Episode Two

My First Real Thoughts

Dick brought home another trophy from school. That makes at least a dozen of his and Billy’s cluttering up the window sills in our room. I wonder sometimes why I’m not like my brothers. They’re so good at sports. They play football and baseball and run track. They’re good at everything. They actually lift weights, not just look at the pictures. Dick took an old skate and hammered flat the part that hooks onto his shoe, separated the front wheels from the back, nailed them to a two by four, and now he rides around on it. When it’s not too hot, he skates down Jameson Avenue on this board, kinda like riding a scooter without handlebars to hold onto. He told me I could try it out, but I don’t want to. Well, I guess I do want to, but I’m afraid of falling down. Like the first time I saddled up Buck all by myself and rode him, he trotted right up to the new water trough, the big round one, and stopped so fast I flew off the saddle, right over his head and into the trough. I’m still afraid to climb back on.

I don’t have trophies, but I have some blue ribbons. I got them for Best Halloween Costume. It’s so easy. All I do is dress up in Mommy’s clothes, her church hat, some lipstick and high heels and I win every year. I wish they gave trophies instead of stupid blue ribbons. But since I can’t dribble a basketball or throw a baseball or catch a football, I’ll take what I can get. Most boys my age know I’m no help to any team. That’s why they always pick me last.

Sometimes, I’ll be sitting in class, usually during something boring like history and I’ll just stare out the window. I’ll see the football field or the baseball diamond and just get clammy all over. I feel like my team blames me when we lose, even against a really good team like Cantua Creek. So the whole back end of the school grounds looks like such an unfriendly place, a place where I don’t feel welcome. Like the way I feel at Gramma’s house. Plus it’s dry and ugly, all covered with weeds like Johnson grass or puncture vine. Even the green things look gray, just like the farmland behind them, forever gray, as far as you can see. Why doesn’t somebody plant a tree or something?

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Each season Daddy lets a few dozen acres go to seed to let the soil replenish itself. He says you get better crops if you give the land a break every seven years or so. This year’s acreage is close to the house and we fence it for pasture land so Bag and Buck and the steers can just graze on whatever grows wild. After a year of pooping and grazing, we’ll plow it all under and make the soil all the richer. That’s what Daddy says.

Every afternoon before I do the milking, I toss half a bale of hay over the electric fence, and that brings all the animals in from the field. If I can finish milking before Bag finishes eating, the whole process goes a lot more smoothly.

The haystack is about ten bales high—fifteen to sixteen feet. One day I notice that the wires on one of lower bales have snapped and the hay is bulging out the side of the stack. I pull out clumps at a time until all the flakes have been removed. I’m surprised that the haystack doesn’t sag at all. I decide to remove another bale and still the haystack keeps its shape.

I soon discover that if I put in an occasional two by four for support, I can create a small room in the middle of the haystack and keep it looking normal on the outside. It’s a perfect place to hide. Before long I invite Jeffy to my little hideout so we can play with each other whenever Kathy’s in the house.

I’m inside my little hideaway one afternoon, hoping Jeffy might come by when I hear my name being called, but it’s not Jeffy. It’s Gloria, the hired hand’s eighteen-year-old niece who’s been visiting from Pismo Beach. I like her. She’s pretty and walks like a movie star, always in high heels, even on the bare ground. Her curly hair and red lips remind me of Gina Lollobrigida. She’s very friendly, especially with Dick, cuz they’re the same age. She’s always wearing tops that look like handkerchiefs tied together in a knot between her boobies. She keeps calling, “Jimmy! Jimmy!”

I finally pop out the end flake that serves as my secret door and she comes over. “What are you doing in there all by yourself?”

“Nothin’,” I say, like it’s any of her business.

“Got room enough for two in there?” she asks.

“I guess.” I crawl out and she climbs in. She hikes her tight skirt up and I can see that she’s not wearing any panties. I climb in and pull the door shut behind us.

