Jericho's Wall - 3. Chapter 3

As so ended my first full day on June’s farm and in Jericho’s constant company. I’ve gone into great detail on my first thirty or so hours there, using roughly a fifth of the real estate I’ve allotted for this (if you’ll excuse the affectation) memoir, because for the most part the rest of the week, indeed the rest of the summer, dropped into much the same routine. We’d wake up at five, eat a hearty breakfast prepared by the twins and work until lunch. After, Jericho and I would do our thing (rump to rump, skin to skin), snooze in the sun and work until dinner. Eat, read on the porch (his feet forever in my lap), watch Are You Being Served? (to this day the ring-and-clatter of an old-school cash till instantly takes me back) and head to bed, where we’d again do our thing (separated by the nightstand) and then converse softly in the darkness, him always calling me Mateo instead of Mat, until one of us, usually him, fell asleep. I’d ruminate on his contradictions, decide to take each moment as it came and finally tumble down into more and odder dreams of elderberry wine. The aches and few blisters I’d accrued began to fade as my body toughened, and my hauls of vegetables grew weightier by the day. Jericho and I took our discovered shared love of puns and tossed them back and forth for hours—chewed be amoozed and bulled over to discowver how many udderly ridiculous yokes cud be milked out of something overherd—no, veally! Jericho held to his word and (with unbelievable and much-appreciated patience) taught me how to use the clutch and shift gears in Truck, and the day I crunched all the way out to the road and back without stalling once he cheered and threw his arms around me in a hug tight enough to keep me awake a good fifteen minutes later than usual come bedtime. I teased the twins, they teased me in return and I asked them to teach me how to make their simple but delicious meal; they agreed on the condition I keep their brother safely out of the picture—the fact that all cooking chores in the family were handled by the females wasn’t sexism, they assured me, but survival. Jericho took no offense, cheerfully admitting he’d burn water without even turning the stove on and he was happy to bring home the bacon, so to speak, but somebody else would always be better off frying it up in the pan. June puttered around in the background, giving advice without seeming to advise (“I used to stuff all my wet clothes in the dryer at once, figuring to save some time and effort, but they always looked a little wrinkled so I slowed down. Maybe it was just me, though,” spoken thoughtfully as if maybe it was just her) in a subtler, more laid-back style of parenting than I was accustomed to with my mom, or sat around with us on the back porch after dinner, sipping chardonnay, smoking her pipe and reflecting on how many different shades one might find in a single shadow. And I finally felt accepted, truly a part of the family, when June threatened from the kitchen to take a switch (and she meant it) to whoever was clattering up and down the stairs—it was me, trying to beat Juanita’s time and losing; dang the girl was fast!

On Thursday night, I was sitting bare-chested on my bed rubbing the nape of my neck—I’d been crouched down digging up turnips all afternoon, tilting my head forward, and the strain remained.

“You okay?” Jericho asked.

“Just a crick. I’ll take some aspirin.”

To my surprise he sat down behind me and lay his hands on my skin and was kind enough to ignore my slight gasp. “Here, let me work it out for you.” I agreed and with a hopefully subtle motion put my hands in my lap, not wanting to give him an eyeful he’d also be kind enough to ignore. He rubbed a moment and stopped. “Wait a sec.” Leaning around me, he inserted his hand between the bed and the wall and slid it up’n’under the top of the mattress. “Yup, thought so,” he crowed, holding up his prize: a squeeze-bottle of mineral oil. At my puzzled expression he explained, “This was Darren’s, he used this bed when he slept over and I figured he’d left some behind.”

“Why would he have oil here?”

“Darren is circumcised,” Jericho explained evenly.

“Huh?” A pause while he waited for me to catch on. “Oh. Okay.” He poured out some oil and set the bottle on the nightstand, rubbed his hands together before placing them back on my skin, this time not ignoring my slight gasp.

“Feels good, huh?” he grinned.

