laughed. “Couldn’t be better. You’re a very hot boy, Kevin.”
“Thanks,” I said shyly, bowing a bit, and left.
I stood upon the hot surface of the parking lot. It was twilight now. Cars rushed by on Route 1, careening past the tank farms, the container complex, the clumps of palmetto in which someone could get lost. The air smelled of napthalene, forest fires. I glanced once up at the sky, the harsh bowl of it, thinking about its indifferent blue, knowing its eye had already focused on the next brutality. What was one more tiny crime? I held up the stranger’s note and released it, watching it blowing out into the traffic. The warm-eyed boy was gone now, gone forever. Whoever told me I didn’t deserve to be loved?
***
When I was eleven, I thought a lot about a boy named Douglass Freeman. I was fascinated by his house. There was nothing else like it: its Colonial-paned windows, its cupola, its gardens with the plywood comic-strip characters (Nancy, Sluggo, Aunt Fritzi). And beside it all, gleaming in the driveway, a new Winnebago like the showcase prize from The Price is Right. For most of that year I wanted more than anything to live there.
He was in every appearance an average eleven-year-old with freckled skin, tetracycline-stained teeth, and a stunted brushy plume on the crown of his head. It wasn’t until the end of the school year when every sixth-grader from Gus Grissom was bused off to camp that we learned something else about him. The rumors had been flying even before Mr. Albertson sat us down in the cabin.
“Tonight most of you boys’ll be taking a shower.”
We nodded. We gathered around a citronella candle in the dark. His voice was hushed, grave, as if he were trying to scare us.
“These showers are what we call communal. Have any of you showered with other boys before?”
My upper arms itched. I’d never heard of such a thing. I couldn’t help but think the idea was a little outlandish, even obscene.
“I want you to know that Douglass Freeman doesn’t have a penis.”
Eric Woodworth fisted the air. “Yes!”
“Quiet!” Mr. Albertson cried. The entire campground stilled, crickets and tree frogs falling mute. “Once more and I call your parents.”
Woodworth trembled, pretending to quash the triumph from his eyes. I was mortified. All this time I’d thought that Douglass’s newest nickname—Dickless—had been nothing more than a harmless, ongoing prank. Hadn’t we all called him that?
“I want you to put yourselves in his shoes,” Mr. Albertson said. His eyes shone with great intensity and warmth. “I want you to imagine what he lives with every day of his life. Do you understand?”
We nodded, humbled and ashamed.
“He’s all boy. That’s all I want to say.”
We nodded again.
“Good. Very good.” Then Mr. Albertson started a story. “There was a boy, there was a girl, and there was a ghost …”
But I couldn’t follow his words. If I’d only known that Douglass’s condition resulted from a birth defect or cancer, I’d have felt better. I imagined my own penis, a thing I’d learned to like, crumbling off in my hand as I cleaned myself with a washcloth. The truth was I’d been touching myself a lot, probably more than I was supposed to. I pulled my legs closer to my chest. Around me boys were laughing, utterly immersed in the tale. Mr. Albertson crouched and tiptoed about the cabin, illustrating his drama with little props: a pin light, a tennis ball, a handkerchief resembling a lady ghost. What was wrong with me? Was I the only one who felt like this?
Mr. Albertson left for the showers, Dobb kit in hand, white towel slung over his shoulder. “Keep an eye on the ship,” he said, his eyes meeting mine.
“Five bucks,” Woodworth mumbled. “Five fucking bucks.”
Steve Strandberg gazed out at the empty, starlit paths. “I wouldn’t go to the showers now,” he said in a lonely voice.
I said, “Why?”
“That’s when Dickless’s there,”
“Thanks,” I said shyly, bowing a bit, and left.
I stood upon the hot surface of the parking lot. It was twilight now. Cars rushed by on Route 1, careening past the tank farms, the container complex, the clumps of palmetto in which someone could get lost. The air smelled of napthalene, forest fires. I glanced once up at the sky, the harsh bowl of it, thinking about its indifferent blue, knowing its eye had already focused on the next brutality. What was one more tiny crime? I held up the stranger’s note and released it, watching it blowing out into the traffic. The warm-eyed boy was gone now, gone forever. Whoever told me I didn’t deserve to be loved?
***
When I was eleven, I thought a lot about a boy named Douglass Freeman. I was fascinated by his house. There was nothing else like it: its Colonial-paned windows, its cupola, its gardens with the plywood comic-strip characters (Nancy, Sluggo, Aunt Fritzi). And beside it all, gleaming in the driveway, a new Winnebago like the showcase prize from The Price is Right. For most of that year I wanted more than anything to live there.
He was in every appearance an average eleven-year-old with freckled skin, tetracycline-stained teeth, and a stunted brushy plume on the crown of his head. It wasn’t until the end of the school year when every sixth-grader from Gus Grissom was bused off to camp that we learned something else about him. The rumors had been flying even before Mr. Albertson sat us down in the cabin.
“Tonight most of you boys’ll be taking a shower.”
We nodded. We gathered around a citronella candle in the dark. His voice was hushed, grave, as if he were trying to scare us.
“These showers are what we call communal. Have any of you showered with other boys before?”
My upper arms itched. I’d never heard of such a thing. I couldn’t help but think the idea was a little outlandish, even obscene.
“I want you to know that Douglass Freeman doesn’t have a penis.”
Eric Woodworth fisted the air. “Yes!”
“Quiet!” Mr. Albertson cried. The entire campground stilled, crickets and tree frogs falling mute. “Once more and I call your parents.”
Woodworth trembled, pretending to quash the triumph from his eyes. I was mortified. All this time I’d thought that Douglass’s newest nickname—Dickless—had been nothing more than a harmless, ongoing prank. Hadn’t we all called him that?
“I want you to put yourselves in his shoes,” Mr. Albertson said. His eyes shone with great intensity and warmth. “I want you to imagine what he lives with every day of his life. Do you understand?”
We nodded, humbled and ashamed.
“He’s all boy. That’s all I want to say.”
We nodded again.
“Good. Very good.” Then Mr. Albertson started a story. “There was a boy, there was a girl, and there was a ghost …”
But I couldn’t follow his words. If I’d only known that Douglass’s condition resulted from a birth defect or cancer, I’d have felt better. I imagined my own penis, a thing I’d learned to like, crumbling off in my hand as I cleaned myself with a washcloth. The truth was I’d been touching myself a lot, probably more than I was supposed to. I pulled my legs closer to my chest. Around me boys were laughing, utterly immersed in the tale. Mr. Albertson crouched and tiptoed about the cabin, illustrating his drama with little props: a pin light, a tennis ball, a handkerchief resembling a lady ghost. What was wrong with me? Was I the only one who felt like this?
Mr. Albertson left for the showers, Dobb kit in hand, white towel slung over his shoulder. “Keep an eye on the ship,” he said, his eyes meeting mine.
“Five bucks,” Woodworth mumbled. “Five fucking bucks.”
Steve Strandberg gazed out at the empty, starlit paths. “I wouldn’t go to the showers now,” he said in a lonely voice.
I said, “Why?”
“That’s when Dickless’s there,”
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