Orange （1976） #2
The road was rutted, dry, and cracked and kicked up so much dust I ended up walking the bike mostly.
I saw Jackson, shirtless in the midday sun, covered in sweat and slamming a pickaxe against the unyielding ground.
I’d never seen him shirtless before. He was much more muscular than I would have imagined.
Black hair curled out from under his arms and across his chest; his nipples rose like succulents from the wild grasses of his dark chest hair.
Farther down, where his hair thinned into a narrow trail leading to his waist, the mound of his protuberant navel, like a scoop of ice cream or a sand dune on his flat stomach, peeked through his hair.
Under the worn dungarees he wore, I could just make out the curve of his penis, more prominent and bigger than my own.
A surge of desire for him rose up so suddenly and strongly, I thought I might swoon.
Steeling myself, moving my bike into position to hide my erection, I called to him, looking just above his head so as not to stare at his nipples or what lay just below his waist.
It seemed to me Reverend Jack had sentenced him to hard labor for some imagined sin, most likely related to me.
I mean, who plants a garden in concrete in October?
I said as much as I called to him. Jackson shrugged, dropping the pickaxe.
“If that’s the price of being with you, I’m fine with it,” he said.
He smiled. That smile warmed me more than the midday sun.
I wasn’t strong enough to help him break up the concrete and he only had one pickaxe anyway, so I retrieved the pieces he broke, put them in the wheelbarrow, and dumped them in the weed-choked lot next to the church.
As we worked, we talked, sharing our histories easily, eager to learn about each other.
Sometimes we fell into a companionable silence.
We spent most of the time talking, though—about everything and nothing.
I felt as if the more we learned about each other, the deeper in love we fell, quite as if Cupid, sitting in the trees above us, was, hourly, shooting arrows into the hearts of my sweet young would-be lover and me.
It was a heady feeling, and for the first time, I felt the sting of my parents’ absence, my loneliness, and the weight of my grandfather’s enmity begin to ease.
The sun began its descent, though being so close to Jackson, I felt no cooler.
“We both need to get home to dinner,” he said, throwing down his pickaxe and shaking out his corded muscles.
He pulled on his T-shirt, and to my disappointment, his succulent nipples and swollen navel disappeared.
Growing up, I’d had crushes on, and wet dreams about, Robert Conrad from The Wild Wild West and later on Greg Morris from Mission Impossible, and of course Rio.
But this, Jackson, was something else entirely.
Sunday, May 23, 1976, Locust Hollow—Being too old for Sunday children’s Bible study, and while the young ones’ indoctrination fully occupies his parents’ attention, Jackson and I have gotten used to being free to spend time together after service.
Usually, we go out to the quarry or poke about the ruins of downtown or go to the old Bijou theatre in the next county where they show old movies all day Sunday for a one-dollar admission fee.
Today, though, we went to his house after service.
Once we arrived, he invited me to see his room.
I was really nervous. This seems silly to write, but it’s true: I was nervous.
I’d never been in a boy’s bedroom before.
Anyway, his room is surprisingly neat and organized.
He has a little desk and even the papers on it are in neat stacks and neatly labelled.
I looked around curiously and was surprised to see he had a number of clocks, none of which seemed to be working.
“What’s with the clocks?” I asked, mostly to cover my nervousness but also out of curiosity.
“I collect them,” he said.
“I can see that,” I said, trying not to smile. “I meant why do you collect them?”
“Oh!” He sat, straddling his desk chair backwards.
“People always think about their lives in these huge chunks—days, weeks, years. But really, life is made up of moments, of minutes that change your life. I use the clocks to mark and remember those important minutes.” He paused.
“Now that I’ve said it out loud, it sounds so dumb—”
“No, it doesn’t. I get it. I collect my special moments in a journal.”
He looked unconvinced.
“So, each of these clocks is a memory?” I asked.
“Yes.”
“What’s that one?” I asked, pointing to a yellow Bakelite clock.
He smiled. “That was the first time I had a wet dream—and realized I was becoming a man.”