“Amazing,” I moaned. He chuckled and worked his fingers into my neck and shoulder, digging deep and smoothing the crick away. As the ache diminished his touch seemed to slow, becoming ever more sensual, and I was glad my hands were in my lap. I moaned again and he suddenly stopped, pulled his hands away as if burned.

“You seem to be all better now,” he remarked in a voice much too bright for the room. He bent over, grabbing the towel to wipe off his fingers, but as he turned away I noticed (couldn’t help but notice) the tent in his long and shapeless silk basketball shorts.

Wisely deciding not to comment, I said, “Thanks. My neck feels better now. Don’t even need an aspirin anymore.” My shoulder twinged as I shrugged into my tee-shirt but I managed not to wince.

“It was nothing,” he muttered. “Long hot shower works just as well.” I had a feeling there’d be no more impromptu massages but I was happy I’d gotten to experience one. “You ready for lights-out?”

“Sure, Jer.”

We lay there in the dark for a long time, listening to each other breathe, long enough I began to wonder if he’d been spooked to the point of halting our sessions, but at long last his whisper searched me out in the darkness. “So how ‘bout it, Mat my friend? Wanna jerk off?”

“What do you think?”

Grin.

He started up his filth talk, but I barely heard him, my mind elsewhere. I’d given up trying to catch a glimpse of his dick, he definitely wasn’t going to let me, but maybe I could drag out some information.

“Jer?” I asked, interrupting him in the middle of a sentence about gaping holes, and it took him a second to switch gears.

“Yeah, Mat?”

“Do you, um, do you need the mineral oil? It’s still sitting on the nightstand if you do.”

No answer for a long moment, as if he were pondering, then, slowly, “No, I don’t use the stuff.” Another long moment passed. “Do you?” Meaning every time I’d dropped my towel after showering he’d not allowed himself to look.

“Um, no. I was just checking if you needed it.” Awkward.

“Well, uh, thanks for the concern.” Also awkward. When I didn’t respond he resumed his spill of smut, but from that point on foreskins were always part of the scenario, pulling them back to expose the leaking piss-slit or pinching them forward to caress the flesh across the glans. After we finished we skipped our usual chat and he fell into his usual mumbly slumber while I chewed on my usual thoughts about his contradictions. The crick in my neck came back with a vengeance but as I was dreading the dark stumble to the bathroom for aspirin I suddenly found myself guzzling elderberry wine.

Friday dawned dark and rainy, and since June couldn’t work on her commission she contributed tater-cakes to our morning meal; I’d never heard of them before but after the first bite resolved to add the recipe to my planned breakfast repertoire. Jericho and I spent the morning in the muddy garden, doing our best to ignore the monotonous drizzle, but the storm thickened at midday and June sent us to fetch the animals inside while she and the girls finished up lunch. I was hesitant, having thus far successfully resisted coming too close, but Jericho soothed me, simply saying to stay calm, make no sudden movements and for heaven’s sake don’t stand behind them. “Mule got Darren square in the ‘nads one day, so bad we had to take him to the ER. But then again Darren always was a numbskull about farm stuff.” Implying Mat wasn’t. Taking confidence from Jericho’s confidence in me, I approached the tree they’d taken shelter under, talking to them as if they were babies or small dogs. Mule snorted and twitched his tail, obviously calling me a jackass (see what I did there?) but Cow fixed her big brown eyes on me as if hanging on every word. They smelled like large and wet domesticated animals (the only way I know to describe it), a damper version of the aroma I’d come to associate with the barn, and it wasn’t entirely unpleasant. Eager to go inside for once, Mule practically dragged Jericho across the rainy meadow while Cow let me lead but at a more sedentary pace. We closed them in their stalls (freshly mucked that morning by the twins) and poured out some feed then went back inside for our own tastier, more substantial lunch. June decided not to open the stand and pulled out a deep-cleaning to-do list but Jericho countered he needed me in the barn for some vague tasks he’d been putting off for a rainy day, and my suspicions were confirmed when as we were lacing our boots he confided he was just trying to get us out of the way before we got roped into helping. “I figured we could kick back for the day out here, Mat my friend. We’ve worked our tails off this week, we deserve a break!” He led me up into the loft, where we did our thing rump-to-rump then snoozed on scratchy cattle-blankets spread over bales of hay while the bats we’d disturbed with our antics settled back into their slumber on the rafters. When we awoke (and Jericho being Jericho) he found some tasks in the barn he had indeed been putting off and we did them while he chattered about everything and nothing. Still, it was a nice and easy day.

