That Summer
Synopsis
A scorching summer, a magical place...and the unforgettable imprint of first love -- forbidden, and forever frozen in memory. A haunting summertide of burgeoning manhood and the awakening of passion.
Two boys waxing into teenage years; next-door neighbors, best friends. Together they meander through an extraordinarily hot and steamy summer -- discovering the small world around them...discovering each other -- and themselves -- in the craggy transition from the green of youth to the verge of adulthood...and the impact it has on one man's life.
THAT SUMMER
Time seemed somehow suspended: long, slow-motion days that seamlessly slipped into sapphire nights, with the sun a brutal, unrelenting foe and the heat a torrid presence, plaguing both day and night. There was a shedload of wasps that summer -- ominous and ever-present -- and our energy had melted with the swelter, as July neared its end.
Our morning was a mystery trail through the neighborhood fields: grasslands, jungle-like and dense with shoulder-high, desiccated reeds that whipped and sang as we padded and slinked amidst them. A bovine femur and a triad of weathered mollusks, coarse and blanched over eons lost were our treasured bounty. After lunch, we opted for a swim in the small backyard pool, but the water proved much too warm to truly offer relief. Afterwards, playing any kind of game lost its appeal in the unbroken heat; so, after a few half-hearted ideas Johnny said he was going home...it was nearly dinnertime anyway.
"See ya tomorrow" I said, as he climbed the fence to his house next door.
We were neighbors nearly all our short lives and Johnny was my best friend for most of those years. He was the youngest of the five D'Angelo children, with both parents being born abroad. The oldest sibling was Rocco: a bullish tough guy with sandy hair and smooth, rock-hard muscles. His countenance was a perpetual scowl, and the rare times when he spoke was while chewing out one sibling or another. He scared us all, so we always kept our distance. Carmella was next, and unfortunately resembled her mother: barely five feet tall and poorly postured, she was painfully shy with scraggly black hair, a scrunched face and, like her mother, had a huge mole just above an upper lip that showed a bit too much peach fuzz. She possessed a nervous giggle that was ever evident, like a constant, unbidden companion. Vinnie was the middle child: a combustible bundle of barely contained energy. The word was he was mentally handicapped, pulling many dangerous, questionable stunts. You would often find him mumbling or talking at speed with only himself for an audience. An enigmatic man-child, he was a neighborhood oddity -- a discomfiting infliction to the ignorant and fodder for the teasing and taunting of the neighborhood progenies. Then came Peter. Quiet and unassuming, Peter was studious and had his nose forever buried in one book or another. He was an A student and the head of his class. He too resembled mother Vincenza, but on a man, the traits were far more appealing...and luckily, he hadn't inherited the mole.
Johnny was the youngest and just days short of his fifteenth birthday. He was most like his eldest brother, with his smooth, vascular physique and straight blond hair. He and I were opposites in some obvious ways, yet in others perhaps quite similar. His tough kid exterior and scowling, feigned grown-up demeanor belied the insecure, sensitive boy within. Even then I was cognizant of his contained bravado; his kindness -- and even a gentleness -- toward me engendered a security in me, and his protectiveness was a warm blanket I wore with pride.
Dinner that night was plain, but good as always, and after the dishes were dried a knock on the door broke the silence in our tiny, airless kitchen. I opened the door, finding Mr. D'Angelo filling its frame -- his bitten-off cigar busying its habitual place at the corner of his mouth.
I managed a muffled, "Hello Mr. D'Angelo", as I backed away in awe.
Behind me -- presenting her wary half smile -- my mother offered, "Won't you come in, Mr. D'Angelo?"
He bowed his head and stuttered, "Oh n-no, tang you...too dirty for inside."
For some moments, the two stood locked in an awkward silence. I stood gawking in the background, intensely curious about the man and why he had come. I had always been mesmerized by his swarthiness and the indescribable reek of masculinity he exuded. My eyes were fixed on his tightly muscled torso as he leaned one arm up the door jamb. His body seemed magnified: hard muscles visible and barely confined under the threadbare cotton of his stained and sweaty tank top: He was a dirty statue, framed by the kitchen doorway and backlit by the rusting sunset. He removed his cigar end and cleared his throat, finally asking if I might like to come along tomorrow -- with him and Johnny -- to help at the big estate where he worked as groundsman. I could feel the blood race through me, as the prospect of such a day flooded my mind with all kinds of adventures. I held my breath until, finally, Mom agreed. Bedtime couldn't come fast enough.
