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- 04/17/2015
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Stories posted in this category are works of fiction. Names, places, characters, events, and incidents are created by the authors' imaginations or are used fictitiously. Any resemblances to actual persons (living or dead), organizations, companies, events, or locales are entirely coincidental.
Note: While authors are asked to place warnings on their stories for some moderated content, everyone has different thresholds, and it is your responsibility as a reader to avoid stories or stop reading if something bothers you.
Note: While authors are asked to place warnings on their stories for some moderated content, everyone has different thresholds, and it is your responsibility as a reader to avoid stories or stop reading if something bothers you.
Broken - 12. Collateral Damage
After Christmas Scotty's family piled into their station wagon for a New Year's trip to Tupelo. I hung out with Big John as much as I could without making a pest of myself.
Thursday morning Big John and my Dad went to play golf and my Mom took my Grandmother shopping so I had a little time for myself. I decided to hit the trails and see just how high the new bike would jump. I packed a few goodies away in my backpack, locked up the house and hit the trails.
My favorite run in the whole area was a string of red sandy clay hills that were perfectly spaced for jumps just a little past the hidden glade where our “fort” was located.
I built up some speed and went down the first dip. Standing on my pegs, with a hard kick and gravity, I gathered momentum for the next rise to soar over its crest landing on the downward slope. Kick, gather momentum, and soar. Kick, gather momentum, and soar. Try like hell not to crash and burn.
I liked to fly but landing could be a real bitch. It was all a sort of controlled crash. Standing on the pegs was the tricky part. Slipping off meant a spill.
I went around the circuit of hills so many times that I lost count. I was in the grove until landing sideways off the second hill and taking a spill. I got up and dusted myself off. It was nothing serious but my elbow stung. It was bleeding from a cut. I took the blood on my fingers and smeared it on my face like war paint. I was a warrior. Pain doesn't hurt. Not that kind of pain anyway.
Getting right back on my little course, I did the circuit again. And again, and again. It was worth it to fly, even if it was just for a few seconds.
I crashed a few more times. A bruise here, a cut there, it didn't matter. I began to like the pain. It was a welcome distraction from the ongoing argument in my head.
I knew how I felt, but I didn't want to feel that way. I tried to think about other things to block it out. Still, the question that everybody seemed to be asking kept coming back to me: are you a homosexual?
The counselor said that I was too young to know. My Dad said I couldn't be one and live at home with my family. The Preacher said that it was a choice that meant that I turned away from God. Rainer said that it was a perversion. Some of the books I read said that it was a mental disorder. Some of the other books said it was normal for some people. The bible said that God turned away from homos and didn't hear their prayers. What did it all mean? Who was right?
OOPS, I didn't concentrate, foot slipped off the peg. Crash and burn. Pain. Blessed diversion.
This one was worse than the rest. It knocked the breath out of me. I had gone over the handlebars and the bike had landed on top of me. I had to lay there in the dust and catch my breath. There was more blood for my war paint.
I got up, but I was wobbly, so I decided to go to the fort to catch my breath. I got back on my bike and took the short ride to our fort very slow. When I got there, Brian's bike was parked outside.
I went inside to find Brian lying on his stomach dead to the world on a sleeping bag with a pack beside him.
I decided not to bother him, drank some water from my canteen and sat down to get comfortable. What was he doing here? Had he camped out here last night? We used to all the time but had not done so since everything went to hell.
I had never thought about it much, but Brian was cute. He was a younger version of Doug, on his way to being tall and slim, but not quite there, with the same brilliant copper red hair and freckles.
He was like Doug in other ways, with the same gentle, good nature about him, I found very appealing. I couldn't remember ever hearing him have a cross word for anyone except Rainer.
Brian had changed a lot since Doug's departure. The old Brian that I knew was always happy. I was just beginning to know the new Brian. We had a lot in common: he had lost his best friend, too. I was lucky that Scotty had come back. I had no idea what the deal was with Doug.
He wasn't resting easy, either. Every so often, he would mutter something inaudible and shift around uncomfortably. As I sat still and quiet, my bumps and bruises started to get a little sore. I was going to have a good bruise on my shoulder from that last crash. The cuts didn't amount to much.
Suddenly, Brian sat up, looking around like he was startled. I said, “It lives.” I hadn't seen his face before because of his position, but he had a big swollen black eye.
He said sleepily, “Dude, you look like hell. What happened to you?”
“I took a spill off the clay hills, so I put on some war paint. What happened to your eye?”
Brian reached up and touched his eye absently. “Oh this? It ain't so much.”