The routine on Saturday morning differed slightly, as after breakfast and before going outside Jericho and I scrubbed down our room and toilet and changed the linens for the twins to wash. The original storm had moved on but the weatherman on the kitchen radio warned of another moving in behind, though it was likely to be lighter and the showers more scattered, and now back to the Best of Paul Harvey, gooood day! The prediction proved correct, the newer clouds rolling up mid-afternoon and halting our gardenwork early. June met us on the back porch, announcing Janey and Juanita were attending an overnight lock-in at the church and she herself had a hot date coming over tonight so she was kicking us roosters out of her henhouse for the evening. When she popped back inside Jericho said she ran her children off occasionally of a Saturday but her “hot date” involved nothing more than a bubble bath, chardonnay, her bowl and one of the thick historical romances she called bodice-rippers and he called thinly disguised girl-porn. My rock destroying his scissors, I got the bathroom first, and while he took an inordinately long time to get ready (he said he needed to shave; I didn’t see any whiskers marring his chin but decided not to comment) I perused the pictures crammed willy-nilly on three walls of the den. Jericho was the spit’n’image of his father Joe, right down to the faded-blue eyes and auburn hair, but the devastating grin was Jericho’s own and he’d possessed it since the first shot of him lying on his belly on a rug and happily, toothlessly regarding the camera; dammit, was I to see his naked butt everywhere? I moved backwards in time, scanning images of people I didn’t know until I suddenly fathomed I did know some of them, had talked with them at reunions or seen the exact same pictures at my grand- or great-grandmother’s house. There was even a small copy of my parents’ wedding portrait, which I’d studied a million times as I myself figured as one of the subjects, albeit only as a quickening bump in my mother’s cream-colored bridal gown. I’d known June was my mother’s cousin—or rather I should say possessed the knowledge, because this was the moment I felt the truth bind in my bones and blood: I was biologically related to June, Jericho, Janey and Juanita, my (so to speak) picture hanging on their wall proved it. The realization prickled through me, and I prickled again when a second truth hit home: they’d been aware long before my arrival I was biracial. And they didn’t care.

“Mat my friend?” Jericho stood in the doorway, sparkling clean and heartbreakingly shiny in tight jeans and a close-fitting faded-blue button-down that showed off his arms and chest and popped the color of his eyes, and I decided the extra time he’d taken getting ready had been worth it. His glance lingered on the wedding portrait I’d just been concentrating on and though I was confident he read my thought processes he said nothing, merely held his arms out and asked, “So do I clean up nice or not?” Grin. Meaning he’d noticed my scrupulous inspection.

I shrugged. “You look a’ight.” No sense swelling his head even more.

Seeing right through me, his grin widened. “I couldn’t ask for higher praise.” His grin dimmed a touch into a warm smile. “You shine up right nice and pretty yourself, Mat.” His grin widened again when my cheeks flamed (easily discerned or not, they did redden) at his tease . . . or was he teasing? Aargh! “Ready to go?” As I followed him upstairs, as usual burning a hole in the backside of his jeans, I caught a faint whiff of aftershave. The slight, sophisticated scent played well with Jericho’s elderberry wine undertones.

It truly wasn’t fair.

June met us in the kitchen with two envelopes. “This is for you, Mateo,” she said, pressing the second into my unwilling hands. “Hush up and take it. Part of it is what your father allotted for your weekly allowance, the other part is gratitude for how hard you’ve worked, taking some of the load off Jericho’s shoulders without a single complaint. Besides, you need money if you’re going out on the town tonight. What if you meet an attractive . . . person and you want to buy them a soda?” Was there a slight pause in her question? I wasn’t sure.