“Ooh, it’s dark in here,” she says, clutching my arm.

“You’ll get used to it,” I say.” Your eyes will adjust and the little slivers of light that creep in around the bales will be plenty of light.”

“This is scary,” she says, pulling my head to her chest.

“No, it’s not,” I say, “You just have to relax.” I’ve never been so close to a girl’s breasts before, and never seen any as big. I just stare at them.

“You like looking at my titties?" I just stare. "Do you want to touch them?” Without saying anything she unknots the handkerchiefs and sets them free. Her perfectly round breasts stare back at me like they’re asking for attention. So I touch them, very gently, like they are newborn puppies. “You’ve never done this before, huh?”

“No, Ma’am.”

“Ma’am? I’m only eighteen.”

“Sorry, I’m only thirteen.”

“You look older.”

“Sorry.”

“Do you like ‘em?”

“Yeah, they’re pretty.” I say.

“Your daddy and your brother think so, too.”

“Oh. Okay.” I don’t know what else to say. My daddy’s not supposed to look at other women’s breasts. I touch them again. “Can I kiss them?” I ask. She smiles. I close my eyes as I lean in to kiss her nipple.

“Gloria!” We hear her aunt Billie calling out to her.

“I gotta go. This was fun.” And as quick as a coyote, she pushes the door out with her high heels, hops to the ground, and walks away.

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I’m twelve years old. Mama, my sister, and I are standing in a long line on the third floor of the JC Penney in Fresno. We have purchased the new album by Angela Cartwright, a cast member of a popular television show called ‘Make Room for Daddy’. She’s promoting her new record album and my sister wants to get her autograph. She’s the biggest celebrity to visit Fresno in a long time.

While we’re all in line I have to use the restroom. Once Mama finds out it’s on the sixth floor behind the Men’s Department, she tells me to hurry but don’t get lost.

I can’t pee if someone’s watching, so I never stand at the urinals. I go into a stall. As I’m trying to pee, I noticed a round hole, maybe three inches wide in the partition. I suddenly see a man’s finger in the hole curling back on itself as if it’s beckoning me to move closer. I get all creeped out, but I still have to pee. I have no idea what the man wants. Then, when he put his lips to the hole, I realized what it’s for. I had heard about queers lurking around in public bathrooms in school, but I never heard about the holes. I see his lips and tongue and I just want to pee and get away from him. I turn my back to him so I can finish, but I feel a hand touching my shirt, trying to pull me closer.

My heart pounds! I think I might be in danger. I tuck my penis back into my jockey shorts and frantically fumble to close the buttons of my Levis. I grab at the latch on the stall door and it won’t release. The pungent ammonia smell of urine hits me as the old wooden panels of the partition and door seemed to tower above me, pinning me in like a crate with no way out. I glance back at the hole and see a single eye staring at me. I feel a shortness of breath and I begin to sweat. I finally get the door to open, but my flip-flops slide on the wet black and white tile beneath my feet. Catching myself, I run out into the corridor. I stop to take a deep breath and compose myself before I walk back into the shopping area.

For weeks after I wonder what might have happened if I had gone back into that stall and let that queer guy do whatever it was he wanted to do to me. The thought scares me but still, it lingers for weeks

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Today Mama’s taking Kathy and me to see Grandmere and Grandpere. They live in Reedley which is about an hour’s drive east in the foothills of the Sierras. I like the drive, because when we get to Highway 99, I get to see the bar with the fighter plane sticking out of its roof. The first time I saw it I thought it had just crashed, but it’s been years now, and nobody’s tried to fix it. I like the way it slammed into the roof at an angle, that’s why it looks so real. Once I got to go inside when Mama thought she saw Daddy’s truck out front. She sent me in to fetch him, but he wasn’t there. That’s when I saw that the front of the plane, the engine and propeller actually come through the ceiling. That’s so cool.