Next morning Mom woke me just before seven: "It's time to get up, Sweetie. Mr. D'Angelo will be here in half an hour. Come eat your breakfast", her voice trailing as she ambled back toward the kitchen.
I hopped out of bed -- adrenaline racing -- and dressed in record time. I gulped down my cereal as my mother prepared a small lunchbox. She insisted I lather myself in suntan lotion, and as I washed up, Mr. D'Angelo's old Nash station wagon pulled into our driveway. Mom gave a quick peck to my cheek, and I was off.
The drive was silent as we sailed the empty streets and winding roadways. My head whirred with anticipation as my window framed the world outside: a narrow country road hemmed by a forest of tiger lilies -- ardent and sylphlike as they grappled for footing -- skirted in ruffles of lacey ferns and tall lanky grasses. Reedy birch fledglings and ancient oaks dominated the wooded roadside, painting a dense and dark backdrop -- undoubtedly filled with secrets and fairytales -- mystical in its misted beauty.
I closed my eyes against the unbroken breeze and savored its dewy caress. Next to me, Johnny slept, his face powder soft in the pallid, post-dawn blush. Mr. D'Angelo leaned back in the driver's seat, languid and coarse in his lewd posture and chomping away on his stogie. Finally, the car slowed and turned, pulling into the mile-long drive that meandered down to the huge, columned estate at the bottom of the wide-open hillside. The grounds were majestic and meticulously groomed; and quilted in patches of silvery green and a downy morning mist.
Johnny's dad was freshly outfitted in drab-brown shirt and pants, both scarred with hand-sewn patches and the occasional hole. After a good hour or more helping him with small tasks, he walked us to a tool shed, handing us a set of old-fashioned rakes and soiled, tattered canvas sacks. In his broken gravelly English, he dictated our chore and directed us to the huge swimming pool. "And-a no jumpin' in, boys!" he yelled, as he waved us off.
We ambled our way down the hillock behind the great house, and as the land began to level, we came upon a thicket of trees. By now the sun had made its ingress, excising the dawn's haze with its dizzying light -- you could barely see the blue for the aggressive glare. Passing under the stately stand-still row of poplars we slipped through the wall of freshly groomed hedges, and there before us lay an immense rectangle of luminous water -- a giant pool, ablaze like liquid blue fire.
I stood awestruck by the sight, before Johnny woke me from my reverie: "You do that side and I'll do over here" he ordered.
We set about our task with do-good fervor, perhaps in silent competition for the quickest finish.
As morning passed, the air became sultry and stagnant. After we had bagged our last pile of trimmings, we sat on one of the marble benches, drenched and drained from the blistering rays and our arduous assignment. From the main house came the throaty call of Johnny's father. We were summoned for our lunch break and some fresh-made lemonade. I was ravenous and quickly went through the sandwich and apple my mother had packed.
Johnny leaned in close, saying "I know a place where we can go. It's really neat -- a secret place where no one ever goes".
So, we left our rakes and over-stuffed sacks as Johnny and I took off in a dash. My heart raced as I tried my best to keep pace. I chased after him through the rows of greenwood and eventually up a grassy incline, breathing hard and electrified with anticipation.
We crested the hill and there came upon a secluded setting: a circle of massive sycamores; majestic colossi, like silent sentinels that braved -- and somehow eluded -- summer's savage scorch...their dappled hulking trunks coursing into open arms, with spikey leaves like giant splayed hands. I had the feeling we were entering an artist's rendering -- a canvas of muted, feathery hues in an idyllic landscape, eerily still, with a haunting emptiness -- two-dimensional and timeless. Within the guarded circle stood a fountain, like an enchanted specter: an oval-shaped recess of startling whiteness and within its sunken basin rose a female figure, hewn of flawless marble. I was struck by the purity and grace of her lifelike form. She was a ravishing youth with satiny skin and a teasing countenance -- her smallish head tilted and coy, with just an allusion of a smile. A forever fledgling: a fairy queen in her magical realm.
