Instead, my macho twelve-year-old buddies and I would
spend the dog days at
the local park sweating, playing baseball and hiding out
underneath any shade we could find.
Derek was my best friend that summer.
As friends go, he was a pretty good one.
Until the trumpet incident, but that's another story. Derek said that it was
the commies causing this drastic climate change.
In those days, we didn't know much about global warming
or weather patterns. So
when in doubt, that is, when we were faced with patterns of
adversity, we usually liked to blame it on the commies.
You had to blame someone right.
It was easier. Simple
times.
Derek use to get a lot of his conspiracy theories from
his father, a night shift labourer at the E.B. Eddy paper plant on
the Hull side, who, when not blaming
mis-fortunes on the "commies" would often blame it on his
fellow French Canadian workers.
This being before the age of enlightenment that we all
were suppose to have undergone after Pierre ascended the throne.
It was the summer of 1968- a year after expo.
The year Robert Kennedy and Martin Luther King got
assassinated. The
year we watched RFK's casket take that long ride from California
back to Massachusetts. It
was the year of Planet of the Apes , psychedelic music, and
flower power
It was also the year of my first introduction to sex. Not to hot and heavy,
experiential trysts with the neighbourhood slut, dammit, I was
twelve years old. I
was still an altar boy. If
the priest had known I had female anatomy on my mind he would have
instructed my parents to beat me about the head to ensure these
thoughts were long gone. And
then beat me again to ensure they never came back.
No, it was an overview course of the sweet art.
Place it in the genre of sexual awakenings.
We had been playing baseball at the park.
As we often did
that summer. Thirteen
guys was the ideal for pick up.
Four up, nine in the field.
There were a lot more of us in those days - the tail end
of the baby boom I guess.
And as such we were the kings of the green - our older
brothers had moved on to girls and jobs - returning only when they
wanted to corrupt us.
We were quite focused in those days.
Lunch then baseball, dinner than baseball. I was raised
in the era of simple distractions; no computer games, no cable
television.. If girls were around we
would try for British Bulldog as the sun went down. There was nothing like a
quick feel at
the end of the day of something you didn't know.
A symbolic grasping in the dark I suppose.
And when the rain came we would either scatter home to
watch reruns of I Dream of Jeannie
or convene under the
spectator benches to wait out the deluge.
A
thunderstorm in August was furious and unpredictable. It could
either last minutes or hours.
It would definitely separate the men from the boys.
We would wait under the benches, far enough from anything
metal and wait for the first guy to chicken out and head home. It was at one of these
meeting that I had my first, albeit confusing introduction to the
opposite sex.
There were five of us huddled under the bench that day: myself, Derek, Raymond Campbell the sociopath, Tony (the Italian guy with the dope selling brothers) and Mark, the asthmatic boy who got to claim the ____ in any pressure situation. As the rain pounded down and the thunder rumbled and belched, we were discussing the events of the day.
Derek was giving a rather impassioned speech on the communist conspiracy as it related to the Kennedy killings. Inevitably the conversation turned to females. Don't ask me to describe the temporal leap. There isn't a psychologist in the world who would dare to describe the progress of our conversations. All I remember is that the leap was made.
Most of us made the leap on faith. We knew about as much about females and anatomy as we did about communists. But since you could see girls, and we weren't really all that sure of what a communist looked like it simplified things.
And boy what stories some of us could tell. Especially those who had actually spent time with a female in more that a British Bulldog situation. Tales of bravado, tales of parts viewed, tales of "almost doing it."
Truth be told, we all knew full well that if we were ever confronted by the piece of anatomy which lurked somwhere atop a woman's thighs and deep in her panties we would without a doubt, in the classical parlance - not know what to do with it.
There was a buzz under those benches that day. The kind of talk that could only be created by free coke and pizza or a visiting first cousin with large breasts. Word in the park was that Artie was about to "get it."
Artie was older than us, probably by about a year, but in our little world that age gap gave him seniority (and qualified him for certain privileges). I think he hung around with us principally because of those privileges. A position of power so to speak. Better to be a big fish in a small pool then just another minnow about to go to junior high.