Planes crashing into buildings must be popular, because I’ve seen another one at a gas station on Route 41 close to the turnoff to Caruthers. I don’t like that one as much because that plane came straight down. It doesn’t look as real.

I have to be quiet now and keep Kathy quiet, too. Mama’s crossing Highway 99 and she doesn’t like it, because the cars and trucks go by so fast. Daddy said that somebody gets killed here almost every week. It’s really bad in the winter when we get the tule fog.

Grandmere and Grandpere are Mama’s parents. Well, Grandmere is really Mama’s step-mother. Her real mom died when Mama was fourteen, but they love each other a lot, so you’d never know any different. Mama’s name was Simone Jaham Desrivaux. I think that’s the prettiest name I’ve ever heard. Mostly the grown-ups speak French to each other, so Kathy and I never know what they’re talking about.

Grandmere and Grandpere are the nicest people I’ve ever met. They keep a few toys around for us to play with, and Grandpere always invites Kathy to sit in his lap when he’s in his green Naugahyde recliner. She’s always kicking the doilies off the arms, though. I used to sit in his lap before Kathy came along. Boy, does Grandpere love his precious Katrine, his only grand-daughter. Now, he invites me to sit on the floor between his feet. He likes when I rub them. Grandmere always makes soup and sandwiches for lunch and we always have Meadow-Gold vanilla ice cream afterward. We can’t get that kind at either of our stores and it always tastes special. I like store-bought ice cream. It’s harder than the stuff we make in the wooden cranking bucket.

Auntie Jean, Grandmere’s sister, lives with them. Her son Giulio Perelli-Minetti (I love that name, too) lives on a farm outside of Reedley with his wife Helen and their three kids. We call them cousins but I don’t think they really are. I like their house because of the big stairs that go up to the bedrooms. And there are two bathrooms, three if you count the water closet under the stairs off the kitchen. I won’t go in that one anymore, because I was in there once when I was five and the electricity went off and it doesn’t have a window so I was in the dark and couldn’t see to turn open the bolt and I cried and pounded on the door until Giulio calmed me down and talked me through unlocking the bolt.

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By the Spring of 1961, my seventh grade class has raised enough money with car washes and bake sales to pay for all sixteen of us to caravan to Disneyland with an overnight stay at the Orbit Motel(which borders the Disneyland parking lot). How exciting! Most of the kids have never been there. Some have never been farther than the county seat of Fresno. Others have been only to Mexico to visit family at Christmas.

I’ve hardly slept when the alarm goes off at 3 AM on Friday morning. By 4, the caravan of parents, teachers and students gathered in front of Burrel School departs for southern California. When the sun first hits us, we’re on Highway 99, just past Bakersfield. I try to dial in a country station on the radio, but my mom quickly nixes that idea.

“I’m not interested in listening to hillbilly music just now, thanks.” And she quickly finds another station.

By noon we’re checked into the Orbit, pacing outside the gates of Disneyland, clamoring for the stragglers to hurry up. It’s a beautiful cloudless day, and we can barely contain ourselves while Mr. Prewitt goes over the map of Disneyland and where we’ll meet when the park closes. At 7 PM we descend upon an unsuspecting International House of Pancakes and eat till we’re stuffed. By 8 PM we are all completely exhausted and back in our assigned rooms.

As if by fate, I am to share a bed with Diego Sanchez, the absolute cutest guy in the seventh grade. His jet black curly hair, the slight curl in his lip when he smiles, and his glistening amber eyes cause me to become tongue-tied whenever he looks me in the eye. The thought of being alone with him in the same bed is terrifying as well as thrilling beyond words. I don't completely understand why I’m so drawn to Diego, but I know it’s different than any feeling I’ve experienced before. By 10 PM it’s lights out and all is quiet.

So there we are, two thirteen-year-old boys lying side by side, close enough to feel one another's body heat but not actually touching. I’m as excited as a thirteen-year-old boy can get. What’s going on? I think to myself. What is this tremendous pounding in my chest? Is Diego feeling the same? I want to reach over and touch him, but body paralysis keeps me from moving, except for my rapid breathing and pounding heart.