I got up gingerly and moved to sit a little closer to him. The shiner he was wearing was an angry black and purple color on his fair skin. I always got mad when somebody took a shot at one of my friends. I asked in a tone that suggested that I was going to bug him until he told me, “What happened, Brian?”
He sat there with a far away look in his eyes for a moment and said, “It's sort of a long story.”
“I'm in no hurry.” I said and made a show of getting comfortable.
Brian got a pained expression on his face that I couldn't easily read. “It started before Christmas. My Dad found out from the phone bill that I had been talking to Doug at my Uncle Harvey's place in Ruston. We got into it, and it's been getting a little worse ever since. Last night he had been drinking, I said the wrong thing and got punched. Hope you don't mind that I came here.”
I put my arm around his shoulder and said, “Brian, I've been there, man. When Rainer shit on us, my Dad went off on me too. Oh, and I'm glad you came here. Feel free, anytime”
He mumbled, “Thanks, Beast. Sometimes I've got to get away. I heard about your Dad going off on you. It scared the hell out of Nick and Scotty. They thought you were dead.”
I snorted and said, “I thought I was dead too. Funny thing is that it didn't hurt as much as it pissed me off.”
Choking back sobs, Brian uttered, “This Christmas was so fucked up. It just wasn't right without Doug being here. Jimmy, I miss him so much. I hate my Dad, I hate him!” He lost the battle against the tears.
I held him and Brian sobbed silently on my shoulder for a while. Tears came down my cheeks as well. I said softly, “I miss him too.”
He sobbed for a while and then went silent. I didn't want to let go of him, and he held on. We sat there quietly holding each other for some time. Finally, he said softly in my ear, “You're like him, you know. That's why I've always liked you.” With that, I squeezed him tight and went back to sitting beside him with my arm around his shoulder.
I mumbled, “That's the nicest thing that anybody has said to me lately.”
Brian chuckled, “You know, Doug said that you are going to end up being a real stud.”
I blushed and confessed, “I had a crush on him there for a while.”
Brian reached over and retrieved his pack, saying, “He knew. He thought it was cute.” He pulled out his stash box out of his pack and said, “Help me smoke a joint?”
“Don't mind if I do”, I replied meekly, still blushing and grateful that the conversation and activity was going in a different direction. I wasn't used to such a frank discussion of... things.
We smoked out and sat around talking nonsense and laughing well into the afternoon. The weed gave us cottonmouth, so we shared my canteen. Brian pulled a bag of Cheetos out of his pack, and we munched on them until our fingers were orange. He turned on his radio and let it play.
As hard as we tried, as much as we wanted it to be, things just weren't the same.
While we were sitting, vegging out listening to tunes, I asked, “Brian, do you sometimes think that everybody is fucked up?”
He laughed bitterly. “Yeah, everybody and everything. Six months ago, I was literally a Boy Scout. Now I'm a raging pothead. Doug would have kicked my ass if he had caught me with weed.”
“You remember how Doug used to go over the Scout Law with the new guys?”, I asked.
Brian spoke the Scout Law from memory, “A Scout is trustworthy, loyal, helpful, friendly..”
I continued, “..courteous, kind, obedient, cheerful..”
We finished it together, “..thrifty, brave, clean and reverent.”
Brian said solemnly, “Doug pestered all the cherries until they knew it by heart. Then whenever he saw any point of the Scout Law broken, he would lecture the offender for hours.” Then he asked with a cold edge in his voice, “Which one of those did Doug or Scotty or you fuck up?”
I shook my head. Rainer had a sixth victim that had been hurt just as badly as the rest of us.
We talked for a while longer. I had to go home soon. Brian told me that he would go home at dark and hope that his Dad had cooled off. I asked him to give some thought into changing to Coach T's class in January, and reluctantly jumped on my bike and headed home.
When I got home, my Mom was mortified to see my “war paint”. I had forgotten about it. Big John and my Dad just grinned. They were guys. They understood.
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Stories posted in this category are works of fiction. Names, places, characters, events, and incidents are created by the authors' imaginations or are used fictitiously. Any resemblances to actual persons (living or dead), organizations, companies, events, or locales are entirely coincidental.
Note: While authors are asked to place warnings on their stories for some moderated content, everyone has different thresholds, and it is your responsibility as a reader to avoid stories or stop reading if something bothers you.
Note: While authors are asked to place warnings on their stories for some moderated content, everyone has different thresholds, and it is your responsibility as a reader to avoid stories or stop reading if something bothers you.
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