Date: Wed, 31 Dec 2003 03:46:58 -0500 (EST) From: "Publishing@TomCup.com" <Publishing@TomCup.com> Subject: Of Our Teenage Years by Tom Cup - Chapter 14 - Gay Y/F Copyright 2000-2003 by the Paratwa Partnership: A Colorado Corporation. All rights reserved. No part of this work may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means electronic or mechanical, except in the case of reviews, without written permission from the Paratwa Partnership, Inc, 354 Plateau Drive, Florissant, CO 80816 This is a fictional story involving alternative sexual relationships. If this type of material offends you, please do not read any further. This material is intended for mature adult audiences. Names, characters, locations and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. 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Check it out at http://www.tomcup.com! ********************************************************************** The Paratwa Partnership, Inc. is a publication and marketing agency and is not responsible for the content of the Tom Cup Library, TomCup.com or its affiliate sites, or stories written by Mr. Cup or his associates. ********************************************************************** Of Our Teenage Years By Tom Cup Chapter 14 Driving Lesson It was weird being taught to drive by Mr. Scott. I had given up on the thought of learning to drive, it reminded me too much of the death of my dad -- dad and I had joked about his teaching me to drive, when the time came. Now Mr. Scott was teaching me. "Why'd you give me that article," I asked. "Keep your eyes on the road, Gerald," Mr. Scott said, "both hands on the steering wheel. You're going to make a right onto Lincoln. Don't forget to use your blinker." I wasn't sure if Mr. Scott was avoiding the question, but it seemed so to me. I followed his instructions and executed the turn to his satisfaction. Mom was relieved that Mr. Scott was teaching me to drive. She didn't want the responsibility of teaching me and she didn't want me to give up on driving. She knew that it was something that dad and I had looked forward to doing. So after asking me several times, and getting the "Nah, that's OK" response, Mr. Scott asked mom. I was resentful that he went around me to get permission for the instruction, but that resentment passed quickly -- I really did want to learn. "Why do you think I gave the article to you?" Mr. Scott asked, pointing for me to move over into the right lane. I really do hate when people answer a question with a question. It wasn't just Sam that drove me crazy doing this, it was everyone. I could hear my father in my head saying, "Don't answer a question with a question." I don't remember the first time he said that to me (nor do I remember the last time) I just know he said it, over and over again until it became a part of me. Part of my dad was engrained in my soul. I smiled at the thought. "Pay attention to what you're doing Gerald," Mr. Scott said. My head snapped in his direction. For a moment, he sounded like dad. Or was it just that what he said was what dad would have said? No, it was more than that. Father's have a tone they use to speak with their sons; it's familiar and relaxed. They know you will do what they tell you. A teacher, no matter how respected, has more base in his or her voice. No matter how they seem to expect you to do what they say, there is always a hint of disbelief in their voices -- like they are surprised when you obey them. Mr. Scott's voice was the voice of my father. He knew I'd obey him; he didn't expect me to obey him, he knew I would. My stomach twitched, and I suddenly felt hot. "Keep your eyes on the road. Good. Pull into the park. We'll practice your parallel parking." After a half hour of parking, backing out, driving to another spot to park and repeating the process, we took a break. The air was crisp and cool. There were a few people walking about, enjoying the last of autumn's slow fade to winter. The geese's squawks echoed over the pond. The wind brushed and persuaded leaves to release their grips from the limbs to which they clung. We climbed onto a bench -- our feet on the seat and our bottoms on the backrest -- and sat. "Thanks," I said. "Ah, so you're finally ready to admit that you wanted to learn to drive." "I didn't want to be any trouble." "If it were any trouble I wouldn't have offered to teach you," Mr. Scott said. I nodded. I suppose that my initially declining Mr. Scott's offer had less to do with my inconveniencing Mr. Scott than with my feeling of not deserving to learn. In my mind the cosmos was saying that I was such a bad boy that it was going to punish me by taking away my dad and forbidding me to drive. It's a foolish thought but that's how I felt. I didn't want to experience anything that dad and I may have experienced and didn't get a chance to do. "That's why I wanted to do this," Mr. Scott said, after I tried to explain my thoughts to him. I tilted my head toward him. He laughed and shook his head. "You aren't the only one that has loss someone and wanted to curl up in a ball and die." I nodded. "Sometimes," I said, "I wish it had been me instead." "I know." "I can't really talk to anyone about it, not even Sam. I mean, I tell him stuff, but it's different. I can't explain it." "You don't have to." "Why'd you give me that article?" Mr. Scott sighed. He hopped down from the bench and stood staring at the distant pond. "Come on," he said, "Let's walk." Walking towards the pond, I stole looks at Mr. Scott's furrowed brow and deep contemplation. I felt a sense of something lost, something that could never be recovered in his face. I never thought of Mr. Scott as being vulnerable -- he was a teacher, he was Mr. Scott the coach, an ex-marine -- but that's what I saw and it saddened me. "I knew these two boys once," he told me as we stopped at the edge of the pond, "Best friends. Did everything together. Most people thought that they were brothers; that's how close they were. They lived in a small town in the Midwest. Anyway, it's not unusual for boys to experiment with each other when they are young. They did." Mr. Scott's voice trailed off. The geese were silent. The wind was still. "Did they get caught," I asked. "No," Mr. Scott said turning to face me, "One of them thought it was just fun and games. The other, well, he was feeling something else. Something