The Return Home
Billie Joe’s Journey, book II
By: Rick Beck
Editor: Gardner Rust
Gardner Rust was instrumental in the further development of the character of Billie Joe. Thank you, Gardner for being such a positive part of what I do.
*****
Yes, Billie Joe has come home, and getting off the street turns out to be easier than getting the street off him. He has to learn to live back at home once more, but that’s the least of his troubles once his adversary finds out he is testing for AIDS and he spreads it around school.
Thank you Jack “the librarian” for the wonderful list of books you suggested for Billie Joe to read enabling him to discover more about what it means to be gay. Gardner agreed wholeheartedly. These titles are among his favorites as well. Thanks to Lew for caring about the words. Thanks Tracy for wanting to make my stories easier to read.
…I am truly blessed
The Return Home
The Return Home
When the cab rolled to a stop, I stared up the walkway at the house I'd left in June, not knowing if I'd ever see it again. It wasn't exactly the vision I had of my eventual return. My father was out beside the cab paying the driver as I slid off the seat and onto my feet. It looked quiet but I knew just behind the front door lay the same craziness I'd left months before. I had so wanted to leave it for good or at least until I was an adult and better able to deal with the people that lived inside my house.
I was back and it wasn't the triumphant return I had dreamed it would be. The idea I’d find a gay community and they’d take me in to finish growing up with people like me wasn’t the way it happened, and now I was home no longer knowing what I expected to find. There was no welcoming community where I finished growing up. I had to come home to finish growing up and decided what I wanted to be.
I could have run in the airport, but it was already too late by then. I'd surrendered, acquiesced, raised the white flag and admitted defeat, after finding myself unprepared to spend my life on the street, even in the friendlier territory of San Francisco. It was no place for a kid, and it was no place for me. Home was no bargain, but I would survive here, and that might not have been true on the street where I would need to sell my soul to survive. I was tougher and a little wiser, and that wasn’t bad. I’d need to be tough to finish high school, but I didn’t know how tough at the time.
It was a different kind of safe at home. I would take safety and a steady diet in trade for the same soul I would sell for a meal a few days before. Life was a tradeoff and Billie Joe had come home.
There was a difference now. I knew what went on inside my house was craziness. Before, I'd been made to believe it was I that was crazy. I was no longer the naïve child, unaware of the ways of the world. I'd lived on my own for the first time. Admittedly, my living had been on the ragged edge of self-destruction much of the time, but I had lived in the real world on my terms and by my own resourcefulness. No one had done it for me, though I'd found help when I needed it. No one had held my hand or tucked me in at night, except when I said they could. I'd been down in the dirt living on my own terms, or at least on the terms I had been willing to accept.
If all else failed I could return to the streets. This house and these people would never have the power over me they once had, and that was the victory. I was no longer afraid of my father and when he hit me, I would simply stare into his angry eyes, letting him know there was no fear. My mother would never control me the way she once could. It certainly wouldn't please them that their little boy had grown up tough, but their little boy was home, and they could tell all their friends, "Our little boy is home."
I let my father go first and he held the door open for me, so I’d be the first one into the house.
"Billie Joe. Billie Joe," mother said, saying the words over and over like some mantra she'd practiced for such an occasion as this.
"Hi, mom. How's it hangin’?" I said, brushing past the long awaited hug as though I wasn't aware she wanted to touch me, to finally hold her little boy lost.
I wasn't ready to be touched by this side of the world. I would need to learn to be touched again. My father touched me with the back of his hand, but being struck was far more agreeable to me than being hugged. I did not feel like being hugged, and so Independence Day for one was Memorial Day for others.
I dropped my bag in the center of the living room and did a pirouette, amazed at how my house had shrunk in my absence. I felt bigger and tougher and closed in by the oppressive surroundings.
"What? What did he say to me, dear?" mother said, acting confused by the nature of my greeting.
"Nothing, mom. How are you? Love the hair. My favorite blouse. You look wonderful, mother," I gushed.
"Oh do I? I'm Fine. You look...."
"Older. I am older. It’s a constant struggle with the clock, mom," I said, like it should make a difference.
"I know that. I'm you're mother," she said, unsure of what we were talking about.
"You are. I thought I recognized you. Of course you're my mother. Why do you think I called you, mom, mom?"
We walked through the living room and my mother hugging herself next to my arm, still looking for something I couldn't give her as long as my father stalked us. It was as though I was some sort of traveling salesman he wasn't about to trust alone with his wife. I felt like I was on speed or mescaline. I felt lighter than air.
"Are you hungry, Billie Joe?" she asked.
"No, mom. Not even."
"I fixed your favorites. Tacos and burritos with that special sauce you like so much and there's A&W Root Beer in the fridge. I bought a gallon for you. I know how much you like it. There's your favorite apple-sauce cookies and Twinkies for later on. Dad got some Butterscotch Ice Cream, didn't you, father?"
"Yeah, of course he's hungry," my father said. "He didn't eat on the plane. He hasn't eaten since this morning. He's hungry."
"I said I wasn't hungry, damn it. I'm not hungry. I should know if I'm hungry or not," I said, ranting like he'd dare to question my integrity in front of my own mother.
"Look young man, you'll show your mother some respect. I don't know how you've been living, but here you'll live by our rules."
"Don't raise your voice, dear. He's not hungry, he said. He's tired. He's excited about being home, aren't you, Billie Joe? Let's not yell at each other for one night."
Mother apologized for everyone everywhere as she tried to keep peace in the only world she knew. For today I'd be right on everything I said as far as she was concerned. Tomorrow would be another day. I was tired. I was angry. I knew why I was tired but I didn’t know why I felt like a ticking time bomb. I wanted to just get to my room where I’d be left alone from the constant attention. I’d be able to calm down once I got some rest and decompressed from my months away. I needed to make the best of it and swallow my pride. Billie Joe was home.
"I'll have a taco and then I want to lie down, mother,” I compromised. “I can eat when I get up. Unless you plan to eat it all yourself, mom."
"No, of course I won't. I don't even like tacos. There's plenty even if we invited everyone over. I can make more anyway. I bought plenty of fixings, Billie Joe. You don't need to eat if you don't want. Your father's just tired. You know how grumpy he is when he's tired. Upset. It hasn't been easy on him, you know. Not knowing. You could have let us know, Billie Joe. We are your parents. We love you,” she said.
“I know, mom,” I said, kissing her forehead.
