Goldenrod Read online

  The physical surroundings were congruous with my self-contained bacchanalian orgy, the house and yard a pastoral haven in a den of suburban iniquity. It was a small, thick forest from the street; the house itself could not be seen. The only hint of civilization was a stone driveway, shrouded by lush vegetation and jungle-like overgrowth. Spring had blossomed early in the suburbs of Chicago. Trees were green, grass was tall, the air smelled of life. We didn’t own a lawn mower or any kind of cutting utensil. Mother believed that nature should have full reign. It was as if nature had surrounded the house before invading and taking possession of the interior. Plants stood guard in every room. I was in the habit of escaping out the front door; you practically needed a machete to leave by the back.

  Mr. Price lived next door. His property was well kept and sterile, with bristles for grass and a knee-high hedge composed of exactly straight lines—disciplined and orderly, not a twig out of place. He loved his lawn mower more than his wife. Cutting the lawn was Price’s greatest passion and purpose in life. After his retirement, the love affair with the lawn mower became more serious and intense. He waged war against things that grow, as if by stopping growth he could obstruct the process of aging and stave off his own death. He looked at our wild yard with scathing disdain. Mr. Price had a swimming pool in the back which no one—including the Price family—was allowed to use. The vendetta with the Harrison family deepened because my dogs, Schultz, Whiskey, and Tanka, liked to hop the fence and go for a dip in their pool (Tanka was getting old and inclined to crawl under the fence). Price went insane over dog hairs in the water filter. It was unfortunate that two such different families happened to live beside each other.

  “Let’s go, you maniac,” shouted Phil, leaning out the car window and interrupting my bestial celebration of life.

  I was a born actor and pretended to notice them for the first time, feigning shock and embarrassment, like a shy person who had forgotten himself in his communion with the music. It was a routine act. I could never resist an audience or an opportunity to show off. I gathered my books with exaggerated nervousness and hung my head in shame as I walked to the car. The front seat was reserved for me. In a businesslike manner, Phil had explained that Paul and Ross must sit in the back seat because they were not as handsome as me. Phil argued that being seen with me would advance his own popularity. I turned down the music and used Phil’s brush to fix my hair.

  “Admit it,” I demanded, as I preened myself in the rearview mirror. “I’ve got what it takes, stage presence. I’m going to be a rock star. Do you think being tone-deaf would hinder my music career?”

  I swung around in the seat and winked at Ross. Ross was the latest addition to our circle of friends. He was Paul’s friend, and I barely knew him. I reached back and pinched his testicles affectionately. “Hi cutie,” I said, puckering my lips. I was acting another role.

  “Keep your hands off me, queer,” said Ross stridently, knocking my hand away.

  “Playing hard to get? I like that,” I said, sliding back into my seat and addressing Phil. “I love a challenge. It’s sad though, Philip. Ross’ll end up like all the others, just another conquest, another convert, another broken virgin. Then he’ll be begging me for it, like a common slut.”

  Phil had an aggressive, protruding jaw and a strong face. He sported a fully matured mustache, making him appear older and more masculine than his peers. It was his tough, overbearing physical presence that made any display of homosexuality evoke fitful laughter. Phil puckered his lips and gave his rough voice an effeminate intonation. “Yes, Kenny-poo,” giggled Phil coquettishly. Ross was beginning to enjoy the game.

  “Look! Paulie-poo doesn’t mind,” I said, squeezing Paul’s nipple through his shirt.

  “Harder, you bitch,” groaned Paul, who was notoriously responsive to any kind of sexual advance.

  “I love it when you talk dirty,” I said.

  The music was returned to its usual deafening volume, causing every form of vehicle, car, truck, bike, to pull off the road and let us pass, as if an ambulance was flashing behind it. We were the center of the tornado, calm and expressionless in the midst of chaos. We commanded respect on the road, respect and awe. The last stretch, the stretch nearest the school, was dense with students, female students. We prepared for the girls by passing around the hairbrush. Phil and I were partners in crime. He was like the older brother I never had, loyal and supportive. We had the same interests, the same tastes, lusted after the same girls. Together we were invincible. Together we feared nothing.

