Time To Think (On the Bus)

Emery boarded the bus and crawled into a shadow by the window, slunk down in his seat to hopefully be unnoticed by the old perverts and crazies that rode the bus.  Sometimes they would stare at him, leer at him.  Once a man had shown him the erection bulging in his trousers.  Emery was at once amused and disgusted, attracted and repulsed.  Perhaps the old man had a cock like Brandon’s, but that wasn’t the point.  The old man was wrinkled and crude.  Where as it had taken a month of dating before he saw Brandon’s.

The attention and the stares were perhaps because of his look: eighteen, Hispanic, fashionable.  He knew he was exotic on the bus among people who intended to be common by the way they dressed.  Yet at the mall, at his work, he was not so exotic with his pink shirt, or his coat with the fur in the hood, the design cut in the back left of his hair, the homemade tattoo on his right wrist.  Others had gone to more extreme measures with facial piercings and large, colored tattoos and more stylish clothing.

He was headed there for his after school job arranging clothes at the GAP.  Unobtrusively he followed shoppers and cleaned up after them by refolding the clothes with which they had fussed.  Or else he was to arrange a new display, sweep the back room, or any of the other monotonous jobs like swapping security tags in the back room.  But the job was easy, and rewarding by paying more than what other kids his age made and the discount on clothes he wanted.

And the friends, everyone he worked with, was someone he wanted to know even if he didn’t like them.  To him people could either be friends or associates and in response people seemingly felt the same about him.  Very few people in his life ever disliked him, unless of course they were ignorant and hated him for his sexuality but as his ‘outness’ was new in his life this hadn’t given him much time to be disliked for this reason.  At three people he could still count them on one hand, still count on one hand the intolerance and hate he personally experienced.

Luckily his parents were not one of them.  Their reaction seemed to show that they had already known and tried to plan for it like children of elderly parents or a birthday party.  The rationalization that someone is one year older, more experienced, and different than the person they had been.  Since then he had decided to be who he was and everyone else could feel how they wanted.  This was only dangerous among the ‘common’ people like those on the bus, though they usually just treated him with disdain and apathy.

Not like the classmate, Maryanne, who upon learning he was homosexual, had asked the teacher to move to the other side of the room, “Away from the sodomite,” as she had put it.  This earned her a martyr’s trip to the principal.  A straight “A” student, cordial and Christian, he would not have expected this reaction from her.  She only got detention for the remark while he got sneers and laughs.

This had happened because earlier in the day, during sex education class he had asked if there was going to be any information about homosexual sex.  As the class of boys laughed he blushed a little but waited.  And waited as the teacher moved on trying not to notice what had been said.

Maryanne had never spoken to him before and only once since then as she handed out flyers for her After School Christian Group.  To the other people she smiled but to him her face became serious as she said, “repent.”  He had no choice but to take it as he had noticed who was handing them out and his fingers already pinched the paper.  Of course he threw it away immediately in the trash can within her sight.  He looked back to her but she had looked away as if she would only be able to see him again if he would repent and become normal, heterosexual.  But that wasn’t him.

He wouldn’t change who he was for other people because he knew what hell was.  Hell was the years of insecurity, the fear that everything in his world would disintegrate: friends would leave, parents disown him, and he wouldn’t be able to bear it.  He wasn’t about to go back into the closet, at least not intentionally.  There were still some times, particularly with his grandparents and relatives that he acted a little straighter, more butch.  They knew but many of them didn’t want to know.  And he wasn’t supposed to tell his nephews and nieces.

An Uncle commenting during the last family reunion that he shouldn’t be swimming with the other kids was the second moment of intolerance.  More specifically that he wrestled with them as they swam together.  There was no sexual feeling for any of them, they were as they had always been, neutral, familial.  There was only fun.  Until his Uncle’s comment as they all sat eating together and then there was a feeling of guilt that he had done something wrong.

He could distinctly remember looking down at his partially eaten food, a paper plate with samples like he had been to a buffet, and wanting to cry.  The strain in his back, the sudden awareness of his breathing, and the pain behind his eyes, if he felt his throat close then he knew that would be it.  He didn’t want to cry, to storm off and have his family ask questions and circulate rumors.