“I'm sorry. I mean we can talk about all of this later on, can't we? You're tired and you want a taco. I'll fix it for you right away."
"I know, mom. I could have, but I didn't, and it's over and I'm home, okay? Let's all have tacos and rejoice. And some Root Beer. Let's all have a frosty mug of Root Beer, mom. You know it's about my most favorite thing in the whole world."
"I think it is, Billie Joe," she said, buying into it.
My father had already started to ignore my presence as he always had. He didn't waste his time calling me down for my attitude. You'd never have known he'd just flown half way across the country to fetch me. He walked past me not looking at me as he went to change his clothes. I ate one taco off the plate that contained a dozen, and I took another to my room along with my Root Beer.
As I opened the door there was a banner at the foot of my bed that read, "Welcome Home Billie Joe." There were balloons like you'd give a kid. Most of them said happy birthday. The biggest, most purple one had the word LOVE written on it, and I thought of Carl and the eight days of love we shared before he flew off to Japan.
I threw myself onto my bed, holding the taco safely up in the air. I was home. It was familiar and I smiled. I tried to ignore their yelling at each other. Nothing ever changed in paradise. My father would be calling me a worthless no good-for-nothing punk and my mother would be saying I was just tired, excited, crazy, foolish, insane, suffering from melancholia, or some malady that might account for the likes of me being born to such a normal couple.
I'd gone three months without people needing to yell to make their point. That's not to say I wasn't assaulted, chased, and nearly arrested. I’d take yelling over that. I'd been home eight minutes and World War III was on. I wondered if they'd been yelling at each other the entire time I was gone.
As I closed my eyes to sleep, I was still on the streets of San Francisco. My body had been taken off the streets but my brain was still there. I couldn't help but see Ty and the boys I’d left behind. I felt like a traitor. I'd gone home when none of them could. I would be warm, well fed, comfortable, and safe when they weren’t. We'd picked through garbage to stay alive, we'd sold our bodies for food, and they were still out there.
How did they get out there? I knew how I came to be on the street, but only Ty told me about being thrown out of his house. I’d both elected to be out there and I’d elected to go home. It seemed wrong for me to be the only one to get a reprieve. Life had never seemed quite so unfair as it did at the moments I awoke that first night back home.
I went downstairs and refilled my glass with A&W. It was cold and I rolled the glass across my face. The house was hot and I felt like I couldn’t breathe. I went back upstairs and lay awake and thought about what was ahead of me. Neither the view forward nor the view back had me doing back flips, until I thought of Carl. I reached into my bag for the bracelet and his picture. He was the reason I had to make it at home until he returned. I would be at the gate waiting for him as I promised. Taking out my pen and a sheet of paper, I began to write. Dear Carl….
I fell asleep wearing the bracelet and holding his picture. The faces of the boys I left behind stayed out of sight.
The days that followed were no less complicated than my first day at home. My mother had become determined to get everything back to the way it was before her "baby" ran away from home. She now referred to it as "going off". When she was angry with me, it became "going off to Lord knows where."
Only the Lord couldn’t have known where I was, or he’d have done something about getting us off the street. There was only one Lord on that street. He was the strongest boy with the most ingenuity. He saw into the shadows and kept you safe in the night, the long terrifying night. He taught you to live them one night at a time.
I spent a lot of time alone in my room. Ralphie was the only real friend I’d had and Ralphie was gone. I realized that was part of why I had to leave home. As long as I had been on the road, I rarely thought about him, but everything in my room and in town was a reminder that my best friend no longer traveled with me.
There were no visits to his house or visits from him to mine. I never realized how my life had been so filled with my best friend until I had to face the fact he would never come over again. At times those first few days, when I had let my guard down, I'd hear someone at the door and I'd leap up thinking it was him. He was always at the door. When I caught myself, I realized it wasn’t him at all. Those were the worst times.
The start of my senior year in high school was inauspicious. A note had come to the house that I needed to report to Mr. Burgess in the vice-principal’s office. I was late starting, but that wasn’t why he requested my visit. I stopped at the big front doors and ran my finger down the list to find my homeroom assignment. It would be with my senior English teacher and I knew her and the location of her room. I ran my finger further down the page to see where Ralphie would have been for homeroom. Mr. Prinkney’s room is in the same hallway as Mrs. Smith’s.
I went to sit in the office, after I told the girl at the counter who I was and why I was there. A couple of the students discussed my presence, giggling behind their hands as they watched me sit. I knew I’d need to accept their reaction to me without temper tantrums. I would be watched for any sign of dysfunction. The anger that raged inside me would need to be held under control. I would be watched and I couldn’t afford to blow up or act like I might.
Mr. Burgess returned to the office after making sure there were no malingerers in the hallways. He waited until he opened the door to his office to signal for me to follow. The two students behind the counter giggled some more. I smiled and winked, which got me an unexpectedly loud titter.
“If you two don’t have something better to do I can assign you to emptying waste baskets for the rest of the morning,” Mr. Burgess snapped after I’d entered his office.
“Sit,” he said, looking at his morning messages that were at the corner of his desk.
“You’ve been home a couple of days. How is that going?”
“Oh, fine,” I said, wasting a really nice smile.
“You gave your folks a bit of a scare, you know, but that’s beside the point. You know school started last week. I’m afraid your electives will need to come from what’s left. Most classes are filled the first week. I do have a list you can look over,” he said, handing me a paper from the top drawer of his desk. “You’ll need to select five. All you need to graduate is English and three additional credits. You already have the required math and science credits to graduate. You can take it home and get back to me on what classes you want.”
“No,” I said. “Psychology I, Drama, Speech, gym, and a study hall if that’s okay.”
“Yes, those will get you the credits you need.”
“How about English Lit? Instead of study hall, put me down for English Literature. I can study at home.”
“That’s very good. I’m surprised you want to take on so much. You do realize drama requires your participation after school when they prepare for the senior play? That can be quite a bit of hard work after school.”
“That’s fine,” I said, wanting to keep myself busy.
“If there’s any trouble come see me. I’m here to help you, Billie Joe. I’m not the enemy. My door is open to you even if you just want to talk.”
“Is that all?” I asked.
“No, it’s not that easy. You need to take an AIDS test before you can attend classes. There are people who would feel a lot easier if they know you aren’t infected with HIV. Your parents have agreed that you would be tested this afternoon. The results will be confidential and it will cover us if someone complains about your return to school.”