Johnny quickly shed his socks and sneakers then dropped his jeans.
In a near whisper, he said, "Come on...let's get in!"
I followed suit, but hesitated while fumbling with my shorts: "What if we get caught?" I breathed anxiously.
"Nobody ever comes up here. I swear. Come on!" he re-assured me.
We stepped into the pristine oval of icy, crystal water and splashed about, laughing and jostling, and shivering from the chill. In quick time, the water lost its bite, becoming a cooling silkiness against our tawny, febrile skin. After the initial fun and frolic of getting wet, we fell silent...sitting on an inner ledge, just under the water's surface. The intense heat and straining labor drained our energy, leaving us willow-weak and keen to cool off.
Time was absent and the silence heavy, as we drifted into daydreaming. At some point, I stood and leaned against the marble maiden, my back pressing against the lustrous, glossy stone. Johnny rose slowly, and we stood face to face. The moment was surreal yet lucidly memorable as I looked directly, unflinchingly into his eyes. It seemed we stayed this way for a long time, with an unnamed tension revving the blood in our veins. He was remarkably muscled for a teenager: a somewhat flat and carved set of pectorals, very broad shoulders -- rounded and striated -- hard, beefy forearms and a clearly chiseled and evenly measured set of abdominals. I had always been fascinated by muscle -- the shape and size, the variety of hirsute and smooth, the veiny bulk and denseness...all facets that excited and inspired me. Johnny was my fantasy realized: masculine, muscled, all sinew in compact form, and I his confidant, his chosen consort.
I felt an unfamiliar weightlessness as he leaned into me, trapping me between his out-stretched arms, and I couldn't resist touching them; running my hands along his forearms, my fingers riding the blue, ropey veins that ran like jagged rivulets up and into his compact biceps. This was an unexpected, surprising move on my part. My characteristic shyness had dissipated, and in its place came an absence of awkwardness or discomfiture -- an assured sense of belonging and acceptance. There hadn't ever been any kind of hint or gesture of this kind of attraction from either of us; but our camaraderie ran deep, and his ever-warm ardor left me fearless and open to this new and most exciting turn.
I stole away from his intent gaze, and as my eyes traced the line and form of his body, they caught at the sight of the sizeable bulge inside his soggy, sagging BVD's.
He leaned in closer and rasped, "Go on, take `em off", flaunting a wily smile.
My heart was pounding as I undressed him, and I remember the moment with a crystalline cognizance: a lucid, luminous aching for the raw passion and kindred need between two boys -- two men -- and the glorious and disturbing compulsion to have him...in any and every way. It all felt titillatingly wrong as I removed his briefs. I slipped my thumbs inside the red and blue waistband. The elastic caught then gave way, freeing his prodigious penis, as it bounced and throbbed in a curved, upward posture. It was massive. Massive. I was struck and awed by his rude nakedness -- brazen and reckless before me, he grinned from ear to ear, assumingly peacock proud of his more than impressive manhood. How curious to be so stirred, so compelled -- so obsessed! -- with a parcel of a man's anatomy. It was for me a magnificent masterwork of human form and masculine beauty: its size and shape perfection, rising from a thicket of wiry, golden threads that glittered and enticed in the scant slender slips of the afternoon light. I was captivated and beguiled with the beauty of my best friend.
He gently lifted my chin, his eyes commanding my gaze. I was at this point a mixture of buzzing nervousness and dizzying adoration. His eyes were such an intense gold, but they held a pleading sadness. Light-headed and confused, I was flooded with the waxing emotions of first, realized attraction. He traced his fingers slowly along the line of my jaw, his hand quickly finding the back of my neck. I was transported by his touch...and the unfamiliar judder of carnal hunger. My eyes remained fixed on his as he drew me toward him. The evolution was a prolonged, persevered ambition -- rendering me spellbound and quickened. Then it happened -- we kissed! -- and it was an instance of electric euphoria. His lips were velvet against mine: a damp, pillowy softness that pressed and grazed my own half-opened mouth -- igniting sensations and emotions I could not have imagined.