I didn’t ask for details, for if he was like me—and he was—I knew what the dream entailed.
“So, what about that one?” I asked, this time pointing to a small square onyx one with a white enamel face and Roman numerals.
“That’s when I realized my father’s preaching was bullshit.”
“So, the preacher’s kid doesn’t believe?”
“Not in the Church or the Bible or my father’s words, no. Do you?”
“No. All that talk of heaven and hell and fire and damnation is annoying as heck. And it’s just theatrics.”
“You really think so? You don’t think there is a heaven and hell?”
I shook my head. “Mr. Lewisohn down at the store is Jewish. He told me once Jews don’t believe in heaven and hell. So, I asked him how they made people do the right thing.”
“What’d he say?”
“He said the whole point of Judaism was that it taught you to do the right thing, the moral thing, simply because it was the right thing, the moral thing to do.”
He nodded slowly.
I changed the subject. “And that clock?” I asked. This one was a stepped alabaster clock, like a small monument.
“That one marks the first time I noticed you.”
“When was that?”
He closed his eyes. “It was sophomore year. We had gym. We were playing softball. As usual, you were chosen last and put in the outfield where you couldn’t do any damage.
I’ll never forget, you were sitting on this big rock reading.
Anyway, this guy hit the ball and sent it flying towards the outfield.
Everyone was yelling at you to catch the ball—you didn’t even have a glove.
You looked up at all the screaming and then went back to reading your book as the ball landed behind you.
It was so clear you didn’t give a crap.”
I laughed. “I didn’t. Still don’t.”
“Anyway, it ended up being a homerun for the other team and Lidell, our team’s captain, was pissed.
He walked up to you and shoved you off the rock.
You fell, of course, and he was leaning over you yelling.
Instead of getting up, you raised your foot and kicked him square in the balls.
He doubled over on the ground holding his junk.
You picked up your book, got back on your rock, glanced at him as if you’d just taken out the trash, and went back to reading. Everyone was laughing and screaming.”
I smiled, remembering the incident. “I remember that day. I hate gym. And Lidell.”
Jackson nodded, then, gesturing at his clocks, said, “Do you think I’m pathetic?”
“Because you collect clocks?” When he nodded, I said, “It’s not pathetic. I told you I keep a journal so I remember the important moments in my life. It’s the same thing as collecting clocks, really.”
“Have you written about me in your journal?” he asked.
He looked so hopeful I wanted to cry. “I have,” I said.
He nodded, seemingly satisfied but didn’t ask if he could read my entries; he grew in my estimation.
“Did you know you liked me then?” I asked him.
“No. But I knew you were special, different. I wanted to get to know you.”
He came over and sat on his bed next to me. He took my hand, and rubbing my fingers, he asked, “That’s OK, right? That I want to get to know you? That I like you?”
“Yeah,” I said and kissed him. “I like you, too.”
Monday, June 14, 1976, Locust Hollow—I think I’m falling in love with Jackson.
I mean, I really, really like him. I think he’s adorable; he thinks I’m cute.
He likes my ears, which I hate. When I give him head, he grabs hold of my ears to guide my movements.
I never thought I’d ever be grateful for my jug-handle ears.
In his quiet unprepossessing way, he notices me. For the first time, I feel seen, even if I can’t quite understand what he sees in me. He makes me feel special, though. Our grandfather has drummed into my head that I am not special, not remarkable. And yet Jackson says I am.
Sunday, July 4, 1976, Locust Hollow—I saw Jackson’s orange truck, like a rising sun, crest the hill leading to the farm road.
Jackson and his family live better than most of the town.
I suppose that’s possible when you get a tenth of what your congregation—which amounts to most of the town—earns.
I don’t resent his father, the shepherd, for fleecing his flock, though.
This is what you do when you are a shepherd—whether for a wealthy rancher or the Lord.
And for the most part, Reverend Jack’s congregants seem proud of his higher standard of living and continue to tithe so that it might continue and be sustained.
Anyway, that means Jackson can afford his own vehicle, and battered though it is, it gives us a bit of freedom we wouldn’t enjoy otherwise.