“I’ve only missed four days,” I said.
“Oh, it’s not about how many days, it’s about where you were. This will protect you from the gossip. We’re looking for a way to keep everyone happy.
“They’ll give you a preliminary reading of negative or positive for the virus. That’s all I’m asking you for.”
“What if I got it?” I asked, knowing they couldn’t keep me out of school even if I did.
“Let’s hope it comes back negative. There will be a lot less pressure on all of us if you test negative. Regardless, I’ll do what I can to make your senior year as free of complications as possible.”
“Yes, sir,” I agreed.
“I need to ask you about Ralph. I know you two were close. Other teachers are concerned. You aren’t feeling like you might do injury to yourself?”
“No, sir,” I laughed, shaking my head. “I’m not going to off myself.”
“You know you can come to me with anything that is bothering you? I want to know if any students give you trouble. I won’t stand for it. If you feel like you might want to hurt yourself come and talk to me. We’ll sort out whatever is eating at you. I’m here to help, Billie Joe. That’s all I have for you.”
“Yes, sir,” I said. “I can come to school in the morning if I get the test today?”
“Yes! I’ll leave your schedule at the counter once I’ve verified the classes you’ve selected are available.”
I left the office feeling optimistic. The classes all seemed fine to me and I wanted to keep myself busy. It would make the time go faster.
I was waiting at the clinic at 1:00 p.m. My doctor's appointment was at 2:00. It was confidential and no one but the principal and vice-principal knew I was testing for the AIDS. My family doctor showed up to supervise the test. He was my father’s friend and everything was hush hush as he stood by and watched the nurse take my blood. She handed him the glass tube of blood and left the room. Dr. Crane marked a six digit number on it and took it with him while I sat in the room alone.
On the street there were no options. AIDS was the price of doing business. It wasn’t so much feared as accepted as the price you’d eventually pay if you were healthy and attractive, or very very young. You couldn’t have any idea what it meant until you were sick with it. You only got tested after you were sick. I thought of Harvey and how sickly he looked. I remembered Walt. He was skin and bone and looked sick, but then, I thought of Ty. He was muscular, handsome, and there was no way to know he had the AIDS if he hadn’t told me.
I realized you couldn’t tell by looks alone. I felt healthy and that was important, but I wasn’t sure I didn’t have it. I was most bothered by the idea of having it, while I stayed with Ty at Walt’s. Walt was a constant reminder of how it could end if you got sick. He made me nervous, because you could see his suffering. I did not want to suffer. I wondered if Ralphie suffered before he killed himself? You can’t always see pain.”
The nurse who’d drawn my blood returned to tell me she needed the room and I was to wait near the nurses’ station and I’d be called with the results of the test. This left me feeling less than protected as the nurse escorted me to a seat in the waiting room.
It was my mother's best friend who busted me. I saw Marina Phelps standing next to the nurses’ station after I sat down.
A few minutes later she had the nurse that drew my blood cornered as she looked at me while talking to her. Mrs. Phelps was a nurse and so being at the nurse’s station wasn’t all that big a surprise. She didn't have anything to say to me, but I knew she'd seen me when she passed the waiting area.
Since she was my mother's best friend, I imagined she knew about my unexplained absence, and my mother would have explained it thoroughly while forgiving me the entire time for putting her through hell. Marina would have been all ears.
My mother forgave everyone all the time. That meant Marina likely knew a lot more than anyone else. My mother had a propensity to talk a lot more than she needed, especially when she was upset, or drinking, or both.
Marina was a busybody. I never liked her any more than I liked most of my parents’ friends. When they called my name a few minutes later, I was directed back to where I found Dr. Crane.
"You are feeling okay?"
"Yes, sir."
"Any swelling? Stinging when you urinate? Any discharge down there?"
"No, sir."
“I think you’re fine. We’ll send the blood out for a complete analysis but all the preliminary signs tell me you are negative. I’ll need to do this test again in two or three months and one more six months from now. These tests are precautionary to make certain. I’ll check in with your dad, when it’s time to test again. I’ve been told to give the result as negative to Mr. Burgess at your school. Is that your understanding?”
“Yes, sir.”
“I’d avoid sexual contact with anyone for the time being. Until we have the complete results back there is some risk.”
“Yes, sir.”
Once again Marina was watching me as I went back through the clinic to leave. I pretended not to notice.
My bike seemed a lot smaller than I remembered, but everything did from my house, to the school, to the town where I lived. I could still get lost riding my bike. Many times I'd found myself peddling along a strange area with no idea of how I got there. It was no different on this day.
My mind was forever racing along from one subject to another. Today I remembered all the kids from San Francisco as I rode home. I remembered our conversations and the days we roamed around looking for something to eat or looking for something other than ourselves we could sell to make money enough to get something really good to eat. I remembered I was suspicious of everyone but the boys I ran around with.
I was several miles beyond my house when I turned around to go home the second time. How many of them had it? Who was still there and where had the rest of them gone. Did any of them remember the awkward kid that seemed so out of place among them? Who was I? Why didn't I belong anywhere?
I missed Ralphie. We always rode our bikes together, but now I road mine alone. I was still angry with him. I didn’t think I still hated him but I wasn’t ready to forgive him for leaving me. My life was more difficult without him.
I had stopped next to a curb and I was just sitting there like a dope as kids passed me laughing and enjoying the nice day around them. I recovered my sense of direction and looked for the easiest way home. I wondered if I could simply ride away from my life? It seemed like I could that day but my brain relearned a partial focus by the time I got home.
I beat my father home by half an hour. We sat together at the dinner table and I asked for each item I wanted politely.
“Please may I have the potatoes?”
My mother smiled remembering her polite little boy from before. I excused myself when I was done and thanked her for a nice dinner. She continued smiling and let herself believe her little boy was home.
That was the night I cried most of the night. The pain came from someplace deep inside me. It was a throbbing aching affair. It wasn’t about testing negative for the AIDS. It wasn’t because I faced a rough road ahead. There was no good reason for the tears. I could have died on those streets but I didn’t cry about it. The streets were hard but fair. You knew what was ahead of you each day. If you got enough to eat it was a good day, a very good day.
I’d never really cried over Ralphie. My anger and hatred over what he’d done protected me from the feelings that came with losing my best friend, but then, my life had been about escaping his memory and all the things that reminded me of him. I dreamed of going to a place where I could be accepted as is. What I’d found was people too fond of a party. I was as invisible to them as I was at home.