Johnny's breathing hastened as he pressed me hard against the statue, and his nearness was a pulsing force. Our kisses were gentle and cautious at first then rapidly evolved into ardent, hungry expressions of the intense desires that had now begun to fully flower. His kisses transformed me, engendering new emotions and an innate knowledge of man-to-man attraction: erasing the taboo -- the condemning sin -- that was then so ruinous and forbidden. He became rougher as he ground his body up against mine. Kisses had turned into biting, as we tugged at each other's lips. I found his neck and instinctively bit into the tawny, savory skin -- eliciting animal-like grunts and groans of exquisite pleasure. Experiencing his blatant, ecstatic reactions only magnified my own. I responded in kind -- adhering myself to him, my hands grabbing every inch I could find. This was a rhapsody that seemed unearthly, unreal in its intoxicating rhythm.
We were drenched and dripping in sweat as we executed our salacious dance. We held one another in an urgent crush, as though a strong and slithery embrace was an insufficient substitute and our need to be closer a frustrating impediment. He pushed himself away and caught his breath. Gasping, I found myself once again fixated on his amazing dick: huge and pale like a sculptor's over-sized fantasy, it was a magnet, and his raw essence so intensely potent -- luring me, gracing me, freeing my spirit, releasing my anima. The head glistened inside a folding swathe of thick, rubbery foreskin. He asked if I wanted to feel it, to hold it. He took my hand and pressed it up against the pubic hairs, then rubbed it along the bulky shaft.
"Grab it. Take it", he demanded.
I responded with caution and uncertainty, but quickly took hold of this immense, throbbing entity. Admittedly, I had been obsessed with penises as far back as I can remember. Embarrassing to profess, but perhaps the psychological crux of misbalanced parenthood or the latent virility of an all-too-passive father. Who has the answers to our deepest and most potent desires, our innate and galvanizing compulsions towards things and people we ourselves can barely recognize?
As I slid my hand to the hairy base, I bumped into the taut, heavy sack and could feel his body jerk with the contact. I looked up with dread but found him smiling as his hand found my own stone-hard cock. We stood this way forever it seemed, and I felt I could never get enough of him -- of this powerful fusion of empathy and physical desire. What can one do when such fascination and passion overwhelm you...when the sensations are so great...when thoughts melt and meld into the greatest and most dizzying emotions...when your heart is bursting with revelations you are yet to understand?
Breaking the trance, Johnny pushed my hand away, taking hold of his own swollen member. Once again, his lips found mine -- this time in a rabid attack -- and I was breathless with the contact. He began to roughly jack himself; his expression transmuted, intense. Within a few seconds he started to moan; his eyelids fluttering, as his face took on a strained grimace. He began to tremble, then clenched my arm in a painful hold. With a savage roar, he shuddered and humped as he came in a violent release. I was shaken by his feral expression and the sudden, convulsive spurts; and equally awed by his libidinous climax...and the echo it left on the windless hilltop. Johnny fell against me, panting and spent. I could feel the pounding pace of his heartbeats against my own billowing chest. We were exhausted and exhilarated. Our impassioned emprise was a passage, riving the chrysalis of our boyhood.
Finally catching his breath, Johnny lifted his head and leaned in to kiss me, reassuringly, possessively. His smile was sweet and wolfish -- a thing of such radiant beauty -- and at that moment, I knew he was mine...whatever that meant. We held each other a while and I reveled in the contact. Eventually we left our shaded sanctum and ventured out into the blazing sunlight to dry off. It must have been around midday as we spread our still-soaked underwear beside us and lay on the parched grass -- naked and free -- bathing ourselves in the penetrating heat. Side by side, we chatted and dozed intermittently in the feverish, seductive heat.