“You might as well accept it, Mat,” Jericho advised. “For one thing she’s not going to give up and for another I’m in full agreement with the gratitude. You’ve no idea how much you’ve aided and abetted me this week.” He grinned and quoted a catchphrase from our favorite show, complete with atrocious accent. “I am unanimous in this!”

“Well, okay.” Sixty bucks? Whoa! May not sound like much now, to a teenager in 1992 it was a small fortune, double what my father doled out each Friday. “You didn’t have to but I appreciate it.”

June shooed us out but as I started for Truck Jericho waved me over to Celica. “Mom’ll use Caddy to drop the girls off at church and Truck blows too much oil to drive all ‘round the countryside,” he explained as I slid in; the interior smelled strongly of paint, and I noticed several canvasses and boxes in the hatchback. “Look, this one’s a stick too, same pattern as on Truck, just not on the column and with an extra gear.” He demonstrated as we crunched down the drive. “Speaking of, I’ll take you out tomorrow, let you get a little actual road practice in, you’re ready for it. Sound good? Cool, cool.”

“Where are we going?” I asked as he turned towards town; I was finally starting to get my bearings.

“Figured we’d get something to eat first,” he explained, shifting smoothly into high gear while I watched, unsure I’d ever be so graceful with a clutch. “For after I thought maybe a movie, or . . . do you enjoy roller-skating?” Spoken in a small voice, as if he were afraid I’d scorn his juvenile idea.

“I love skating,” I assured him although my preference ran to inline and I hadn’t been on the balanced wheels in years. He grinned in relief and started chattering about a place he knew in Athens, the next larger town over from Normal Crick. I’d figured with resignation he’d gotten himself all dolled up for a trip to the diner to see his ex-girlfriend but he went left instead of right at the downtown turnoff to cross “the crick” and head towards the interstate instead. We drove past a roller rink with a full parking lot and once again Jericho read my thought processes, though this time he did comment.

“No, not because of you or what people might say about me if they see me with you,” he said firmly. “The crowd is mostly hollering kids or classmates whose company I didn’t enjoy growing up and won’t enjoy now.” He refused to say anything else on the topic and I didn’t press, choosing to take him at his word; other than the understandable obfuscation regarding visiting Jill at the diner he’d not lied to me once I was aware of. “How about Waffle House? There’s one up by the freeway.” He was incredulous when he found out I’d never been to one, despite the yellow brick-and-glass buildings littering every third corner in Atlanta, and I was forced to explain my father claimed he’d eaten there enough in his student (ie drinking) days and my mother had once found a bug in her grits and refused to visit any of them anywhere—yes, my parents were a bit snobby, but two high-powered lawyers with thriving practices could afford to be. “Oho, Mat my friend, are you in for a treat!” I followed Jericho’s order of a bacon double quarter-cheese plate right down to loading my hashbrowns with every possible ingredient except chili. “Good call. We do sleep in the same room,” he grinned. I guess my mention of my parent’s profession kicked loose some curiosity in Jericho because he asked the dreaded question, “What are you gonna be when you grow up, Mat?”

I hated the question. Still do. But I answered, evasively at first. “My dad wants me to attend law school, follow in his footsteps. He says I’ve got the analytical mind to make a great defense attorney. I’m not so sure.”

“And your mom?”

“Says she doesn’t care, she just wants me to be fulfilled, but she’d be upset if I wanted to do something not requiring a college degree.”

“What do you want to do?”

I took a deep breath. “I want to write stories and create worlds for role-playing video games,” I admitted in a rush; I’d not shared my ambition even with my friends, none of whom could truly be called close. “Like . . . like Dungeons and Dragons?” He dipped his chin, familiar with the name. “So, yeah, fantasy games like that, just for computers.”

“They make those?”