I was home and it was time to cry for my friend. Everything I did and every place I went reminded me of him. There was no way I could avoid my feelings, but my anger scared me. I could not let it get out of hand. It was time to cry, not so much for him, as for the void he left me with. I’d deal with the anger at another time. Ralphie was the only person I’d ever confided in about the real me. The one thing I could have told him that might have saved his life, “Ralphie, I’m gay.”
I hadn’t said it and he died not knowing it. He died thinking he was alone. He never told me he was gay for the same reason I never told him. The risk was too great. Little had I known the risk of remaining silent was even greater. Ralphie was dead and I was alone and I cried.
School Days
I went to the office and asked for my schedule. It had been placed in Mr. Burgess’ mailbox. They brought back the schedule and a stack of books. The girl behind the counter leaned on her elbows to report,
“You didn’t miss much. I’m in your English Lit class. We talked about some of the books we liked on Tuesday. We were off for the teachers’ meeting Wednesday, and we’re reading passages from our favorite books before we pick one for the class to read.”
“Oh, thank you,” I said, remembering that I was trying to be nice.
“You’re going to need to report to the nurse after homeroom,” she revealed.
“How do you know that?”
“Mr. Burgess hands me the notes he puts in the teacher’s mailboxes. One told the nurse to call you for an evaluation before you go to class.”
“You read all the messages he writes?”
“Just the more interesting ones. It keeps me from falling asleep on the job.”
I had to sit in the back of the homeroom class. Most of the seats were already assigned. It was just as well. Before I reported to my speech class I stopped at the nurse’s office so I didn’t need to make my exit in front of everyone.
“Oh, Billie Joe, I was just going to call you out of first period. Are you feeling ill?”
“No, ma’am,” I said. “I heard it through the grapevine that you wanted to see me.”
“Oh, well, yes I do. What did the grapevine have to say about the purpose of the meeting,” she inquired.
“They didn’t say, but I expect it is to make certain I’m not bonkers and likely to go nutso in school or anything, which I’m not if my opinion interests you?”
“Of course it does. While being bonkers would require a professional diagnosis, I want to let you know I’m here if you would like to talk. If you are feeling pressured or merely want to talk I want you to feel free to come to me.”
“Thank you. I’ll keep that in mind,” I said, trying to sound delighted.
“Fine. You have your schedule and your books?”
“Yes, ma’am,” I said, before going off to make my late entrance into speech class.
She seemed content that I wasn’t going to shoot the place up in my spare time. Little did she suspect that it was far more likely I might love the place up.
I stayed to myself and only interacted in class if I was called on. Speech and drama were loosely structured to encouraging the students to participate. Psychology was equally as casual with reading from the text required. I had the same teacher in English and English Lit, which consisted of equal amounts of reading, discussion, and writing. English required the only serious concentration.
I did my impression of the silent man the first few days. Getting myself to focus was the hard part. I was easily distracted, usually by my own thoughts. My fear of being confronted by what I had done last summer hadn’t surfaced and most kids seemed oblivious to my misadventures.
The teachers didn’t treat me any different from other students in their class. Being behind from the start required extra reading to catch up with the class. By the end of the first week I’d caught up. I wasn’t a good student. My grades reflected as much. I was going to do better by spending more time getting my grades up. It would help to pass the time and was far easier than looking for ways to avoid doing the work, which was how I did it before.
I read the book we’d decided to read in English Literature and caught up on all my homework by the first weekend after returning to school. My worries about the return to school seemed unfounded. Any talk about my disappearance hadn’t penetrated any of my classes, although it was a good size school and I was taking quite a mix and match group of subjects that tended toward the more creative minds and less toward the more violent among us.
My parents and I called a truce. Meals were where we met most often. I always complimented my mother’s cooking and I thanked her. I was thankful I no longer needed to rummage through dumpsters for my food.
The weekend went by all too swiftly and being home for ten days erased any casual reflections on my summer. It was late at night when I was haunted by the streets, the fear, and the feeling of being lost and wandering in a wilderness unknown to me.
Monday morning I was in front of my locker when I saw George Phelps coming down the hallway toward me. I’d forgotten about Marina Phelps seeing me at the clinic. Seeing her did upset me at the time, because if she learned anything about the purpose of my visit she would have shared it with George.
As I cradled some books in one arm, I reached into my locker for more. George stopped beside me even as I was trying to ignore him. Placing his hand in the middle of my books, he pushed downward until they fell on the floor.
It had begun.
I was half in and half out of my locker, trying to recover my balance as my books clattered to the floor. My initial reaction was to explode all over his big fat ass, but in my head I saw the face of Mr. Burgess and his warning to me.
One wrong move and I was going to be out of school no matter how pleasant Mr. Burgess sounded. No one had said it, but I knew they were looking for any sign that my presence was going to cause trouble. It made no difference whose fault the trouble was. I was the one being watched.
I focused on keeping my balance and ignoring him. He kicked the leg that was keeping me from falling and I ended up on the floor on top of my books. It was easy to see the hatred on his face. We’d never been friends but we’d never come to blows.
"Faggot," he snarled under his breath as several of his friends laughed and looked back at the scene of me being on the floor.
As George moved along to rejoin them, his goon squad gave him high fives. They kept walking when I failed to jump up to defend my honor. Our parents had been friends all my life, but I never liked George and I avoided him at gatherings when we went as families to socialize at special community events. George was obnoxious yet he’d never been confrontational, but he’d never been in a position to cause me trouble before my excursion.
I was a bit embarrassed as I ended up on my hands and knees while kids had gathered to see the goings on. Someone reached down and picked up a couple of books and someone else offered me a hand up.
Standing and taking the books, I said, “Thanks,” checking to see which books I needed and which went back into my locker.
“You can’t let him get away with that,” a strong confident voice explained.
I looked up and away from my books to find people walking in both directions. I wasn’t able to pick out the owner of the voice. I looked down the hall and back up the hall, but my time on view had passed. It was time to be in homeroom and that’s where I headed. I wondered if the voice had come from inside my head but didn’t know.
I understood I couldn’t let George push me around, but there was a bigger picture involved. If I had to fight George and his buddies, it had to come off school grounds. Avoiding him had always worked, and I would continue avoiding him if it was possible.
