The Literature Student (2/10 – “The Other: A Collection of Doubt”)

06/04/2012 ~ Harlan Didrickson

I slowly struggled with my bags through the compartment quickly losing hope that my usual and coveted southbound window seat was still vacant. As I approached the familiar row of seats I spied an opening, a seat on the window, but, unfortunately, a hurdle across a studious young lad on the aisle.

The train suddenly lurched forward and frankly I don’t recall which struck the poor lad first; was it my laptop bag, my workout bag, my triple-shot short latte or me. But all at once I found myself face first splayed across his chest and lap, atop the physics or astronomy or bio-medical text like a filleted tuna. My arms hung over the back of the seat like a marionette, and my full combined weight crushed his small frame. Before I could begin to stammer an apology I felt two small hands worm their way between our bodies and onto my chest and push me upright as though I were a multi-colored beach ball. I felt the muscles of his chest expand as he lifted me to an awkward, semi-straight position. With this help I was able to tuck my hand under his arm and assist in him in the lift.

He pressed me higher and with a gymnast’s dexterity he leveraged my body between himself and the seat back in front and lowered me into my southbound side window seat next to him as though I were his favorite stuffed animal. Bags, triple-shot short latte and I landed with a thump which caused my fellow passengers to careen their necks to our side of the train convinced they would witness the deer or elk or moose bounce off the train and back into the brush from whence it came.

I sat rigidly still for a moment afraid to draw in even a single breath for fear of losing any semblance of balance. When I finally dared to turn my head in his direction, he had already straightened the crushed pages of his book and quietly resumed his private study. At the same moment the conductor with whom I had become routinely familiar appeared like an aberration soliciting our tickets. My hands had become bound like a criminal by the numerous straps of my assorted bags and I desperately tried to work them free like a trapped illusionist. Seeing my predicament, the lad reached across his lap and took swift hold of my triple-shot short latte instantly understanding its critical importance. Even with his quick help I still could not free my hands and I asked if he would reach into my hip jacket pocket and extract my ticket. He looked at me, quickly turned to look at the conductor who by now had smelled the blood of a stowaway, and reached his small hand into my hip pocket.

Instantly I wondered what else I had packed into that pocket this morning or last night or nights before. Instantly I tried to recall when last I had worn this jacket. When last had I tucked something into this pocket. The moment his hand touched my hip I felt a very unfamiliar sensation. A sensation which immediately catapulted me back years: back to a time when ignorant, curious, hurried hands explored my clothed body: back to a time when eager hands explored the various folds, searching for flesh or muscle or hair: back to a time when familiar hands probed, searching for intimacies.

In a moment his fingers plucked the ticket from its warm pocket and presented it to the disappointed conductor. The conductor quickly scanned its validity and then pivoted and scurried down the aisle. The lad sat stoically for a moment, my ticket in one hand and my triple-shot shot latte in the other, a frail, youthful, poised representation of myself. He slowly turned towards me and began to laugh, quietly at first, then louder. I saw the humor but couldn’t myself laugh. I was terribly embarrassed and in desperate need of the sudden jolt of caffeine. With my free hand I reached across and took hold of the triple-shot short latte and in one quick motion threw the cup back and swallowed its entire contents. By the time I emptied the cup the giddy lad had regained some semblance of composure, turned to look at me, and slowly returned the ticket to its rightful place. However, this time the hand lad paused a moment on my hip. It hovered there, on the bone, warmly, slowly moving as the fingers and their tips dug softly into my flesh. Fingertips kneaded my flesh as though they were kneading sand.

In the meantime I had been able to untie my hands from the baggage straps and quickly moved my hand on top of his, and held his hand for a moment.

“I think we’re okay now,” I said quietly, “I think everything is right where it belongs.”

He slowly withdrew his hand, trailing his thin fingers over my hip, down my thigh, and across the narrow strip of vinyl seat cushion which separated us. It finally retreated onto the crushed pages of his book. He continued to look at me, and then slowly returned to his book.

I turned my attention to the window and tried to watch recognize the blur of landscape which flew past. This was new to me, this embarrassment, this excitement. It dawned on me as the forest blew by that I was not really embarrassed but titillated. Had I imagined his hand on my hip? Had I been projecting some sort of flirtation? He was a youth, and as a youth he couldn’t be so certain of his motivation as I imagined. He was a student, buried in his text until I stumbled into him this hurried morning. What motivation besides accommodation could he possibly have? I was simply an errant traveler in need of assistance. Wasn’t he simply being a good Samaritan? Could someone his age be so certain of himself as to actually grope a complete stranger?