stronger. Anyway, he told the other boy what he was feeling. And you know... the first thing that was said was, `I ain't no queer.' The other boy tried to retract the statement, of course, said he didn't mean it but..." "It really hurt." "Yeah. His friend ran off. He called after him but it was too late." We listened to the rustling of the leaves, and the soft crackle of the drying grasses. "Gerald," Mr. Scott said, staring out over the pond. "Yes, sir." "That boy, the boy that said that he wasn't queer later realized that he was wrong; that he did love his friend. He also realized that what he said he said because he didn't want to be thought of as queer. He knew what that would mean to his family, to his town. It scared him that his friend was so open about his feelings. You know, jerking off together and playing with each other is one thing but saying you love each other is another." "Did they get back together," I asked. "No." "Why not?" "Oh, the boy that ran away went home first. He was in tears. His older brother asked him what was wrong. He told him. Ha! He got an ear full. So he kept running. He ran all the way to Nam. I guess he was trying to prove he was a man. He was killed three months into his tour." "I'm sorry." Mr. Scott smiled. "Anyway, that's why I gave you the article." "He was your little brother," I said. Mr. Scott lowered his head. A tear fell from his eyes. "Yeah," he whispered, "Sometimes I think if only I had been more understanding, if I hadn't made that crack about being a man, maybe..." I nodded. "Sometimes adults need kids more than kids need adults," I said. Mr. Scott stared at me. "What I mean is, well, you said you wanted to be kind of a surrogate father to me, but I don't want a surrogate father. I want to remember my dad. That's why I didn't want you to teach me to drive." "Do you resent me for it?" "No, I understand why you wanted to do it now. Cause of your brother." "You remind me of him, you know. I mean your features. You look a lot alike." "All queers look alike I guess." I meant it as a joke. Neither of us laughed. "I taught Mike to drive, on a tractor back home. Hell, I was the one that explained to him what a hard-on was and about jacking off; taught him how to shave. Shit, I taught the little fucker everything, practically how to wipe his own ass." Mr. Scott's grin told me that he knew I wasn't used to the kind of swearing he was doing. The change in his language fascinated me. It made me feel like we were a part of a secret society where we could say anything to one another. He had been transformed from the stern, narrow-eyed gym teacher that I dreaded into a comrade-in-arms. "You'll have to excuse my mouth Gerald. I sometimes forget that I am a teacher now and not a marine." "It's OK," I said, "I've heard worse" "Oh really," Mr. Scott laughed, "And where would that have been?" I blushed at my attempt to sound worldlier than I really was. Dad said that swearing was gutter language -- language used by the uneducated, those that couldn't express themselves in a civilized manner. I didn't think of Mr. Scott as uneducated or uncivilized. He forbade cursing in school, so it was an enigma to hear him swearing. "It's OK Gerald. Mike couldn't swear a lick until I taught him how." "You taught your brother to swear?" "Like a sailor, or should I say a marine." I laughed, wagging my head. "I'll tell you what Gerald. You're right. You don't need a surrogate dad. Sounds like to me you got enough memories stored of your father to last you a lifetime. But you're still going to need someone to talk to about guy things, like shaving and swearing. How about letting me be that guy." "Is this for me or you?" I asked. "I won't lie and say if you agree it won't be kind of like me getting a chance to make it right with my brother." I nodded; we shook hands and headed back to the car. ************ There were whispered shushes leaking from the dining room when I got home. Pastor Heller and Sharon were draped over mom as she cried into her hands. I hated Pastor Heller, not because of his religious views, of which I hadn't a clue, but because he always showed up with bad news: someone was dying, someone had died, or someone needed comforting because someone had died. If you had asked me, I would have said that if he left town the death rate would have dropped considerably. I turned away from the living room but heard Sharon say, "We'll be all right mommy. I swear. I don't have to start college right away, and I can get a job to help out." I turned back and entered the room. Sharon's eyes met mine. She had been crying also. Pastor Heller's eyes followed Sharon's gaze. He brightened. "Ah, Gerald," he said, "How are you my boy?" Mom wiped the tears from her face. Mascara smeared her cheeks giving her a bruised and battered look. "Hi honey," mom said, "We didn't hear you come in." "What's going on?" I asked. "Oh," mom forced a laugh, "nothing. Just me being silly." It was a pathetic lie. We all stood staring at each other embarrassed by the obvious fabrication. "Well," Pastor Heller said, "I should be going. You'll call if there is anything I can do, anything at all. And my Gerald, how you've grown. Wouldn't mind seeing you all in church occasionally. Would mind it a bit." When the door closed, separating Pastor Heller from our home, I thought that there was never a better purpose for a door. "So what's going on?" I asked my eyes glued to Sharon's eyes. "I told you honey," mom said, "Nothing to worry about. Just mom being silly." I could have pressed the issue. I could have said that Sharon would never call you `mommy' unless something really troubling had happened. Sharon's eyes never left mine even when she excused herself. Mom forced a smile and I turned to climb the stairs. "How'd your driving go honey?" mom called after me. "Great," I said. Just great. ********************************************************************** Send comments to: comments@tomcup.com To support this and other stories by the author, join at http://www.tomcup.com. If you like this story, check out Tom Cup's "Calvin: A Coming of Age Story." Available at Barnes and Nobles Bookstores, Amazon.com, your local independent bookseller, or from Tom Cup.com. Tom Cup's "Of Our Teenage Years" is scheduled for publication and release in paperback in the Spring of 2004. Check it out at http://www.tomcup.com!