Later that week it became obvious it was no longer possible. Gym class was always a break in my day. It came before lunch, which was great timing. On Friday it rained, so we weren’t allowed outside to play touch football or softball. I dressed and reported to the gym with the other three classes that took gym at the same time.
There was something called murder ball that the gym teachers loved to employ on days when we were all inside at the same time. This left the gym crowded and created a target-rich environment. There was something like a rubber ball of the type used in kickball with half the air taken out. This diminishing of the air made the impact or being hit with the ball easy to hear and see. The ball was thrown into the middle of over a hundred kids and the object was to hit someone on the other half of the floor. Once you were hit you sat down on the edge of the gym floor.
This was your basic madhouse with guys on one side of the gym trying to hit guys on the other side of the gym. As guys were hit and sat down, the madhouse became less mad and the sounds of the game consisted of a thud, a loud “Ouch!” from the kid hit and cheers and applause from that side’s already disqualified members.
I mingled in the midst of the mob for the first half of the game, but it became more difficult to stay out of the line of fire. I did not suspect or sense that the game was about to become serious until I heard a loud scream from behind me and there was a sudden sharp pain between my shoulder blades.
The next thing I knew I was lying on my back looking at the ceiling. The odd part of it was the ball was on our side of the floor and I had been hit from behind. I was hit by my own man, I reasoned as I tried to start breathing again. That’s when I heard George’s primal scream.
"He's got AIDS. Fucking faggot has AIDS."
I became aware of someone holding me up by the front of my shorts so only my soar shoulders touched the floor ever so slightly.
“Go ahead and breathe. It’ll only hurt for a little while. Breathe, damn it!”
The first inhalation of air was like sucking down jagged glass. I gulped air for a minute or two before the gym teacher stopped assisting me.
“Go sit down. You’ll be okay.”
“Where the fuck is he?” I growled, trying to get up.
“Cool your tool, youngster. He’s a bit out of your weight class. He’s being taken care of.”
Lunch wasn’t all it could have been. I had a headache and my stomach didn’t have its mind on the food. I made it to my next class without enthusiasm. I’d just gotten settled when the call came.
“Billie Joe Walker Jr., please report to Mr. Burgess in his office right away.”
I collected my books and headed for the door.
“Mr. Burgess called me out of class,” I announced to the girl at the counter as she looked up from the morning paper to point at his office door.
She pointed at his office without speaking.
When I got inside the door, I saw George sitting in front of the vice-principal’s desk. I dropped my books and went after him. My oath to myself not to give George what he wanted didn’t come to mind. Mr. Burgess, probably expecting trouble, intercepted me at the corner of his desk. George bravely stood up once Mr. Burgess was between us. I ended up sitting in the other chair in front of the desk, after Mr. Burgess dragged it a safe distance from where George sat. I breathed heavily and glared at George.
“Okay, that’s it. Both of you are walking a fine line. Mr. Walker I’m disappointed in you for several reasons. I thought our talk last week made it clear you would come to me if you ran into trouble,” he said, straightening his sports coat and tie.
I looked at George and he was glaring at me. Do I get anything from either of you two that explains your behavior in gym class and now here.”
“He’s got AIDS. He’s a faggot like his dead faggy friend. They were fagging each other.”
“You don’t know your facts very well. Maybe if I give you three days off to think about it, you might have a change of heart,” Mr. Burgess said as he jotted something down on a message slip. “You’re suspended until next Thursday morning. Get out of my sight and don’t try to con your parents. They’ll be receiving a call from me to explain the suspension.”
George grabbed the note from the vice-principal’s hand and acted like he was going after me as he moved past my chair. I started up out of my seat to meet him half way, but he turned toward the door before we could clash.
Mr. Burgess drummed his fingers and shook his head as he looked at me.
“You weren’t going to talk about the AIDS test,” he said, sounding disappointed.
“I didn’t. I’m not a fool. Why would I tell that asshole?”
“Mr. Walker, let’s keep it civil. How does he know if you didn’t tell someone?”
“His mother works at the clinic. She saw me. I saw her talking to the nurse that took my blood. She figured the rest out on her own.”
“It does complicate matters,” he said, drumming his fingers some more.
“Well, I could give you the same treatment I gave Phelps, but the gym teachers agree he came at you from behind and blindsided you. That leaves you in a gym class with a hundred boys any of whom might hold what Phelps said against you. What if I let you transfer to study hall that period? You don’t need that credit.”
“What if I agree to drop gym if you transfer me to an extra class in drama or speech. They’re both interesting in a way I didn’t expect.”
“I’ll speak to the teachers. It’s highly unusual, but under the circumstances, if you assure me you’ll come to me if Phelps causes any more trouble anywhere at any time, I’ll ask both teachers to consider allowing you in the third period class.”
“I can’t avoid George. We go to the same school and he’s gunning for me. I come to you and I’m a marked man. Being a crybaby isn’t my style, Mr. Burgess. I can fight if I need to fight. I can take care of myself,” I explained as he seemed to listen to every word without interrupting me.
“I heard about the incident in the hall. If you had come to me I couldn’t have headed this off. I understand this puts you in a bad situation. My job is to protect you and keep you in school. Anything at school, anything at all, if he looks at you sideways, I want to know about it. Whatever happens off school property is your business. Is that satisfactory? I’ll tell him I’ll expel him the next time and that will probably keep him away from you here, but he’s your typical asshole bully. He’s come at you twice from behind. He doesn’t want a fair fight. I can’t sanction you two fighting, but if it comes to pass off of school property, I’ll turn a blind eye and figure it couldn’t be avoided.”
“Thanks,” I said. “That’s acceptable. I won’t fight him if I can avoid it.”
“There will be pressure put on me if you do fight off campus. I’ll do what I can to deflect it but not fighting is the best idea. Fighting never solves problems.”
“Yes, sir,” I said.
Over the next few days I was asked about my AIDS test. There was only one way anyone knew, and it all went back to Marina Phelps and her son George. While I had no intention of hiding what I was, I also didn't have any intention of facing the entire student body to explain my sexuality or my HIV status. It didn't seem that should be a required part of the curriculum.
It took that entire week for me to consider leaving. I even thought about going out to stay with Earl and go to school just up the street from his house, but I knew that would be worse than listening to the bigots each day. While George was a pain in my ass, I was surprised that no one else found it necessary to harass me. After George made his announcement in gym, I expected to hear from the other bullies in school. This could create more to be afraid of.