I slowly pulled my attention from the window to see him foraging in his backpack. He withdrew a yellow highlighter and placed it in his mouth. He continued to dig through his backpack and withdrew a pen which, when he attempted to also place in his mouth. When he realized that his mouth was already holding the highlighter he looked confused. I reached across and took hold of the highlighter. His jaw loosened and I extracted the highlighter remembering a time not long ago, in Rome, when I had taken hold of a newly lit, slightly moistened cigarette from the lips of Antonio. I held the highlighter as though it were on fire and watched as he deposited the ballpoint in his mouth, smiling slightly. He slowly stowed his backpack beneath his seat and withdrew the ballpoint.

“Are you studying medicine?” I asked.

“Chaucer” he replied quietly.

“Chaucer? I wouldn’t have taken you for a lit major” I responded, immediately regretting my profiling.

“You expected me to be studying medicine or physics or astronomy maybe?” he said, acutely aware of my gaff.

“I guess so,” I stammered, feeling caught, “but I guess there’s time for that given your age.”

“Or given I’m interested in it regardless of my age,” he said turning his attention back to his text.

I quietly handed him his highlighter and turned my attention back to the window wishing I had sipped my triple-shot short latte so I’d have something to occupy myself. Now all I had to think about was how old or silly or short-sighted he must think I am. What an old fool he must think I am. I turned back to him.

“Thanks for helping me out there. I don’t normally behave like that.”

“Neither do I,” he said without looking up.

“Of course not,” I said wondering if he meant being helpful or forward.

“You don’t seem the type,” he said as he was highlighting text “to be so rushed in the morning,” and then looking up from his book “you seem to be the more organized, routine type,” and then turned back to his book.

All this, I thought, from one interaction? Could he possibly be so perceptive? Or was I blatantly disheveled?

“You’re right” I admitted, “this morning was terrible.”

“But it’s gotten better, right?” he asked.

“Yes it has, especially now since I’ve had my coffee,” I replied. “My name is Tom,” I offered and extended my hand.

“Scott,” he said and extended the hand which moments before had found its way into my pocket. His hand appeared small yet strong. A confident hand, smooth, marbled with bluish veins which mapped its top. I studied the crisscrossing veins like a road map thinking they would take me somewhere new. They converged into one main artery which disappeared into the thick flesh of his forearm. “It’s nice to meet you.”

“I wish it could’ve been under different circumstances,” I admitted, hoping I didn’t sound too interested.

Going back to Chaucer he said, “under what kind of different circumstance?”

“Well, not so bumbling to start,” I answered, “I’d like to think that first impressions play an important role in how we are perceived.”

“And what’s wrong with being perceived as bumbling?”

“I don’t think bumbling is particularly attractive,” I replied, laughing slightly.

“I think bumbling is very attractive. It shows that you’re not perfect. It shows that you need help every now and then,” and then Scott turned to look me straight in the eye, “and I think that that is very attractive.”

“Oh,” I said quietly. Very attractive he said. Me, in state of total disarray is something that he finds very attractive. I turned back towards the window and remembered in painful clarity the number of hours I have primped and preened myself into a dizzying fervor trying to look my absolute best before hitting the bars at night. Selecting just the right jeans and just the right t-shirt, or just the right tie and suit. And here Scott finds embarrassment attractive. “Well, I think helping a teetering stranger says plenty about your character.” I said turning back to him.

“Like what?”

Cornered like a child about to be caught in a lie, Scott pauses for a moment reflecting on how this happenstance began. Turning in his seat to face Scott he said, “Helping someone in need is an act of kindness. Kindness is a quality we all share, yet few ever display it and even fewer have the chance to feel it. Your kindness felt strong, careful, and conscientious; important qualities to share with those close to you.”

The Architect (3/10 – “The Other: A Collection of Doubt”)

06/03/2012 ~ Harlan Didrickson

“You’re my distraction,” Gabriel says while looking down at his tuna wrap and peeling back some of the thin paper wrapping.

“I don’t know what you mean,” Nathan says acting sheepishly and fidgeting slightly against the hard and poorly designed plastic chair. The plastic curvature mocks the male form; he feels the alleged lumbar support bend; the spindly steel legs poke through the seat like an attention-seeking child asking impossible questions.

Gabriel leans in closer, touches Nathan’s shoulder with his own, feels the cushion of cashmere and wool, and turns to catch Nathan’s darting eyes, “It’s you I think about when I’m not thinking about anything else. It’s you that I look forward to seeing in the elevator in the morning. It’s you that makes me feel giddy.”

“But you’re married,” Nathan admits, taking a long swallow of his pop “shouldn’t you be thinking of her?”