After awhile I begin to relax, thinking of what a great day we’d had. I’m about to doze off when, without any warning, I feel Diego's hand on my leg. All my senses are electric. That's when he moves his hand even farther, to the point where he knows just how aroused I’ve become. I tremble. I so want to touch him back, but I just can't bring myself to move. After a few moments, he moves his hand away, rolls over and goes to sleep. I lie there for hours feeling both regret and glory. Diego touched me! I smile and fade off to sleep.

When we wake on Saturday morning, Diego barely looks at me. We pack our things and join the group for a morning visit to Knott’s Berry Farm and then the long drive home. I think about those fleeting moments for the rest of the weekend, wishing that I’d had the courage to reach over and touch him too.

On Monday morning when I arrive at school, Tommy Marquez yells out, “We heard what you did to Diego. What a queer!”

Everyone has heard the story from Diego about how I reached over in the middle of the night and grabbed his privates and how he pushed me away. And since Diego is a lot more popular, no one even considers that he might be lying. I’m certain I’ll never recover. I know not to trust Diego again. In fact, I doubt I’ll ever trust anyone anymore.

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The summer sun pounds down like it has since I have memory. This year, however, brings monumental relief. We have a new swimming pool, the only private pool for a dozen miles in any direction. Diego has come by for a swim and has brought his cousin from Bakersfield, David, who’s spending the month of August. Before they leave David asks if he can come back on Monday while Diego helps out at Ellena’s grocery store. I’m excited to have the company and Mom says, “He can come by at 10, but only if your chores are done.”

Although David is every bit as handsome as his younger cousin, he’s more mature and very outgoing. His piercing green eyes really stand out against his golden brown skin. With my dad spending his days drinking alone by the hole, both of my brothers at summer jobs with the Forest Service, and my mom and sister off selling Avon, David and I have the whole place to ourselves. The house is at least fifty yards off the road and the pool is behind the house, not at all visible from the road.

The first Monday David comes over; I’m done with my chores in record time. He dives in and immediately removes his trunks. At first I’m surprised, since no one I know has ever swum naked in our pool. But I quickly realize that I really like seeing him naked. With no one around to catch a glimpse, we quickly agree that buck naked is the way to go. So my trunks disappear as well, left close by should anyone drive up. We frolic and grope and laugh a lot.

I touch a round bruise on his left thigh. “Wild pitch!” he says, “just before school let out.”

“Doesn’t it hurt?”

“Not really.” He smiles and fakes a gentle jab to my gut. “All part of the game, buddy.”

He tells me that he loves football. He was the quarterback last fall. And baseball. He was their best hitter. And track, he had the best time for the two twenty.

We hover close to one another in the corner of the pool until we see the dust trail of my father’s truck stirring ever closer to the house. We slip our trunks back on and continue to romp and play. He’s very talkative and easily makes me laugh.

My dad brings us lemonade in big plastic glasses filled with chunks of ice from the block we keep in the freezer. This may be the most sociable gesture my dad had ever made. I can’t help but smile as I see how easily David charms him. I’m sure Daddy is impressed that I have a real guy’s guy as my friend.

David has come to swim every day this week, much to my liking.

One day, what starts out as David tickling me in the buff, soon turns into a lot of rough housing and close physical contact. We’re wrestling in the pool and he pins me down to the corner steps that descend into the shallow end of the pool. He straddles me, holding my arms to my side while our erect penises rub together. He is telling me to say Uncle! I refuse as I feign attempts to break his grip. I love feeling his muscles flex to restrain me. I love his broad smile, white teeth contrasting his wet black hair, glistening in the bright sun. Then, rather than resist, I close my eyes and go limp. When I do, he holds my head in his hands and asks if I’m all right. As I slowly open my eyes and smile, he moves his head directly over mine and kisses me squarely on the lips. I quietly stare into those green eyes. After a long silence, he kisses me again. My thoughts flash to Diego and I try to get away.