"It's a friend of his sisters" Derek said.
"Yeah"
"His mom works nights. He's got her over there now."
"Yeah"
"I think he's gonna do her."
Whatever that meant.
"Do what to her I asked"
"What an idiot" Derek made the un-mistakeable thrusting motion. "Do it!"
"Come on. You're full of it"
"He is. He told me" Derek was adamant.
"Bullshit" I adjusted my pants. And quickly crossed myself as protection against my guardian angel. In my official role as group cynic, it was only right that my protest be voiced.
"Bullshit yourself, he's gonna to."
How are we going to know he was telling the truth? As Artie was a notorious liar with the un-flinching ability to mix truths and half- truths at an incredible rate. A politician in the making.
"He will. He 's gonna bring something back"
"What?"
"I don't know, he just said he was gonna bring something back"
"He's a liar."
No response. As the other boys squirmed, I turned to see the subject of our conversation approached, accompanied by his faithful henchman Roy. He did not look amused.
"Who's a liar?"
"Yeah who's a liar?" Roy challenged, defending his leader.
"No one."
"Yeah you're right, no one."
Roy was into blind obedience. Lacking any character of his own, he tended to find someone with a lot of it in the hopes it would rub off on him. I think Roy wound up paralyzed as the result of some snowmobiling and/or ice fishing accident but it would be hard to tell the difference between the two states.
"Something wrong with your hand" I queried, trying to change the subject. Artie was holding his right hand in front of him, index finger extended. As if it had been injured.
"Artie?"
The smirk would not leave his face.
"Artie?"
"Did you get it?" Derek asked, moving closer to the hand.
"Get what" Artie coyly responded then shared a brief yuck with Roy.
"Did you see her pussy" Derek pressed.
I never knew why it was called that. It caused me a great deal of consternation for the longest time. Whenever I heard the word I always envisioned a small furry creature lurking in a women's undergarments waiting to be set free. Hopefully manageable, ultimately friendly if treated in the right manner. I was basically disappointed when I encountered my first one - but that was another story, and something that will remain between my psychiatrist and myself.
"Yeah, did you see it?"
"Maybe"
"Yeah maybe" Roy chimed it.
"Well you either did or you didn't" I offered.
"How about feeling it"
"What?"
We had never considered this complication.
"You had to touch it?"
"Yes sir, I sure did touch it"
And then we knew it. Artie had seen "it" or a reasonable facsimile. The smirk would not leave his face.
"No way"
"What did it feel like?"
"Not like a pussy, I can tell you that for a fact"
More yucks from Roy and Artie.
"Then how?"
"Like Brillo, like ours"
"Ugggh" a joint voice of disappointment. For those with the beginning curls of manhood it was, I suppose a minor letdown. Soft and furry would of eased our passage.
"Got any proof?"
"I stuck it in man."
"Stuck it in where?" I asked. Again confused by the details of the female anatomy.
"Where do you think you wilnod. I stuck it in her pussy."
I could only imagine that the girl's poor cat was in a lot of pain if indeed Artie had done this abrupt exploration of its cavities.
"That must of hurt" I offered. "Couldn't she afford a vet?"
"You're an idiot."
Again, it was my role. Never assume anything.
"He's got proof" Roy defended.
"What?"
"Don't worry, he just has."
Artie raised his hand as if it was a trophy proudly placing it under his nose, as if inhaling a fragrant rose.
"Wanna smell it?"
"Huh"
"Smell what"
"Why?" I asked. Not really inclined to smelling anyone's fingers.
"And?"
"And you know."
I didn't.
"Go ahead and smell it"
As if one of us would know and be able to draw a comparison with other de-pantied virgins. Derek, to my surprise stood up immediately. Moving cautiously towards Arties finger..
"Don't get any closer"
Was Artie displaying a hygienic streak? This seemed beyond him. Keeping a safe distance, almost as if he was air kissing the pope's ring, Derek moved to a safe distance, about a foot or so and took a long whiff.
"Yes sir" He inhaled deeply the scent of Artie's conquest. "That's quality stuff"
As if he knew.
I was suspicious, but didn't want to miss out on the opportunity.