Guys were always calling one another faggot and worse. It was possible that the buzz created by George’s attack on me could be seen as pure viciousness, because he hit me from behind, which was seen as dirty pool by most boys. It was possible his verbal attack would be seen the same way. George Phelps was arrogant as well as a bully. He wasn’t going to win any popularity contests. If my adversary was better positioned in school and respected, the damage would have been permanent. It was never good to be called a fag, but if someone was going to hit you with the label, it was better when it came from a fat bozo like George. His only standing came from his followers who weren’t smart enough to have a personality of their own.
By the time George returned to school the memory of what he said would have faded. Getting out of gym was no great loss. It meant I would no longer be there as a reminder of what took place. Gym was probably the most dangerous place for any outcast. I wasn’t giving up much, but I was reducing my exposure to danger, or so it seemed.
Fear was easy to identify. Simply the act of living on the street had certain dangers attached to it, and with them came a cautious fear. While I felt fear about a lot of people knowing too much about me and what I’d done, the level of anger I felt boiling inside me blunted the cautious fear significantly. As unsettling as the fear was to face, the anger worried me more. I didn’t know when it would surface and I couldn’t control it when it did. I worried that I could seriously hurt someone without intending to do it. This was a remnant of the street I hadn’t bargained for.
You learned to live with fear by listening to the signals coming from your own mind. You didn’t so much live with anger as you kept it under control. Once your back is against the wall it’s anger that brings you out fighting. I wasn’t scared of George but I feared his words and what I might do if cornered.
The Return Home
Simon Betts
Life at home went back to the way it was before I took the summer off. I didn't let the little stuff bother me anymore. If I got into it with my father, I just went to my room. He no longer forced me to listen to his tirades. Whenever we had a run in, he always backed down a lot earlier than previously. Maybe I was getting older and therefore deserved more room. I suspected it had more to do with my leaving home again and his not wanting to deal with my mother blaming him if I did leave again.
I don't know if he considered his outbursts normal or called for, but I didn't. If you really wanted something from someone or if there was a communication problem, you need only sit down and talk about it. My father and I never sat down to talk. He came to yell and complain when something I'd done didn't live up to his standards. I no longer cared about his standards and he knew it. This short circuited his anger when he realized his rants were futile.
Mother went along as always being the peace maker. For her it was about keeping me at home and she’d take my side and ply me with baked goods and desserts when my father was out. It wasn’t that much different from what I grew up with and I tried to do nothing to feed my father’s disapproval rating.
It was easiest to retire to my room at the first possible opportunity and leave them to fight it out. This gave me more time to spend on my studies to keep my grades up. I wouldn’t expect to find any happiness until school was behind me. I was in survival mode and expected no assistance.
The day after I was ambushed in gym class I got two notes. One note said I should report to drama class instead of gym class. How fortuitous was that. My life was drama and it made me laugh although the students around me saw nothing funny. The second note said that I was to report to Mr. Lindsey in his office third period. Mr. Lindsey being my former gym teacher, I didn’t like the sound of it. I smelled a lecture coming about standing up like a man. ‘Go out and buy yourself a forty-five and blow the assholes brains out, Walker.’
Ah, nice plan, but I was a lover and not a blower-out of brains. I didn’t know what it meant but I knew I should see him before I ended up bringing my drama to the drama class when he came to ask why the hell I hadn’t reported to him as ordered.
His door was open when I got there.
“Shut the door and sit down,” Mr. Lindsey said, looking at some papers.
I sat waiting for his attention.
“You’re withdrawing from gym?” he asked, not wasting any time.
“The VP’s idea,” I said.
“I’m sorry to hear that, Walker. You know that you can’t let him beat you down without responding. You’re handing Phelps a victory even if he did get suspended. That kind always sees victory in the fact you didn’t retaliate. He’ll see your withdrawing in that light.”
“I don’t care about him,” I said. “Mr. Burgess asked me to drop gym class and that’s what I did. He’s the only one between me and being expelled.”
I leaned back in the chair and separated the blinds that covered the windows. It gave me a view of the floor of the gym.
“That’s how you guys know whenever we’re screwing around? Neat.”
“Walker, I want you to know that if you continue to have trouble with Phelps, I want to know about it. I’d have been able to convince him to think twice before he went after someone in my class again, but with you leaving it will make it a bit more difficult. He’ll see it as a win. He’ll see it as having you on the run. I can’t protect you if you aren’t here.”
“Why would you want to protect me? The halls are a lonely place.”
“There are certain things in this world that need changing. One of them is guys like Phelps going after guys like you.”
“Guys like me?” I repeated with a question.
“There is right and there is wrong. Phelps is wrong and anything that encourages him is wrong. When guys like me see a guy like him, we wait for a chance to make them right. You aren’t alone in life, son. I want you to remember that if you have any more trouble. My door is always open to you if you want to talk or if you have a problem. That’s it. Go on to whatever class you have to replace this one. Here’s a note to give to your teacher.”
“Drama,” I said as I stood up.
“Something creative? That’s probably better for you than gym anyway”
“We don’t all sing show tunes,” I said for an exit line, sensing he meant no harm..
“Some of us do,” Mr. Lindsey said, smiling as I looked back in reaction to the comment.
It wasn’t what I expected and what he’d said might have meant something and might have meant nothing. There was no way for me to know, except now I had two teachers who expected me to come to them with my problems. It wasn’t likely, but the knowledge made my life easier. I wasn’t completely alone.
Some of the kids in my third period drama class were in my speech class. I handed Mr. Elliott the note from Mr. Lindsey. He tossed it on his desk and never looked at it. He went on with what he was saying when I entered.
His discussion was on what senior play we’d decide to perform. There were a number of selections that every senior class considered high drama. I would work back stage and do whatever labor was required to get the scenery up and running. The bell rang and I was ready for lunch.
“Mr. Walker, might I have a word with you?”
I stopped in the middle of my charge for the door and sat down in front of his desk.
“Mr. Walker, I’m bending over backwards so you can slip out of gym class. Don’t be late again or you’ll have a study hall in place of a second dose of drama. Now, you are taking two spots up in my class. That means I will expect twice the work. When everyone else is ready to leave for home, you’ll still owe me time. That means I don’t want any complaints if I need something done and you’re the guy who has to give me extra time to complete a project. Are we on the same page?”