  “Tell me I’m not as sexy as hell, and I just won’t believe you,” I said, checking myself in the rearview mirror one last time as we climbed out of the car.

  “I’d give it to ya,” said Phil. We forgot about Paul and Ross as we headed into the school. “I don’t know who loves you more, me or Elizabeth. She didn’t stop talking about you the whole game last night. ‘Ken did this. Ken did that. Ken looks so cute when he sits on the bench. What does Ken say about me? Does Ken like me as much as I like him? I don’t think his sisters like me. I hope his mother likes me. Don’t you think his family is a bit weird?’ Do you know what she said at one point? This really freaked me out! She said, ‘I’d marry Ken tomorrow if he asked me.’ I almost fell off my chair.”

  “You’re kidding! Did she really say that?”

  “Damn right. She’s crazy about you. You’ve got it made. She’s beautiful and crazy about you. What else could you ask for? I’d trade places with you any time. I’m picking up some tickets for the grade thirteen graduation. Do you want me to pick up some tickets for you and Elizabeth? They’re twenty dollars each.”

  “Sure. When is it?” I asked.

  “Thursday night. I’m off,” said Phil, hurrying off to class.

  Phil had a flagrant paternalism. He looked after Elizabeth and me, checking to see that all the arrangements were made and that everyone was happy. I was a lousy organizer; things happened spontaneously with me. Phil was the planner. If Elizabeth and I were irresponsible or bungled up the plans, Phil gave us a fatherly scolding. But he also had a knack for making a person feel good. He would give you a lift. You felt superior to the world because Phil was your friend. He bragged about his friends, used the most extravagant superlatives, and smashed his fist on the table if anyone disputed his compliments. Ken and Elizabeth were God and Goddess. I learned to depend on that kind of lift from Phil. Phil had a charm of his own.

  Elizabeth wanted to marry me? Marriage?! It was like I had heard the word for the first time. What’s marriage? Do people still take marriage seriously? When my parents divorced, I assumed everyone’s parents divorced. The whole idea of marriage seemed vaguely ridiculous, an anachronism, a formality of the past. Although I was thrilled by her flattering comment, it was obvious that Elizabeth and I had different ideas on the subject. Moreover, Phil seemed to share Elizabeth’s deference to marriage. I was the freak of the trio.

  “Fuck marriage!” said my mother during the divorce.

  “Fuck marriage!” said my father when he moved in with Sara.

  “It’s Phuc, not Fuck!” was my latest response.

  That was the attitude I was brought up with. Marriage was a standing joke in the Harrison family. Meanwhile, the Baldwins were looking at wedding pictures of the good old days, when the men looked like gangsters, and talking sentimentally about whatever it was they were supposed to be sentimental about. I could never understand the appeal of those pictures, but that was what Elizabeth was brought up to venerate. We were opposites in that way. It was strange that I lived beside someone like Mr. Price and was going out with someone like Elizabeth.

  “Don’t think with your penis,” repeated Mother, ever since I was nine years old. She was afraid I would get a girl pregnant and have to get married. She knew it was impossible for this to happen to a nine-year-old boy, but wanted to warn me in advance. I sensed that the terrible thing was not getting a girl pregnant, but having to marry her afterwards. Sex wasn�
�t sordid; marriage was! Mother knew everything about me. At the age of nine, Mother could see that I was dominated by my libido. My existence would be an endless search for sexual release. Sex was the center of my being, the source of my energy and creativity. Mother saw herself reflected in her son. “You’re a lovely boy,” repeated my mother, “but too preoccupied with your penis.”

  I literally stalked the halls of my school, a lascivious predator, burning with lust, foam collecting in the corners of my mouth. I pursued firm young breasts and tight adolescent bums. The pain and agony of flaming desire! My body was on fire. This physiological condition was not a mood or in any way transitory, but a permanent state of being. I was perpetually cloudy-eyed and horny, my brain consumed by images of sex. I hid the rock in my pants by carrying books in front of my crotch. I was up and down like one of Dad’s elevators. I had a battering ram for a penis. I would thrust it against lockers, metal doors, walls, washroom cubicles.