I can't say just how long we lay there -- in this blissful, faraway state -- but this magical interlude was a dream from which I never wanted to waken. It was a world of just we two. A place and time completely removed from the mundane, everyday existence of rules and requirements...and forbiddance. Then the spell of our preludial encounter was broken by the distant call of Johnny's father, beckoning us to pack up for home. We hastily dressed and ran back to the main house. Mr. D'Angelo was locking up the shed as we neared the driveway, and we quickly found ourselves on the road again. The sun, the work and our time at the fountain all combined to make us deliciously drowsy and soon we were asleep in the back seat of the old station wagon. It was a dreamless ride...as we lay side by side, in our incidental intimacy.
Our friendship seemed to falter a bit after that consequential day, with Johnny seemingly awkward or embarrassed, perhaps for the bare openness of our adventitious episode or feelings of guilt for how he had seduced me. But before long, we found ourselves in close quarters one early evening, just after sunset, and the desires and mutual attraction were once again present and overwhelming. We managed a long kissing session in the narrow passageway between a neighbor's garage and back fence. Once again, I felt the raw intensity of our illicit liaison and the sheer euphoric freedom I had only known with Johnny. When we finally parted, I entered the house and before I could slip past my mother's ever-seeing eye, she caught the color in my face and noticed the slightly swollen lips.
"What happened to your face?" she questioned, sounding more than casual.
I quickly responded, "It must be from too much sun". Luckily, she didn't pursue the issue.
After the re-kindling of what we had shared on the estate, Johnny and I met as often as we could. The intensity and joy of our shared feelings quickened and inspired us to unwittingly discover pleasures we ourselves could not have imagined. He kissed me with an even greater avidity -- and I reciprocated in kind. Our trysts were more than just typical teenage lust and awkward, giggly fondling sessions. They were untiring waves of intense focus and excruciatingly erotic manifestations. We mostly met in the dusty, forgotten loft inside his family's lock-up or on occasion behind the garage just after dark. We reveled in each other's body and the sheer excitement of our intimacy. Even our moments of silence were filled with a secure knowledge of one another and the rare gift of a nascent, harmonious contentment: a rightness that held us in an indefinable echelon.
One late morning I went to call on Johnny. His mother held guard at their backdoor, saying he was sick and couldn't come out. Normally so inviting, she would only speak to me through the tattered screen as she fussed and fidgeted with her dish towel. I persisted until she relented, and when I reached his room, I found Johnny on his bed -- his face swollen and discolored with bruises, his eyes red-rimmed from crying. The day prior, Rocco had spied us climbing up to the loft. He stood beneath the attic space and listened to our muffled words and grunts. Later in the day, he found Johnny in his room and pummeled his face till he was black and blue.
"You fucking homo!" he roared. "No brother of mine is a faggot! I catch you again, I'll beat the fuckin' shit outta you!"
He left Johnny sitting on his bed battered and bleeding, where his fist had split the skin just over his right eye. In shame and anger, Johnny could barely face me. I was shaken by the sight of his mangled features and the blatant loss of his ever-present bravado; yet his revealed vulnerability and now-evident sensitivity at once broke my heart and strengthened the feelings I'd already had for him. I sat on the bed and reached out to touch his bruises. He closed his eyes as my fingers traced the discolored markings and his expression was one of tender acquiescence. Then suddenly -- as though bolted from a dream -- he brushed aside my hand and turned away, hiding himself from my gaze, from my empathetic display of affection.
He looked up with apologetic eyes, but only offered a few words, saying we should "stop fooling around".
Afterwards we barely saw one another, with Johnny keeping his distance for fear of Rocco -- and apparently humiliated by the accusatory "sins" we had collusively committed.
Those weeks -- those magical weeks -- were a treasured gift of emerging passion, adventure, the germination of bona fide love...and the burgeoning blossom of self. As teenagers, the capacity to experience consummate love is a rarity. The ungainly nervousness of beginning sexual consciousness developing into a mature and harmonious relationship is a process that normally requires time and experiment. The kind of caring and connection that transcends physical necessities and selfish appetite is not usually acquired overnight. Your hormonal measure is a whirlwind of confusing emotions and rabid urges; and the road is usually a rather bumpy passage into adulthood -- an era of bumbles and mishaps and the often-embarrassing exploits in the hollow pursuit of being "cool" ...and grown up.