Gabriel laughs slightly and leans in closer, more of each other touch like vertically stacked lumber. Quietly, Gabriel confesses, “the moment I start thinking about you, I start thinking about her. You’re in the foreground and she’s in the background. You’re in sharp focus and she’s rather blurry.”

Nathan stirs his curried pilaf which steams in the thin Tupperware bowl. He moves the pilaf around the bowl slowly. He stares at his lunch for a moment then slowly looks up at Gabriel. “I have a girlfriend. I think about her.”

“I’d expect you to,” Gabriel says before taking a bite from his Caesar chicken wrap. “Just because you and I are attracted to each other doesn’t cancel out anything that came before. Those people, Adrienne for you and Emily for me don’t just go away. Maybe they just get set aside for a time. Do you think about Adrienne when you think about me?” Gabriel asks unsure of the answer, though willing to bet on the answer.

“No, not always: It’s not until after that Adrienne pops into my mind,” Nathan offers.

“After what?” Gabriel asks quietly.

Nathan shifts is his chair uncomfortably. He sits back unexpectedly and then moves quickly forward. “Don’t make me say,” he pleads.

Gabriel takes a long drink from is Diet Coke and sits back in his chair, feeling the white neoprene give way under his weight. He suddenly becomes aware of the location of his tie and straightens it.

“You do that a lot,” Nathan says looking at Gabriel, then looking down at his cooling lunch.

“Do what?” Gabriel asks watching Nathan.

“That thing with your tie: you’re very conscious of your tie,” Nathan says looking at Gabriel.

“I like things neat,” Gabriel counters, feeling strangely naked, and again adjusts his tie.

“See?” Nathan points out, laughing slightly. “Besides, this is hardly neat.”

“What? What’s hardly neat?” Gabriel asks feeling suddenly vulnerable and off his game.

“This. Us. . .I mean, you and me; maybe just me. . .Jesus, this is anything but neat! This couldn’t be farther from “neat” than if I leapt across this table and kissed you!” Nathan says sounding exasperated.

“All this about my tie? What’re you talking about?” Gabriel asks, certain where this conversation is going, and absolutely uncertain he wants to go there.

“Listen. . .I don’t know how we got from friends. . .to. . .wherever we are. . .” Nathan says quietly, “but it makes me. . .”

“You what? What does it make you? Am I making you anything?” Gabriel says leaning across the table. “Let’s go. . .” Gabriel says pushing himself away from the table.

“Where? Back to work?” Nathan asks.

“No. Let’s go down for a walk.”

Nathan and Gabriel place their dishes on a conveyor belt and walk silently to the elevator. They press the down button and wait impatiently for the elevator. “What about my work? Shouldn’t I call?” Nathan asks.

“You’re with me. It’s no bother. If anyone says anything, tell them to talk to me. Don’t worry about it.” Gabriel says as the elevator doors open. Gabriel steps inside, but Nathan hesitates. “Are you coming?”

Gabriel knows that this is a defining moment. If Nathan steps into the elevator Gabriel will see this as a sign of Nathan’s interest. The elevator doors begin to close and Gabriel reaches for the “door open” but stops. The doors continue to close, but Nathan sticks his hand between them.

“Jesus Christ. . .” Nathan says as he steps into the elevator car.

“I’m not forcing you, you know. This is your choice. All yours,” Gabriel says defiantly.

The elevator doors close and they look at each other for a moment, then slowly Nathan reaches out to press the lobby button. Gabriel can’t take his eyes off Nathan standing at the far side of the car, nervously shoving his hands deep into the front pockets of his jeans masquerading any hint of interest. Nathan turns to look at Gabriel standing at the far corner dressed smartly in a dark blue garbardine suit, crisp white shirt, subtle blue and white striped tie, polished shoes. Gabriel places his hand into his jacket pocket when he feels himself moving, then abruptly stopping, pressed tightly against the mirrored walls of the elevator car by the dense weight of Nathan’s body. He looks up moments before he feels the faintest touch of Nathan’s lips teasing, taunting, then finally meeting and opening his own lips, which had partially opened by his surprise. Nathan presses himself against Gabriel and worms his hands under the tailored suit jacket, over the cotton shirt and up his back. Nathan breaks the kiss and pulls away from Gabriel as the car comes to a slow stop. The doors open slowly as both of them step into the lobby of the building in complete silence. Gabriel is at once self-conscious of his disheveled appearance as Nathan walks briskly ahead of him and into the bright mid-day sun.

“So, where are we going?” Nathan asks as soon as Gabriel walks through the revolving door.