But then his mother spoke up and said to him in a low threatening voice, “Aw stuff it.”  His Uncle’s lips quickly puckered together.  And for a slow moment he thought he would still cry as the tension released from his body but then he smiled and the moment passed.

He had cried the third time but he wasn’t so ashamed because he had been beaten with real fists and kicked with real sneakers.  That was a man’s pain and he only cried at first.  They had attacked him long enough that he could compose himself amongst their force.

The violence had started in the locker room because the question during Sex Education Class had turned into repetitive mocking and name calling until he couldn’t take it anymore.

Jorge stood mooning him, teasing him.  The other boys, nameless boys, taunted him to fuck right there.  Then the teasing changed as they began to suggest that he was the one who liked to get fucked.

“I bet you’re a catcher,” a boy said with a fist to his shoulder.

Angry, he tried to keep his focus, to stay in control.  He wouldn’t look at Jorge’s ass though he could barely see the round, muscular cheeks shaking loose.

“I bet all the old men love you,” Jorge said before pulling up his pants.

That’s when he said, “You should know Jorge.  I’m meticulous about who I fuck but I’ve seen you give your ass up to any old coot who wants it.”

Then there was a silence and he realized life didn’t come with a soundtrack.  There was only the slow laughter of the other boys.

Jorge turned on him.  He knew what Jorge was going to do that there would be no stopping him.  Jorge was strong and fast, a top baseball player.  He tried to step away, to put up his hand to protect himself.  He didn’t have the mind for fighting.  Whatever aggression he had had was used in that one reactive phrase.

Knocked to the floor he pulled into a ball instinctively to protect his face.  The punches began to feel dull on his back and he knew he would survive this.  He was most surprised by was when he fell and the others joined in hitting him.  That’s when he felt them pulling at his shirt and pants, the seams of his shirt burst and began to part and he began to cry.  Then when he thought he was numb to the pain he felt it in a new way as his muscles shifted throughout his body.

Finally they stopped and feeling returned to his body and that’s when he felt the pain where they had hit him, muscle spasms and bruised tissue.  His head tilted down to the concrete floor, his skin barely touched the cold surface.  Everyone was leaving and he knew he had to get up, to escape before the gym teacher found him.  In some collapse of thought he collected his things, happy that he had dressed before the fight started, and made his way to the hallway.

He shuffled to the boy’s restroom.  At first he thought it was empty but then he saw the closed stall door, the feet and the trousers around a stranger’s ankles.  He had to see the damage so he looked in the mirror and his life was surreal.  He lifted up his shirt, the skin had already begun to turn.  He could estimate where the bruises would be.  There was shifting behind him.  He winced as he touched his skin.  He wanted to report what had happened but didn’t want to tell anyone.  Bruises would heal, there was no long-term damage but the shirt had cost him thirty dollars.  He was mad about the shirt.

The stall door opened behind him, an unfamiliar face looked back at him from the mirror.  The face was young, probably a freshman, it was a face not unlike his own.

“What happened to you?”

“A fight,” Emery answered.

He watched as the freshman washed his hands and dried them with the air drier.  Then the freshman hiked up his pants before exiting and looking back said, “Sorry man.”

That was it, “sorry man.”  Emery looked in the mirror at his reflection and decided he would go to the nurse and ask to go home.  He would plead with her not to tell the principal.  This little incident of ‘gay bashing’ could be erased from history, from his life and he would not care.

All of that was in the past, Emery thought.  The bus doors hissed open and several people boarded.  Emery had barely kept track of where he was.  The buildings, the signs, and the motions of the bus had become so familiar that he didn’t need to pay attention.  His exit was soon.

Ordinary Life (Vignette)

For once the store was quiet.  He sat behind the cash register, turned to look out over the store, a closed book before him.  It was eight o'clock on a Tuesday night in small town Pennsylvania and summer.  He had to be there for one more hour then he could lock the door and go to the back room where he had to count his till.  So really it was more like an hour and a half.  He picked up the book but set it down immediately.  He was too tired to think.

At least that's what he said to himself.  But he was.  It was that clouded mind tired where he could only do the simplest things like run the cash register and only one thing at a time.  He was happy that school had ended some time ago, nearly two months.  He had graduated.  And in another month he would be off to college.