Shortly after the start of school, Mr. D'Angelo was offered a job in another state, with a four-bedroom, rent free house as part of the deal -- an offer he couldn't refuse. The news hit me hard and I wondered how Johnny had taken this momentous change...and the knowledge that our lives would be forever changed.
We said our goodbyes a mere ten days later, on the night before they departed. I will never forget his face that last time: clenched and pale, his eyes filling as we shook hands. Seeing him cry was so unexpected, and it rendered me speechless. I too felt the tears burn my face as they fell, unashamed. I saw him before me -- the man I knew I would always love, no matter what the future presented or bestowed, no matter who would cross my path. I wanted more than anything to be wrapped inside his protective arms, to feel his sweet lips once again pressing against mine...but it was not to be. He held to his conviction as his hand slipped from mine...the warmth and feel of him, gone.
The following year found us in a new house, in a new town; yet my heart was cemented in the memories of the old home I knew, and the indelible impact of those summer days with Johnny. For some years afterward, my brother kept up a frequent contact with Johnny's brother, Peter. They had had a close friendship while we were neighbors and Peter even came to visit with us after we relocated a few years later. I would always ask after Johnny and was always given a short account of his whereabouts. He had taken a job with a construction company that moved all over the States, so he was never in one place too long. A few years later, my brother married and his friendship with Peter faded, predictably.
Not long after we settled in our new house, my mother became quite ill; and without measured deliberation, I assumed the role of caretaker and housekeeper -- taking on the responsibilities of cleaning, washing, ironing, cooking. It proved to be an exacting, oppressive period that exaggerated my already thickening wall of shyness and left me socially awkward and right reticent. I reverted into my former unsure self, with the challenge of maturity awaiting me in a future mapped with harrowing hurdles.
In the ensuing years, life led me to many places, meeting many people. My refreshed dream of living in New York City eventually had me waiting tables at a small, cozy supper club on Restaurant Row. A cousin had landed a part in a Broadway musical, and the connection led to many new acquaintances. It was an initial year of crammed episodes, provocative flirtations, and romantic advances. I had taken a sublet on the city's Upper Westside with a fellow waiter, only to have the subleasing actor make it a threesome, as his touring company cancelled their road production. We became a slapstick trio within the confines of the two-room apartment and developed a warm and trusting camaraderie. Tim -- my restaurant roommate -- spoiled me with eggs and pancake breakfasts and taunted my shyness as my life rippled and whirled with a glut of new best buddies and the endless dosage of Manhattan's bounty. It was during those years that I discovered and experimented with life -- there, where I began to see outside the sheltered existence of home; breaking through the homogeneous world in which I had so adeptly cocooned myself.
Toward the end of those three years, my duffel of dreams had come up empty and the ever-present fun and frequent invitations began to stutter and evanesce. I was approaching my late-twenties and, perhaps unwisely, had decided to return home. The home terrain was familiar and superficially reassuring, but the family aura hadn't changed. I had replanted myself in a bed of infectious misery...and found myself once again mired in the co-dependent quicksand of my early life. With the knowledge that my heart was -- and always would be -- filled with him, I decided to face my true feelings and contact Johnny. But with great frustration, I couldn't find anyone who had information on him or his current whereabouts. Repeated efforts came up short and my hopes of reuniting thinned with the passing of time.