"How can you tell what it smells like, you're not even close!"
The rest of my friends joined the queue in front of Artie's finger. Each bowing in reverence (and maintaining the proscribed distance) to the essence as their turn came. Mark took a long whiff of his asthma inhaler before he had his turn.
"Its just a question"
I joined the end of the line. Not sure if I wanted to really smell Artie's fingers but unsure if I would stay a member of the club if I did not. If it had been free food or the last three cards I needed to complete my Planet Of The Apes collection I would, without a doubt, have forced myself to the front of the line.
However, since this new experience was un-inspiring and not an overwhelming priority I deferred to my peers.
"I'm never gonna wash it man."
Since Artie rarely washed anyway I took him at his word. I watched as each of my friends bowed deferentially to Artie's scented souvenir. Each maintaining the proscribed distance.
My turn.
The hand, large loomed before me. I leaned forward, uncertain.
"Get right in there man"
I was about a foot back.
"No, I'm okay
"MMMmmm, yeah"
"You can't even smell it"
"Yes I can" I lied. "mmmm yeah"
"Grab him"
"What?"
The other boys gathered around me
"Knock it off"
Arms pinned, forcing me closer and closer. Artie held it under my nose. Jamming it into my nostrils. The smell was sharp, putrid. Excremental.
"Jesus Christ" I backed away as if stung.
"Smells good eh?"
I wasn't sure what to say. If I disagreed I would have been banished from the group, and most likely labeled homo. If I agreed I would have been defeating my own sense of self esteem, a victim of compromise and peer pressure. However, since I was a long way from this sort of complex analysis I gave in as best I could.
"Mmmm yeah" I lied.
"You like it?" he rubbed it directly beneath my nose. I recoiled naturally.
"MMMmmm yeah" full blown now. A real Laurence Olivier kind of performance. I was proud.
"You really like it" more of a question now. Less rhetorical
"Yes, I like it"
He laughed obscenely.
"Shit sniffer."
My friends began too laugh.
"What?"
"You're a shit sniffer"
"I don't understand"
"You like smelling my arse"
Louder, the laughter piercing. Hateful. As only boys can be when they join together in a Greek chorus of derisive laughter. I wondered why I was being signaled out when my other friends had gone through the same ritual.
"So are you guys"
"We didn't wear it as perfume"
"ha ha ha"
Hot spiteful laughter. I looked around for the bat. I figured a quick blow to all or one of my friends' temples might make the laughter subside. Instead I reached for my T-shirt and quickly rubbed Artie's excrement from beneath my nose.
"Ha ha ha" I laughed half heartily. "That's a funny one"
I got up and walked slowly from under the bench. Derek's voice cutting through.
"Hey, where are you going?"
"I gotta go"
The rain was pelting hard. Thunder in the distance. A sudden crack of lightning to render it suitably gothic.
"You're going to get electrocuted" Electrocution would of been a mild punishment compared to the embarrassment I would have to endure for the next couple of years. Derek broke from the pack.
He was following close behind me now. I shrugged.
"It was just a joke buddy, relax"
"Oh well"
"Don't take it so seriously. Come on, come back."
I turned to watch my friends still laughing heartily.
"That's okay - I'll see you later"
Derek's voice, further behind now.
"C'mon. Don't be a wuss. "
Weaker, fading in the distance. He had made a choice, I had made mine. A team player is what it probably said on his resume. I remember that as the beginning of our separation. It's inevitable. People grow apart, it’s a fact of life.
We stopped going to the park as much as we use to. Except in terrible bouts of nostalgia. Guys find new interests - girlfriends, extra-curricular activities, new friends - lives.
But I guess I'll always remember that day. Sometimes with humour, mainly with shame. I guess that 's how it became a grudge. But it's only a grudge when you don't do anything about it.
So, when, twenty years later
they found Artie dead in his one bedroom welfare apartment with
his ring finger shoved up his nose, a Canadian tire air freshener
around his neck and a copy of a Penthouse lying beside him with
the page open to an extra close up of a woman's genitals no one
really got the symbolism - except for me.
C James McGee, 2022