“Yes, sir, not a problem. My parents might want an explanation, but you won’t get any complaints from me. I’m looking forward to it,” I said, stretching the truth a bit.
“You ever done any acting?” he asked.
“No, sir, I’ll do better backstage.”
“So you aren’t giving me some kind of snow job?”
“No, sir.”
“Okay, just so we understand one another. Be on time tomorrow.”
“Yes, sir,” I said, making my getaway.
I didn’t sense Mr. Elliot was a bad guy, although if he asked, why drama, the answer would have failed me. I had little interest in stage shows and standing out in a crowd, but there was something fascinating about creating a different world in the middle of this one.
There were more elements than I could conceive but the idea of escaping real life, even for a few hours a day, seemed pleasant to me. I had nothing against most people I encountered, but I felt close to no one. My ability to trust people as I once had was muted. Perhaps if I was around some people I developed some kind of relationship with, it would give me people to trust on some level.
Mr. Burgess, Mr. Lindsey, and Mr. Elliot were all trying to be nice to me, but I didn’t trust them with anything. I could talk to them about my feelings or fears. They were men I could be around without feeling pressured, but that wasn’t trust. To most of my teachers I was a face in a seat in a room. They did what they did and I did what was expected of me.
When Mr. Burgess gave me the list of available classes, drama and speech jumped off the page. I knew nothing about either, but when stacked up against the other options, these offered some modest amount of freedom. I had a desire to speak well and to be able to work with and around other people, while being part of team that was trying to accomplish something meaningful.
I got the results of my AIDS test back the day I changed classes. There were no signs of any STDs. I took the results up to my room and tucked it into my sock drawer. It was better than I could have expected, but I thought about Walt and Ty. I dialed their number and spread out on my bed.
“Hey, Billie Joe,” I said, as soon as Walt answered. “How you doing?”
“About the same, Billie Joe. How are you?”
“Fine. I miss my freedom but I eat regular now. How’s Ty?”
“You ask him,” he said and I could hear Ty’s voice in the background.
“What’s up good looking,” he said.
“I was just thinking about you. I’m negative. Just got my test results.”
“That’s great, Billie Joe. I’m so glad for you. I was worried about you.”
“Not much to worry about. I’m living the good life.”
We talked for about five minutes and then said goodbye. San Francisco seemed so far away after a few weeks at home. But I could still remember Ty and the rest of the boys as if it was yesterday. It was hard to believe I might never see any of them again. I really didn’t miss the street or the constant search for food and comfort, but the memories I did have made me determined to stick it out at home until graduation.
The next day in drama class, Simon Betts came in and sat beside me. We were back discussing which play we wanted to perform as the senior play. Simon kept staring at me, but I ignored him. The same names kept coming up. I Do, I Do, Death of a Salesman, and Inherit the Wind.
There were cries that these plays had been done to death and we should consider something new and exciting. Then there was the reality that we were in high school and something new and exciting might not get the approval of the administration.
Then Margie Lanett stood to say, “Inherit the Wind tells a story about a teacher who dared to teach evolution in the nineteen twenties in Tennessee. The play is about the trial.”
“We all know what the play’s about, Margie. It’s ancient history. Let’s do something contemporary,” Paul Wilson said with gusto.
“There was a similar case just argued in Pennsylvania. The difference was they argued that creationism, now intelligent design, should be taught alongside Darwin’s theory of evolution. The argument was they are both theories and deserve equal treatment. How contemporary can it get?”
Inherit the Wind won easily.
“An excellent choice,” Mr. Elliot agreed. “I’d have never put those two cases together myself but it does shine a new light on the Scopes trial.”
“It’s a really good play. The others are simply simple,” Simon said to me.
“Oh,” I said, glancing at him then glancing away.
The problem with Simon Betts is everyone knew he was gay. While I might be gay, I didn’t advertise it. Simon had these deep blue eyes, a delicate pale complexion and lips that made most girls jealous. Simon was on the exact opposite side of the spectrum from George Phelps. I wanted to be somewhere in the middle. Most people might think I was gay, but I didn’t give them anything to go on. Simon didn’t see it that way.
“You him?” he asked.
"Him who?" I said.
"Billie Joe Walker. You’re him. A little older looking perhaps, but you’re him."
"You left off the Jr," I said. "I'm a junior. Billie Joe Walker is my father. I’m not my father."
"Sorry, Junior. You got it or not?" he asked as though he expected me to answer.
"What?"
"You know what? Do you have it?"
"Fuck you. Who the hell are you?" I asked in my most indignant voice.
"Simon Betts. I don’t care one way or the other. I heard you been tested. Damn, I haven't even been kissed yet.”
I knew who he was. That was a good reason to avoid him. Everyone knew Simon and associating with him created certain perceptions. Simon and I might be in the same boat, but we were paddling in different directions. He was always paddling against the current, while I went with it. I felt sorry for him but he’d done fine without my help. I didn’t like going it alone but ending up like Simon, seen as a sissy-boy, wasn’t possible for me. Simon wasn’t able to hide being gay and I had no intention of fighting that battle if avoidable.
The other problem with Simon was the girls who mostly adored him and especially his clothes. He was a lot more at home in the middle of a bunch of girls than he was with boys. It seemed smart to leave well enough alone.
If people wanted to talk there was nothing I could do about it, but I wouldn’t give them anything to verify their suspicions. I had more in common with Simon than anyone else, but I didn’t want to fight my way through my senior year by keeping company with him. Simon was poison and avoiding him was easy even if it felt wrong. I wasn’t his protector. We’d never been friends. Why should I worry about him?
Once again, being gay had me doing things to keep it secret. This was why I left home, and now I was doing things to hide the fact. Getting through my last year of high school depended on me keeping a low profile. It wouldn’t be easy.
“I mean, I know I shouldn't ask right out, but there is no polite way to inquire. Hi, I’m Simon Betts. I love peach pie. Do you have AIDS? It doesn’t work for me. How about you?”
“I can’t imagine why?” I said, trying to ignore him. But I’d already lost track of the class.
“If I don't talk to you about it, I don't talk to anyone. I figure you aren't winning any popularity contests with Phelps spreading rumors all over school about you.”
“George Phelps doesn’t know what he’s talking about and neither do you.”
“Have it your own way. I’m as good as it gets as far as companionship is concerned. Don’t expect a lot of people to be knocking your door down to get to know you.”
“I’ll be fine. Thank you for your concern,” I said.