A few years forward -- on a beautiful late August day -- I found myself meandering around the old, beautiful town square. Memories and pictures flooded my mind and I realized just how much I loved this town, with its surrounding historical countryside and the simpler, less crowded life it unceasingly offered. The square had always been a lush and meticulously groomed paradise: winding pathways, decorative geometrics of brilliant floral clusters that changed with the seasons and a variety of majestic and venerable trees shading the lanes and their promenading pedestrians. Surrounding the two-and-a-half acres of greenery were four streets veneered with a pristine lineup of pretty storefronts, two banks, a restaurant or two and even a high-spired church at one corner. Surely every local family had their trove of photographs taken through all the seasons, and most certainly inside Santa's tiny house, when the park was transformed into a dreamy, fantasy filled Christmasland. Leaving the square, I headed down one of the main streets to an ancient book shop I had frequented through my high school years. The shop was in a former colonial residence with two levels offering multiple genres and a nook for children's books. The ancient stone Methodist church was its next-door neighbor and the gothic-styled, imposing town library filled out this historic town block. Walking toward me was a huge, burly man -- it was Rocco, Johnny's eldest brother. He recognized me and reached out for my hand. He betrayed his old image with a warm smile, but all too quickly it was gone. After the initial hellos, I was all too eager to ask about Johnny and where I could reach him. Rocco's face fell, and his eyes flinched. With a stuttered account, he informed me that a few years back Johnny had had a brain aneurism -- and died. I was numbed by the news, with the remainder of Rocco's chatter a distant, muffled buzzing. Rocco shook my hand once more and sauntered off, a bit hunched and less powerful in his stride than I remembered. I was left with a lightness about me; a vacuity of the heart, paralytic -- with no marrow or validity to prove I existed. The rest of the day was an empty blur, and the ensuing days a hollow eon of desolation and unimaginable loss.
The subsequent years had the predictable fill of insignificant workdays and gym visits...the one-on-one friendly teas and dinners, the occasional travels and rare social events that rounded out an otherwise quiet existence. Home was a sinkhole of stifling misery and the interminable permeation of fermenting antagonism. Eventually I moved to Europe -- a dream come true, so I'd thought -- perhaps with the covert intent to find that elusive something that would fill my heart, enrich my world...and finally rid me of my adherent, nocuous upbringing. The initial bustle of new people, learning another language and the marvels of a new culture and its diverse offerings had again distracted me from myself. During those years there too were the occasional visits back to the States -- where once again I felt the false sense of belonging and lift of unadulterated joy from long-familiar country drives and wind-swept beach days shared with a life-long friend. But one is ineluctably pulled back into captivity; conscripted and imprisoned in the tide of convention, and the societal requisite of mundane money-making and paying the bills.
As so often is the case, new friends beget new acquaintances...and a moderate peppering of love interests. There was by no means a shortage of handsome, sexy men -- whether available or already involved -- and my list of amorous endeavors began to lengthen. Yet, even at a now somewhat ripened age, I remained a rather naïve and almost demure participant. Through every encounter there was no evidence of an interactive me. I was the perennial observer, the gleaner of sounds and images; sentenced to bouts of agonizing inspiration with no viable mode of expression -- an exhausting and unavailing modus operandi.
Where had I been all those years? -- decades melding into mismatched vignettes, faces fading from view and details disengaging from scented static episodes and fluid acquaintances I believed would crystalize and sustain me; embracing the gifted boy whose merit and desirability were granted by transient consorts, not the inherent dogma of a resilient and sure-footed ego. Was I simply -- sadly -- a lost soul, tethered to the familiarity of an afflicted past...sabotaging my successes, my inner joy? Was the residue of an abusive, suppressive childhood ever wholly vincible?
I pull over onto the grassy shoulder alongside the still-weary road and cut the engine. Immediately the silence comes; at first overwhelming in its immensity, then comfortingly familiar. The fallow forest of silent trees beside me stands dense and stately and the landscape across the narrow road sprawling as I allow my eyes to purvey the massive house and expansive property. My decision to come back -- after so many, many years of keeping a steadfast distance -- was prompted by the letter I received just days before my visit back home. Peter D'Angelo had forwarded the note -- written by Johnny -- that had somehow been lost these long years. The soiled and tattered envelope had only my name scribbled on the front, and amazingly it had remained stubbornly sealed all this time. But frozen by apprehension and the daunting millstone of once again facing the tearing loss -- and the agonizingly blissful chapter that was ours alone -- I remain cemented in the security and safety of my tiny rental. Eventually the wave of trepidation dissipates, and I remember to breathe.