  Passion drove me from class to class. It was responsible for my education. In each class there were one or two girls with whom I was sincerely and profoundly in love. They were components of my fantasy harem. Whenever I was near one of them, I couldn’t help leering down at her body, my heart pounding. I had what was called a reputation, a reputation that frightened and fascinated the opposite sex. I wasn’t afraid “to do it.” Elizabeth felt the magnetism of this reputation.

  Although I was weak in sciences and practically retarded in mathematics, I got through school on very little work. I didn’t worry or think about school. It was a place I went every day where there were lots of girls. I knew that I was destined for something artistic and intellectual and earth-shaking, but I had no idea what it would be. I had been accepted at a large university in a small town and intended to star on the varsity hockey team and take a general arts degree. The university was a two-hour drive west of Chicago and called the University of Stockton.

  I had a spare last period which I spent in the weightlifting room. I clad myself in white shorts and running shoes, no shirt. The weight lifters comprised a rigidly structured society, based on the individual’s muscle bulk and the amount he bench-pressed. I was grudgingly accepted in the top echelon of the jock community, but not without some reservations. I wasn’t big compared to some of the massive beasts on the football team, and I was suspected of being what they called a pretty boy. Although I was a little too pretty, I had a magic talent for the bench press which was solemnly revered by everyone, even the ugliest muscle-bound freak in the place. It was inexplicable. I could bench-press anything. I waited for some huge goon to finish his set, made a lot of noise about how the weight was far too light, and complained loudly about the lack of weights and poor facilities at the school. Once I had everyone’s attention and twenty pounds were added to the bar, I tossed the bar around like a baby playing with a rattle. There was five minutes of silence after my set. Most of the guys could roll me into a snowball and throw me out the window, but no one could come near me on the bench press.

  The dismissal bell was about to ring; it was time to make final preparations. I went to my locker, muscles pumped and swollen, and smeared a film of baby oil on my upper body. I was careful to put on the right amount, just enough to darken the color of my skin and accentuate the sinewy ripples of muscle that adorned my physique. The improvement was overwhelming. I looked sleek and powerful. I brushed my hair, tied on my sweaty red bandanna, and jogged out of the deserted hallway as the bell signaled the end of classes for the day.

  The smoking area and race track, like incompatible lovers, slept together in the back of the school. I followed the track lazily until the smoking area began to fill with people; the bigger the audience, the faster I ran. The smoking area was bustling within five minutes and I was running at a pace slightly less than a sprint. If no one was watching, I would have crawled around the track twice and gone home. But since I had an audience, adrenalin pounded through my veins, inspiring me to awesome heights of athletic exertion. I didn’t need to steal a glance to know that the females in the crowd were staring at me. I could feel their eyes on me, greedily consuming my body.

  Elizabeth strolled to the side of the track, establishing her claim on me in front of her rivals. I ran full speed for the last hundred yards before collapsing to my knees. I had overdone it. With blood throbbing in my head, dizzy and delirious, I saw Elizabeth from the corner of my eye. She towered above me, the omnipotent image of sexuality, shimmering in the blur of exhaustion like a hallucination. Even in this painful condition, I noted that Elizabeth wasn’t wearing a bra and that she had on a tight dress with a provocative slit up the side of her leg. I was afraid I was going to hyperventilate or faint, but eventually the pounding inside me subsided and I regained my equilibrium.

  “You’re an exhibitionist,” accused Elizabeth with a grin. Periodically, Elizabeth displayed a perceptive awareness that surprised me. I didn’t realize it was so obvious that I was showing off. She seemed older than me in some ways, in the things she thought about, like marriage, and in the books she read. I never read books and marriage entered my mind for the first time this morning, when Phil mentioned it. In another way she was a little child who would stomp her feet and cry when her lollipop was taken away. I was often the lollipop.

  “It’s my parents’ twenty-fifth wedding anniversary party on Thursday, remember?” said Elizabeth, taking advantage of my defenselessness. “You promised to bartend.”