"Where’re you going? I thought you liked it!" He asks.

"I’m afraid you'll tell Diego!

He gently places his forearm behind my neck and moves his lips to my ear. "I would never tell Diego,” he says. “He wouldn't understand. We played around once and he got all weird, so I never did that again....not until now!" I softly touch his cheek and smile as I scan his face.

David gently pushes the hair back from my forehead and kisses me again. A gentle kiss. A wanted kiss. My first kiss.

And, boy oh boy, do I ever kiss him back.

For the next three weeks I’m energized. Even my father comments on how enthusiastically I do my chores. I wait each morning for David to arrive. It’s a mile and a half walk. Some days I grow so impatient that I walk part way to meet him, and we talk nonstop all the way back to the house. David and I are both so curious about the feel of each other’s skin, our private parts, their similarities and their differences. I’m circumcised. He is not. He lets me explore his penis, pulling back the brown skin to show the pink head. He tries to do the same with me and we laugh. We explore each other and it’s fun and sweet. I trust David completely.

At some point along the way, I realize that for the first time, I have a best friend, someone with whom I can talk and laugh and play, someone I can touch and hold and feel free to say or do whatever comes into my head. August of 1961 is the best month ever! And, best of all, I finally like living on the farm.

When school starts in September, I feel like the happiest kid on earth. I’ve always felt different and out of step with the other kids, but as I enter the eighth grade I feel great, knowing that there’s at least one other boy out there who thinks the same thoughts I do.

When David returns to Bakersfield, I miss him like a part of me has been taken away. I want to respond to his touch. Or laugh at something he just said. We write awkward letters to each other a few times, never mentioning any details of our intimate times, for fear that someone else might read our sacred secrets. When he comes to visit at Christmas, we manage to steal a few kisses. But with all the people around we never get a chance to recreate any of those cherished summer moments.

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Near the end of my eighth grade year, the football coach from Riverdale High comes to Burrel to see me. My brothers were both star players under his tutelage and he’s excited to hear that there’s another Schultz boy about to enter high school. My principal and teacher, Warren Prewitt, asks to sit in on our meeting and I’m very pleased that he does. Warren knows that I’m not football material and he does his best to keep the high school coach from pressuring me. A week later, Warren stops by to talk with my parents. I know that they’re going to talk about me, so I eavesdrop from the hall, ear pressed to the door.

“You should know by now that Jimmy’s not like other boys in his class, and no amount of strong arming is going to change that.”

My parents listen quietly.

“I feel that if he goes to Riverdale, they’ll try to change him into someone more like his two brothers. He’s already his own person, sensitive, artistic, and bright. I’d like you to consider sending him to boarding school for his secondary education.” I’m surprised to hear this, but very excited.

“In a private school they can develop his artistic side and encourage him to flourish with his own natural abilities. Bill, you’ve tried and failed miserably to make him more like your other boys. Please try something different. Just think about it.”

I hear a chair move and disappear before the door opens.

Two weeks later I’m taking the entrance exam at Bellarmine College Preparatory in San Jose, the best Jesuit school west of the Mississippi. Three days later, I’m accepted.

My parents throw me a going away party, a big barbeque by the pool with slabs of beef, fried chicken, corn on the cob, and a ton of iced watermelon. I’m stunned how many people attend. Going off to boarding school is a pretty big deal in this quiet rural community. I’m happy about the party, feeling a bit like I’m being congratulated for something I haven’t done yet. The whole time I keep an eye on the driveway, hoping I might see David walk up..

I know that going to Bellarmine will allow me a broader view of life than I can get here. It’s the greatest thing that could happen to a social misfit like me. But I am acutely aware of the fact that I would never have considered such a bold move as boarding school had it not been for the summer spent with the refreshing free spirit in David, the first person to spark that same free spirit in me.