He stared at nothing in particular.  The shelves, the floor, the displays were all constant in his vision.  Years from now when he closed his eyes he could imagine this place again.  The sound of the leak barely perceptible, the sound of the refrigerator unit running, and the dirty linoleum floor with octagonal patterns.  He had cleaned those floors several times.  It was the favorite thing the owner made newbies do and it was what you did if you got in trouble.

There wasn't much to get in trouble for.  At least he couldn't imagine there being because his job was too easy.  Well, except the time when a customer, a grandma with sensitive ears, reported him for cursing.  And it was lame too because it wasn't even very vulgar.  Though he had to stop himself from laughing as she told her story for the owner because she couldn't even say the words.

Twice the owner asked if she could be more specific while hiding a smile because he was trying to get her to curse.  Finally she pulled him to her lips and whispered the words.  He became very serious and demanded to be seen in the back office.

"Paul,"  He said as he closed the door.  "Paul," he said again as he circled to his desk, "I don't think what you said was very bad.  And your one of my best employees.  But you can't just swear like that.  I mean I wouldn't want my kids hearing what you said.  And what with these old people around they are offended by the use of such words."  He was a big man, six foot two with a short buzz haircut and visibly balding in the front.  He was sweating as he talked.  Big was the best word to describe him.  But he wasn't fat just kind of round.

"As an example, as I do with any of the employees I want you to sweep the floors for the next week.  I can have Linda come in and work some extra hours or else me or my wife can do it.  This is just so you know that there are consequences," and at that moment Paul was afraid he would go into a whole speech about right and wrong but he didn't.  Instead he said, "and you are also on probation so I don’t want anymore complaints."

The old lady could have died and been gone because she never saw the ramifications of her act.  Instead he had to explain to his coworkers and his friends who saw him sweeping the floor.  This made him twice as angry.  If he could he would have run the old lady off the road or else egged her house or something because reporting him was just stupid.  He still cursed under his breath and he hadn't been caught or reported since.

The sound of the front door opening alerted him that there was a patron or someone entering the store.  From where he sat he could see the doorway.  And he saw the silhouette paused in the glass as it talked over something with someone he couldn't see.  Just from the shadow he could tell it was a young man, probably a teenager, that he was thin and wore shorts and a t-shirt.  Finally the door opened.

There was a gust of cool summer night air cut off by the closing of the door.  A bell clacked against the glass.  He briefly looked over the patron, a teenage male as he had guessed who disappeared into the aisles.  Then he looked up to the mirrors.  The patron moved through the aisles collecting things in his hands.  Back at the refrigerators he pulled two drinks out and began to had to the counter.  Once there he placed his items on the motorized belt.

The patron was maybe sixteen, young and skinny with blonde hair cut short around his head the top of which was a little longer and and had begun to curl in its natural way.  Paul guessed this is why his hair was short.  Eight items in all it came to less than seven dollars.  Paul was ready to finalize the sale when he asked if that would be all.  He could see that the kid was nervous about something as he scratched at his chest.

Finally he spoke up saying, "A pack of cigarettes."

Paul had sold to underage people before.  At least when no one was looking.

"What kind."  He was disappointed when the kid asked for Menthols because they always seemed to taste funny.  And he had tried nearly all of them.  But many kids, even boys, smoked Menthols because they were the cigarettes they could steal from their mothers, usually divorced mothers.  At least that was the case for him and his friends.

Paul rang up the cigarettes, completed the transaction and watched as the kid left the store.

Forty-five minutes later he had locked the door and sat alone in the back room counting his till.  He had been working there for so long that the owner trusted him to lock up and not steal anything.  The lights were already off to the store.  The room was illuminated by a lamp on the desk with an orange shade.  A chorus of a song repeated in his thoughts as he went through the transactions and counted the money.

There was only one time that he came up short.  It was his third time being a cashier.  The only thing he could figure was that he had given someone back too much money and they hadn't said anything about it.  He didn't fault them as he knew he would not have said anything either.  When you make a dollar and a half more than minimum wage in a state where the wages suck then there really isn't anything wrong with keeping a couple of bucks.  The best jobs were under the table ones because then you could make a straight buck without paying out to the government.

He looked to the clock.  It read ten minutes after nine though he knew it was slow.  No clock was correct in the whole damn place, even the ones at home.  He couldn't think of a clock that probably told the correct time.