“Yeah, and some of them are really cool.” One of the biggest irritations in my proposed exile was my dad’s veto of carrying along my “DOS-hole” as he liked to call it (you can see where I get my love of puns), saying he expected me to be sociable and not huddle in a back bedroom my entire visit, though I didn’t inform Jericho of this. I started explaining about building lore in an imagined realm and how to work side-quests so they ran concurrent instead of contrary to the main objective or how to design puzzles taxing for players but not insurmountable (and I’d like to smugly point out here certain of the ideas I expounded upon to my captive audience did indeed become commonplace over the next couple of decades, not all of them—but some—implemented by me). I chattered on like June or Jericho, not even stopping when our food arrived, while my cousin nodded and asked the occasional pertinent question.

When I at last ran out of breath, Jericho grinned at me. “I don’t think I understood half of what you just said but—no, no, don’t apologize, please, it was fun sitting here listening and you sound like you know what you’re talking about.”

“I . . . I’ve thought about it a lot,” I said, chasing the last few bits of hashbrown down with my fork (they really were delicious, and I’d already resolved to become a regular customer of the Waffle House in my neighborhood at home) and squirming in my seat despite Jericho’s declaration there was no need to be embarrassed. “It’s kinda . . . kinda my passion?”

“I can tell. So what’s the problem? Bet a job like that would require a college degree, making your mom happy, and your dad should be glad you’re using your analytical mind.”

“It’s the pay Dad would object to,” I explained. “Game developers don’t earn a whole lot, at least right now.”

“Right now?”

“Yeah. Dad is skeptical but I think in the future as computers become more powerful and more popular there’ll be a huge market for new games, and it’ll spill over into systems like the Sega Genesis or the NES or maybe the other way ‘round. Nintendo already has a next-generation console on the market and it’s selling like crazy.” I was expecting one for Christmas though if I saved the money June was sure to pay me for the next twelve weeks I might could afford to buy one earlier plus a few cartridges. Hmm.

“Darren had a Nintendo. We used to shoot ducks or play this weird game where you bounced on things and tried to save a princess who was never where she was supposed to be. I was decent at the ducks, the dang dog hardly ever laughed at me, but horrible at the bouncing.”

“Duck Hunt and Super Mario Brothers,” I identified. “Okay, imagine those but with better graphics, better story, better physics, better everything, and there might be as much money in it as in movies. Game devs will be famous like film directors or at least like writers such as Stephen King or even JRR Tolkien.”

“Hobbits?”

“Hobbits,” I confirmed, and I was off again, not stopping until he apologetically excused himself to the restroom. While he was gone I paid the ticket and belatedly realized I’d been yakking my fool head off for the better part of an hour. I didn’t feel bad about it, oddly enough, having accepted Jericho’s word he’d enjoyed the mostly one-sided conversation; he had, after all, paid close attention and made several perceptive comments and observations. No, what I mostly felt was sheer amazement. I was a taciturn kid and teen (and adult, as a matter of fact), not communicating much unless the situation or a direct question called for it, and I could not remember the last time, if ever, I’d gushed—and yes, let’s face it, I’d gushed. To Jericho, who’d allowed, even encouraged me. Whoa.

“Mr Humphries, are you free?” Atrocious accent and all.

I haughtily glanced over one shoulder and then the other. “I’m free!” I trilled, not even caring when my voice rang off the tiled walls and the waitress looked up from the dish pit.

Grin. “Ready to roll? Heh, ‘roll’, get it?”

“I’m ready, and yes I got it. Seven out of ten.”

“Meh, not bad. I woulda been happy with a six.” As I stood, “Where’s the bill, Mateo?” My full first name spoken in broad daylight did not bode well.

I inclined my chin. “I paid it.”

For one split second annoyance tensed his voluptuous mouth but he chose not to object. “Fine. Thank you. But I’ll get the tip. And next time we’ll swap.” Implying there’d be a next time. I happily agreed.