The autumn morning is crisp with an impassive sun, like a perfect sphere of crayon yellow, holding court in the deep-blue, cloudless sky. But there are no signs of mist or magic in the slanting landscape. No promise of new adventures. I take the chance and wander down the once grand poplar-lined drive. The great manor stands no longer proud, with its pillars chipped and flaking in the gentle breeze, and the elegant hem of heathery blue hydrangeas no longer embellishes the broad and steadfast foundation. In the distance -- where the multi-vehicle garage once held its bastion of affluence -- I spot a shiny truck and further on a set of swings: signs of life in this otherwise deserted setting. Wandering any further on to the property would be senseless -- and trespassing, actually -- so I exit the narrow and dusty unkempt roadway and settle myself against the sagging wooden fence.
Why did I really come back? Was I expecting to somehow revivify that long-ago season: the impossible, hollow promise I contrived to evade my aloneness, my inadequacies? What a fool I've been! A sentimental, delusional fool living in the past; and worse, holding tight to a romantic dream, to a chimerical promise with no credence, all wrapped in the comfort of a fairytale love that would never come to pass. Even after so many years, I had to admit it: I still struggled with the reality that Johnny was gone, and worse, that he probably never truly loved me -- not in the way I had hoped or needed. His longstanding silence through those subsequent years made the obvious all too unbearable. My illusory hope to love and be loved became my unspoken vocation -- deceptively firing my tenacity -- propelling me forward through the years that became my life. A watery existence: one where I was never sure-footed nor truly content.
The yellowed envelope lies atop my sweater. Rumpled and timeworn, it sits like a benign, innocuous scrap with no magnitudinous intent. I had held off opening the brief, deciding to wait till I could read Johnny's words back home. But the true reason behind my trepidation was the conflicting emotions swirling inside my memory. What could it reveal? Would the letter provide a blanket of warm remembrance or a reawakening of all the agony and self-doubt I had fought so very hard to stow away? With so much anguish and foreboding over its contents during these last days, I sit on the fence of decision.
The drive back into town is a winding, nostalgic photoplay with nature gleaming and pure before me. I had forgotten the power of emotion these beautiful roads imbued, and I am taken back to a time of innocence and hope -- when youth held the luxury of potential and a heart was treasured without expectation. So, in the end I decided not to read Johnny's note. A wise decision? Or perhaps the coward's way out? I simply couldn't face that expected final blow of rejection and the shattering truth of my unrequited love.
My visit ran its speedy course and I am once again packing up to fly back "home". It's always an odd sensation to fly to either my current apartment or back to my childhood home: neither truly hold the blanket of comfort I so deeply believed in those many years past. I suppose it really is true that your home is in your heart; yet I am still to find that haven, that supreme sanctuary where love is deemed to be at its purest...and ever accessible.
Chris --
I started this letter so many times. I hope you don't hate me after I turned away from you and left without saying more.
What we did and what we started really scared me, and after Rocco smashed in my face I knew we had to stop. But then I couldn't stop thinking of you and all that we did and shared together. All those days and nights we had and all the stuff we discovered, you and me together.
I've been on my own for a while now and I've worked with so many different construction crews. Seeing those guys in their sweaty and torn t-shirts. Muscled guys all hot and horny and always joking about girls and tits and pussy. I laughed and made my jokes too...but I was crying inside because I was hurting for you.
It took me a long time to figure it out, but I decided I can't live without you. I want and need you so bad and my heart is aching for your kisses and your hands touching me, like you were crazy about. I want to see you again, if you want that too. I heard you asked about me sometimes so I figured you hadn't forgotten good old Johnny. We're older now and we can make a life together, not just hiding behind the garage and being scared to be found out. And I want us to be together -- no matter what anyone says. My heart has been empty all this time. How about you?
I want you and I want to spend the rest of my life with you, doing everything together. We can get an apartment somewhere -- anywhere you want -- and we can share everything. I can't wait to see you and to hold you hard and hear you whisper in my ears again like before. It always made me crazy, drove me nuts and made me even hornier than usual. Ha ha! I'm going to mail this as soon as I can get a stamp. I got your address from Peter so I hope you're still there.
I'm smiling now because of you and because of all I remember between us...and want so much to start a new life with you. You're MY guy forever. And I love you. Yes I love you. Please say yes.
Your Johnny