Then there was a strange sound.  It sounded as if the front door was being pulled on.  They had had two break-ins as far as he knew and one of them was a former employee who wanted to get even so she trashed the place with her drunk boyfriend.  Both of them were found six miles away in their car passed out, bottles, bats, and a crowbar resting with them.

The sound continued raising the hairs on the back of Paul's neck.  He looked out as best he could but couldn't see the door.  He could see the light of the setting sun in the window.  People were always mistaking times of the day during the summer.  Hell he was even surprised the store closed so early.  He thought to reach for the axe handle leaning against the wall but thought better of it as he stood and walked through the doorway.

It was still light and he crossed the store easily and went to the door.  He was surprised but amused to find an SUV, luxury class, parked in front of the store.  He could see three heads inside, a woman and kids.  Then he saw the driver appear from beside the store, a cell phone pressed against her ear.

"They’re closed.  Wait hold on, I see someone maybe they can, yeah hold on."  She closed the cell phone and walked to the door.

When he had her full attention he pointed to the "Closed" sign.  She looked at her watch then at him.  He pointed to the sign again.  Then she threw up her arms in disgust.  He thought to say something, especially "have a nice day" but didn't.  Instead he turned on them and went back to the office.

Twenty minutes later he was finished with the till and had locked everything away in the safe.  He had become such a trusted employee that he was given the safe number.  There wasn't much in it except the till.  Another safe, he didn't know the code to was for the owner only.  He didn't understand the system but he didn't care.  He turned off the light, back pack tugging on his shoulders and jacket over his arm with a cigarette hanging limp in his lips he went out the back door.

He only ever smoked after work and it was about a pack a month.  He didn't like the idea of spending more than that on something he could only get so much enjoyment from.  And the best was after work.  He didn't know why.  He couldn't imagine it was the tobacco, the nicotine, or the increased risk of cancer yet it was.  Making sure to keep the filter dry he began his walk home.

Home was a converted attic.  His mother had gotten the house in the divorce but he moved to the attic only a few years ago, once he started working regularly.  He could get to it using the backdoor of the house without waking his mother and she said it was best for her that he did as she worked nights and slept during the day.  He had only seen her room a few times since the divorce and she started working at the hospital.

She hung up black curtains over all the windows blocking out any light from the sun.  And she could sleep through most things except things, she said, that happened in the house.  There was something about the sounds and knowing they were that close.  That's why when they were both home he was very quiet.  He didn't mind that much except sometimes he couldn't listen to loud music or have the television too loud.  But she otherwise stayed out of his life.  She didn't ask too many questions and there was never any talk about a curfew.  He was one of the few who didn't have one.  It had never come up.

The walk was about twenty minutes, in the winter it had been a hell of a walk dredging through the snow and walking on the roads when possible.  His eyes focused on the passing ground five feet in front of him unless there was a noise like a car or someone coming close then he would look up.  On the sides of the street were litter, flattened drink cups and empty beer cans.  And cigarette butts.  Paul flicked his ahead of himself and stepped it as he passed.

His house always seemed to stand out from the others of his neighborhood.  It looked a little older, a little more worn, discolored and shaded like the wrinkled face of an old man.  He entered through the back door.  Set his bag down and went to the refrigerator where he retrieved a cola and one of the chilled hamburgers he had made yesterday.  He put the meat in a bun with ketchup and mustard.

Everything back in the refrigerator he retrieved his bag before going up the stairs.  He passed his mother's room and went up the stairs to the attic.  He pulled the string for the light.  The dying light of the sun could be seen in the corners of the window just behind the rows of empty soda cans he stacked on consecutive days.  It was two and a half rows high and nearly three feet long.  It was the only window in the room.

And there was no door.  But his mother had not come up the stairs in years.  It had actually been years.  Strange how you can not go somewhere, not see some corner or wall in a house you have lived in for years.  Just knowing that it continued to exist somewhere.  He set the burger and drink down on his desk next to the mouse for his computer.  Then he dropped his bag.

His shirt came next then his pants as he kicked off his shoes.  By his bedside was his pajama bottoms which he pulled on.  He would only have a few more hours before he would be asleep.  And tomorrow he would awaken as he always did to the same room, the same body and he would go back to work only tomorrow he worked till five.

It wasn't so bad he told himself as he sat in his desk chair.  Lots of people had it worse off than he did.