We didn’t speak much as we sped down the interstate towards Athens; I felt I’d gushed enough for the moment and he seemed edgy, almost nervous for some mystifying reason, but he shook it off as we parked at the rink, whose lot was maybe half as crowded as the place in Normal Crick. We each paid our admission (again that split second of annoyance, which I chose to ignore) and claimed our skates. Though there were pockets of teens our age the majority of patrons appeared to be adults in their late twenties or early thirties, the DJ playing at a reasonable level what would soon come to be (if it wasn’t already, I can’t remember) known as Seventies Classic Rock, songs I was familiar with, as were everyone else. As we changed our footwear several girls (and one guy I glared at until he looked away—the females I could dismiss as inevitable, if any male was going to get up on my cousin it was going to be me, dammit) “casually” drifted over to shoot come-fuck-me eyes at Jericho, stopping nearby and bending over to tug their laces or stretching a leg up behind to check the rubber brake-pads or their pompoms were secure. He didn’t seem to notice. We rolled out onto the rink, and though it took me a rusty minute I soon regained my competence, skating backwards and keeping up with Jericho at his fastest. He landed on his meaty rump as he tried to show off with a complicated twirl around me, laughing at himself for falling and then at me when I went to help him back up onto his wheels and he yanked me down beside him. During the couples skate he refused to exit, squiring me round and round the floor, not holding hands but brushing fingers occasionally as the DJ spun “Telephone Line” and “Tuesday’s Gone” and the disco ball glittered color on the mirrored walls and sparked off his perfect auburn hair and in his perfect and laughing faded-blue eyes. When our legs tired we went to the arcade, and if I’d been hoping to stomp Jericho with my superior video game skills I was in for a rude awakening: my farmer cousin was an irrefutable monster at Ms Pac-Man and (weirdly enough) Tron. “Darren and me could’ve paid for college on what we spent on these machines,” he replied cheekily to my amazement, and proceeded to amaze me further by tromping me into the ground at pinball. At least I whipped him at air hockey and Galaga.

And the entire time we were there, we talked. Not chattered, not gushed, but talked. Oh, not about anything important. Movies. Music. Sports. We agreed Tim Burton was awesome and Nirvana overrated and agreed to disagree about Alabama’s Crimson Tide. We talked as we returned our skates, as we sprinted to Celica in the rain, as we stopped by Waffle House for another round of scattered smothered covered—I let him pay and tip as well; it made him happy. We talked the whole stormy way home, and only as we crunched up the drive did I realize not once had I noticed if anyone stared at me, in curiosity or nastiness or anything else. I’d not noticed anyone at all (other than the boy I glared at for daring look our way) besides the person I was with. Jericho.

The twins were at their overnight lock-in so the house was quiet when we slipped into the kitchen, and we were alarmed when we found June downstairs crying then relieved when we caught on her tears were from laughter. Are You Being Served? had long since gone off but she had discovered on another channel a similar British sitcom, this one newer and titled Absolutely Fabulous! and I’m certain I don’t need to explain the premise to this audience. June was so tickled she could hardly speak, positively whooping at some of the “finer nuance” sex and drugs jokes or 1960s cultural references that, again, sailed right over Jericho’s and my head. When the show finished she hugged us and went upstairs still snickering, and Jericho asked if I’d like to find something else to watch since we could sleep in tomorrow but I shook my head. I was tired. And, of course, looking forward to “doing our thing.” His paper covering my rock, he used the bathroom first and when I returned I found him already abed. I switched off the light and had barely slid into my fresh Tide-scented sheets when came the inevitable whisper. “What about it, Mat my friend? Wanna jerk off?” I asked him what he thought and we grinned. Tonight the routine went a little differently, as he began to ask me questions and incorporate my answers into his spiel (“So what do you think, Mat my friend? Do you imagine somebody squeezing your balls and tickling your asshole would make you shoot? Would you pull your foreskin back and smear pre all over sweaty skin? I sure would, I’d rub it in, and my asshole would nip at their fingers, and I’d shove all the way inside and jackhammer every damn sweet spot I could find!”). We cleaned up and, both of us so talked out we’d be hoarse in the morning, reluctantly settled in to sleep instead of talking some more. He fell off quickly and I curled up facing him, listening to thunder’s faraway rumble and Jericho’s closer mumble, replaying every minute of our magical night together, and only as I was about to go under myself did a single new thought occur to me.

Did Jericho just take me out on a date?