered in the lifeblood that coursed through his veins an instant ago.

I kneel on the curb, doubled over, the silent scream of anguish hanging on my lips as my brain tries in vain to shut out the horror of what I am witnessing.

"Oh my god, was he hit??" says a woman's voice. I don't dare look. I can't bear to see his mangled body, the shell left after this vibrant child's life was snuffed out in an instant. But what if he's not dead? Oh god, I have to look - if he needs my help, I have to...I have to...and so, with no choice, I open my eyes, and see...

Nothing.

In the road in front of me, nothing - no body, no blood, nothing.

On my hands, my shirt, no blood, though I'm sure I was splattered - nothing.

I saw him get hit. I *saw* him. Where is he???

I look to my right, where the voice came from a moment before - a woman who witnessed the accident...but she's not looking in the road, where my boy should be. She's looking at ME - worriedly, as though I might have been hurt. I'm still kneeling, huddled down, tears on my cheeks, and she's staring at me, and others nearby are starting to do the same. Why are they looking at me? I wan't hit, HE was! With a struggle, I find my voice.

"Wh...Where is he?" I croak.

"who?" She asks, forehead wrinkled.

"The boy - he was just hit by the...he stepped back into the crosswalk and...you...you didn't see him get hit?" What the FUCK is going on?

"I, I'm sorry, sir, I didn't see anyone...are you hurt? Did you get clipped by that bus a moment ago? Should I call an ambulance for you?" She seems to be coming to the conclusion that I'm not in the proper frame of mind, and she takes a step back. I stand up, shake off the tears and try to rub my eyes clear. Across the street - nobody I know. Nobody around me on this side either. He's just GONE. But...no, this isn't happening. This doesn't make any sense - I saw him step into the street, he couldn't have made it to the other side. I step into the street, stopping a cab and a Honda Civic, and ignoring them as they honk at me - there's got to be something in the street, the bus is long gone and didn't even stop. The cars give up, stop honking, and simply drive around me, and I get back up onto the curb after finding no sign of my boy at all - just grimy, unfriendly old pavement.

"WHAT THE FUCK??????" I scream. And I sit. And I cry. And everyone looks the other way and pretends I'm not there.

An hour, a day, or a year later, I'm back in my month-to-month rented jail cell, on the window seat that grants me cold comfort by way of familiarity. I've got the same joint I've been smoking for the last 2 years in one hand, the same glass of scotch in the other. I wanted to think that my self-medication gave me the measure of control over my feelings that I lacked the ability to excercise through discipline, but rather than numbing the hurt, all I got was a dopey feeling of disconnection from my extremities. When I sat down, I felt emotionally rubbed raw; now I was the same emotional wreck with no motor control.

This used to feel like a great way to "deal" with my feelings, but now I understand that it's no way to live, hiding behind a hazy chemical curtain. Extinguishing the joint in my tumbler, I stand, walk to the kitchen and drop both into the trash bin before walking to the bathroom and drawing a sinkful of cold water. I plunge my head down into the icy wet and hold myself under, resisting the urge to pull up and long as I can. I straighten, dry my face on the hand towel, and look at my haggard looking twin in the mirror. THIS is the face that my boy cared for? *sigh*...I still don't know what the hell is going on, but I'm sure this isn't how he'd want me to go about trying to figure it out. Up the stairs I go, to bed but not to sleep.

I can't think of a single plausible scenario that fits what I know to be true; he stepped into the street, and at that same instant, a bus tore by. No body, no blood, no witnesses. No phone call, either, like he promised, though I can't think he'd be in any shape to dial a phone...Oh god...don't start crying again. I bite my lip and hold it back...

For about an hour or so earlier, I had myself half-convinced that he never existed in the first place. Nobody I know met him, I never saw or met his parents, save for that woman in the store that might have been his mother - and I almost took comfort in the promise of my own insanity, until I thought to check my answering machine and found his voice there, an echo of his life caught on tape to haunt me as long as I cared to keep it.

I close my eyes and cover my head with a bed pillow. I hear it's impossible to suffocate yourself with a pillow - pity, I think to myself, but not seriously. If he's still out there for me, I can't be offing myself, now, can I? And if he's not, well, he wouldn't want me offing myself. So I just lay there in blackness, and wait for my mind to clear, hope for sleep to take me. Dreamless sleep.

The blackness starts to lighten around the edges, like dawn creeping into a night sky as dawn approaches over the trees. Lighter and lighter, black to charcoal to smoke to fog, finally to a gently glowing white like an overcast misty day. I feel content in this space, like I've been wrapped in a well-loved blanket by my mother and kept safe in a well-known place. The blanket loosens, unwrapping and dissipating a bit, pulling back, or expanding, not leaving me exposed but changing shape. A few wisps twirl out and dance in front of me, playfully; rolling slowly into a sphere which rotates in place and features slowly emerge. If I look too hard, the image becomes elusive, but if relax, I know I'm looking into the misty face of my boy, my friend.

He is smiling, as he often does with me, and he says no more than he needs to, which is nothing. He nods at me, with love, compassion, and wisdom in his eyes, and I feel his approval, his encouragement. There is something else - perhaps...gratitude? I'm not sure, but it doesn't matter, really - because in this place, we have all of eternity to express our feelings for eachother.

He unravels, but doesn't leave me; rather, he weaves back into the vaporous safety-blanket and surrounds me again. Once more in his embrace, I sigh, a gentle but exhausted sigh, as the tension and worry and paranoia and fear (that I've known for so long that I forgot just how heavy a burden it was) is lifted out and spirited away somewhere into the mist, beyond my sight, beyond my concern. At last, I sleep.

I am awake, I am alive, and am perhaps a bit lonely again, but I'm stable. Do I know what has really happened to me in these few days, or weeks? No. But I believe - I believe he was real, I believe he had love for me, and I know I loved him. He changed me; he renewed my faith that there are good, understanding souls out there, souls to love me and for me to love. He was, to be cliche, a breath of fresh air that was deparately needed in the dank depths of my psyche.

In some ways, I'm glad that I had the will to resist doing something I felt was wrong, but at the same time I regret hesitating in the face of something that might have been true love. Did I pass the test? Did I fail horribly? I don't know, and I'm afraid that anyone who would sit in judgement of me won't be forthcoming with an answer.

Was he a dream, a wish, a hope? A spirit, an angel, a messiah? I don't know, I'm sure I won't EVER know.
But I have my own opinion...

He certainly saved *me*...