“I know you must be discussing the play, gentlemen. I can stop the class and allow you to have the floor if you like,” Mr. Elliot offered, before continuing.
"You really aren't out to win any popularity contests," Simon said. “I don’t care where you’ve been or what you’ve done. I’ll still talk to you.”
"I don't know how I’ve survived without you. Why should I tell you about my private life?" I said dismissively.
"Maybe because you’ve always maintained a low profile. Maybe because your best friend killed himself and left a note. Maybe because there aren’t many of us. A couple admit to it. We can either talk to each other or keep our mouth’s shut. You look like you can carry on a conversation if you put your mind to it."
“Looks are deceiving.”
“You two like to share with the rest of the class? You come late and now you disrupt our discussion. If you don’t want to contribute please be quiet enough to allow me to conduct class.”
I glared at Simon and he shrugged and smiled before saying, “Sorry about Ralphie. He was okay.”
It was no secret that Ralphie and I were best friends. Where you saw one of us you’d see the other. I was mostly alone now. I didn’t attempt to interact with anyone. Friendship had proven to be painful. I’d been down a long dark road after Ralphie died, and I hadn’t come all the way back yet. I didn’t need to complicate my life with Simon.
Simon Betts was a target in elementary school. He was pretty and dressed in brightly colored clothes. The other boys teased him unmercifully, jealous about his uninhibited nature. Ralphie and I had never interceded on his behalf. We were both concerned by the way he was treated but not enough to stick our necks out. It was elementary school where conformity was king and blending in was mandatory, except for Simon Betts who had the admiration of all the girls.
I looked at Simon Betts. He looked harmless. He wasn't very big. He looked at me through lazy blue eyes and studied my face with his chin resting on the backs of his hands which he’d placed on top of the books he’d placed on top of the desk.
"Are you always this pleasant or is it my lucky day? Is it true what they say about him?"
"What's that?" I asked.
“He was gay. That’s what I heard. If I’d known he was I would have talked to him. I didn’t know and most guys don’t want me talking to them for fear of what will be said about them. I know what lonely is, Billie Joe Walker Jr. I’m just saying you aren’t alone if you don’t want to be.”
“Why would you talk to him?” I asked, realizing I was his best friend and I had never talked to him about something that might have saved his life.
"So we don't feel so alone. I mean we get lonely and it hurts. There isn’t anyone to talk to about it. I would have told him he could talk to me.”
“We talked all the time,” I objected, denying he could have done something I couldn’t do.
“You didn’t talk about what he needed to talk about. If you don’t talk about it to someone you can end up like Ralphie. That’s all I’m saying to you. If you need to talk I’m a good listener.”
“Thanks,” I said, not appreciating the offer and not liking to be told it was my fault he was dead.
“I'm not into doing a solo here. You can respond in complete sentences if you like. It won’t confuse me."
"How long you been gay?" I asked, realizing I was opening up the conversation, but I couldn’t be a total jerk.
"How long? How do I know? All my freaking life is how long. How long? What you want, a number? I got up one morning when I was seven and I decided I might like being ostracized and humiliated for the rest of my life to make life interesting. How long? I am. There is no how long or how. I simply am. It’s not a matter of nomenclature. It’s biological reality.”
“How were you so sure at such an early age? I never thought about it at that age.”
“I liked playing with girls, but I wanted to look at boys.”
“That’s weird.”
“I’m not saying it’s the same for everyone. That’s how I knew.”
“It’s weird because I never thought about it.”
“So sue me for blossoming early. You don't remember me, do you? From elementary school I mean? You were strange then too.”
“I was strange? Give me a break.”
“I never figured you for gay. Ralphie neither, but he left that note. I think it’s easier to admit it than to hide it. For some people hiding it makes their lives miserable and they do what Ralphie did."
"I remember you. You still act funny. Why are you so casual about it?" I asked.
"Not. I just know who I am. You want I should pretend not to be me and then spend the next twenty years on a psychiatric couch trying to straighten it all out? You must excuse the imagery.”
“Gentlemen, I would like both of you to read for the Scopes’ role. It’s not a big roll but it is essential to the play. Maybe that will get you talking to us instead of each other.”
“Why do they call it the Scopes’ trial if Scopes isn’t a central character,” I asked, not wanting to face the reason he wanted Simon and me to read for the part.
“The trial, the setting of the play, is about the two lawyers arguing creationism vs. evolution. Scopes himself was a peripheral character. The two lawyers realized they would take center stage at a time when the teaching of evolution was against the law. Once it gained notoriety, it was no longer about Scopes. It was science vs. the Holy Bible.”
“Oh,” I said as the bell rang.
I intended to beat Simon out of class and make my way to the cafeteria, but he wasn’t easy to lose. I decided to get the interview over with and end it today rather than have him hanging around me. He stood behind me in line as we moved past the food selections of the day.
I paid for my food and headed for the empty tables in the far left corner of the lunchroom. By the time I moved my milk and implements off the tray Simon was sitting across from me.
“So why are you so interested in my story?”
“I don’t know anyone with the testicles to do what you’ve done. You've been pointed out to me any number of times in the past couple of weeks. People assume we know each other. I remembered you and Ralphie were the only two boys who didn’t pick on me in elementary school. I was always grateful for that.”
“Not much point. You caught enough hell,” I said. “We should have done more.”
“You’re crazy. Nothing you could have done would have made any difference, except maybe to make your lives miserable.”
“We didn’t know anything about anything.”
“Some of the girls think we’re friends. The guys think we’re bonking each other.”
“They what?”
“You’ve got to get inside their heads. They think we’re doing it because they know they’d be doing it every chance they got if they were gay. I know, it doesn’t make any sense but what does with teenage boys?”
“It’s a little different on the street. When you’re trying to survive it erases all the lines between who and what you are,” I said thoughtfully, knowing it was something I knew all about.
“I figure I can always use one more friend, since I don't have any. Doesn’t seem like you’re going to have many offers once the rumors finish making the rounds at school."
"How is it everyone knows me?" I said.
"Talk," Simon said. “George Phelps isn’t much, but he has a way of spreading his venom about the people he decides to hate.”
"What kind of talk is he spreading?" I asked.
"You've been tested for AIDS. That’s a deal killer when it comes to making friends. The rest is left to the imagination of the boys he associates with.”
“What’s to talk about. I had to have the test to get back in school. It don’t mean nothing.”
&nb