  “Yes,” my voice squeaked, as I rolled painfully onto my back, closed my eyes, and felt the moisture flush out of my pores.

  “Try to relax and get to know my parents,” said Elizabeth. “They’re nice people. You’d like each other if you’d give them a chance.”

  “I can’t be myself around your parents,” I whispered. “If I did, they’d think I was being rude. I’m not what they’re used to.”

  “Of course you can be yourself.”

  “Can I swear?” I asked.

  “Of course.”

  “Can I vomit?”

  “If you want to.”

  “Can I call your mother Mrs. Ajax?”

  I was supposed to call her Mrs. Baldwin, that was her real name, but I nicknamed her Mrs. Ajax because everytime I came over she was washing the walls with Ajax. I would be kissing Elizabeth good night at two-thirty in the morning and see Mrs. Baldwin through the kitchen window. She would be there, scrubbing the walls. I had nightmares about being a germ in that household.

  “Yes. You can call my mother Mrs. Ajax.”

  “OK. I’ll come!”

  Elizabeth was sensitive about her parents. I had seen Elizabeth crying and frustrated, but the only time she expressed anything near anger was when she was defending her parents. She insisted that everyone like each other. We pretended to like each other so that Elizabeth wouldn’t get upset. Mr. and Mrs. Baldwin and I kept smiling at each other across the dinner table for Elizabeth’s sake, but the underlying antipathy was clear from the start.

  “Am I going to see you tonight?” asked Elizabeth.

  “I’ll be over after hockey practice.” We kissed and went our separate ways.

  I put my clothes in a bag and walked home in my shorts and running shoes. Spring was the season of energy. The bright sky and clean air made me feel twice as alive. As I arrived home and climbed the porch steps which headed to the front door, I heard rustling noises in the back yard. The noise moved from the back to the side of the house. Three silent dogs came tearing through the long grass into view, following each other with great precision and dexterity, like bomber airplanes. Although old Tanka was a little feeble on some of the turns, she managed to maintain her position in the rear.

  I barked! Tanka and Whiskey stopped dead in their tracks. Shultz started to spring through the grass like he was on a pogo stick. Shultz was the one most like myself, intellectually astute, an articulate barker, and an obsessive show-off. I barked again. This time Shultz crouched in the grass too. I exploded with a short barking spree.
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  I have an esoteric relationship with dogs. I have a lot of dog traits. Dogs know how to have fun, sniffing, running around, and humping things. Dogs are natural and spontaneous, full of exuberance and love, but also capable of courage and self-sacrificing idealism. Shultz would defend me to the death. Shultz and I communicated through body language and eye contact. Shultz was a kindred spirit.

  I pulled off my shorts and jock strap and ran naked through the long grass, dogs barking at my side. It was a thrilling feeling, wind and grass slapping my front and the clamor of dogs behind me. I could run forever. The presence of Shultz, Whiskey, and Tanka, a significantly smaller crowd than the smoking area audience, were enough to give me a resurgence of energy. We were a flurry of four, storming in circles, flying along the side of the house and into the backyard. I was the offensive player and they pursued me with gentle, harmless bites on the legs and rump. Shultz could have chomped off my penis and chewed it to shreds, but not once did he get carried away and bite me too hard. Dogs know how to shower a boy with love, jumping up and down and licking him everywhere. If only Elizabeth could love like that! We were having ourselves a party.

  Panting, I dropped in the grass, and my three animal friends dropped on top of me, also panting. I spread my affection evenly, not wishing to cause friction or jealousies within the family. Shultz was the baby of the dogs, and I was the baby of the humans. We were both used to a generous supply of love. It was in this state of tranquil exhaustion and calm that I noticed the sudden silence of Mr. Price’s lawn mower. It had been buzzing. I hadn’t noticed it until it was shut off. I jumped up, knocked the mud off my knees, and headed for the back door, Shultz and Whiskey trailing behind me. Tanka didn’t budge. She was either asleep or dead. Tanka was an old dog, probably older than Mr. Price in dog years, Mr. Price was checking the oil, his shirt saturated with perspiration.