“Give me a second to make a couple of calls,” Gabriel says as he walks past Nathan to the buildings overhang. Nathan waits impatiently, pacing, wondering why in the fuck he did what he just did, but couldn’t, for the life of himself, take his eyes off Gabriel. Gabriel dials a few numbers, speaks quickly and quietly, then places the Blackberry back into his breast pocket. “Come on,” he says to Nathan, I know where we can go.”

Gabriel and Nathan walk down Monroe Street east until they reach the front door of the Burnham Hotel.

“You’re taking me to a hotel?” Nathan says, stopping dead in his tracks.

“I know the GM here. He’s a good friend of mine. We did the interior. Yes, we’re going to a hotel, but we’re not just going to a hotel. You’ll see,” Gabriel says, grabbing a hold of Nathan’s arm, “trust me.”

Nebraska

06/03/2012 ~ Harlan Didrickson ~ 2 Comments

I know Nebraska.

It’s by Iowa, next

To it, beneath it, west,

To the left . I know Iowa

There’s a river there, in Iowa

Where I crossed and

My foot tickled water

With a stream of red silk; I

Fell ill from there.

I’ve seen Nebraska.

From the sky, I think it was

Nebraska, or perhaps a quilt

Covering Nebraska, but it was golden,

Like your hair, as wavy, as thick

This grain atop earth.

Nebraska is not a place

I remember, not a place

From my childhood, I never

Summered there, it never

Appeared in an essay

About what I did or where

I had gone.

But now Nebraska stands

In front of me, bold, barefoot

A scarecrow perhaps amidst a field

Of green-to-yellow corn; Nebraska

Stands in front of me, fresh

Untilled, quiet

And yet quickly violent, tossing

Its earth high as a pin pokes

The plains. Nebraska,

You are a song in reeds

Which line creek beds; Nebraska,

You are the stretch of dusk

On a flat, broad edge; Nebraska,

you are sleepy, cool nights.

Pages From The Past (Journal Entries, 2010)

06/01/201206/01/2012 ~ Harlan Didrickson

The vestiges of my past hang at the back of my closet: Suits, shirts and ties organized by color and pattern; shoes and belts; whimsical cufflinks rest in velvet-covered nests in a wooden box; kaleidoscope silk kerchiefs lay folded in a drawer next to ironed linen hankies. These things wait, set aside or put-away once the armistice had been agreed. But these armaments which were once crucial to my survival now gather dust in a similar fashion to the life which wore them. Like a warrior returning from a campaign, I now stand in unfamiliar territory: what once was my life is now my past. I wish my reinvention were as simple as a down-sizing or relocation or economical result; but mine occurs as the result of a collapse of comprehensive proportion; I simply went mad.

My madness manifested itself in a broad incapacity to hold things together: think Pandora’s box unhinged, and all of life’s graces emancipated from the mind which held them captive; a purging, or emptying of clutter; raging torrents of once-organized-now-disassembled debris of thoughts; memories like photographs tossed to the winds; a palette of emotion falling face down, once true colors now soiled creating strange and unpredictable influences; flair, forte, savvy and knack bundles ripped open, their dusts snaking across the ground or swirling in the air; fresh conversations gushing at first but slowing to the trickling of archaic chitchat; a tool shed of implements strewn across the prairie; and an inky sense of dispassion swabbed across its interior.

Blindness eventually annexed madness: an incapacity to witness authenticity:

June 26, 2010

Yesterday turned into one of the worst days I have had in a very long time. My niece is visiting us and I guess I was a little edgy about that: she’s a precious yet precocious girl; but having someone new in the house, especially one with such unbridalled passion for life is, well, overwhelming. And the places that I normally go to enjoy quiet time, the lakefront for an early morning walk with Jenni, was filled FILLED with people in various colors of spandex and rubber all waiting for the start and/or finish of some race or another. Therefore, the cadence of steps while walking a dog was intermittently interrupted by throngs of sweaty people moving in packs like gazelles down the savannah. It just didn’t turn about the way I had expected, and change is incomprehensible. My partner of 25 years is such an incredible sport through all this: so supportive and understanding. And while I like the euphoria and focus the Adderall does provide, it also gives me a sense of urgency about things which I am am uncomfortable wth and unfamiliar.

By the time my group support meeting rolled about I was already feeling very irritiable, and had it not for my niece’s preference to remain sequestered in our Edgewater home as opposed to an adventure amidst world-class art and history museums, my other choices were a room full of depressed or manic middle-aged gay men (where are all the young and beautiful depressed or manic gay men I’ve often wondered) or the crippling jaws of a ravenous city whose downtown was infested by oblivious and awed visitors, unaware that the city is our home, not some ruin on the mediterranean; given those bleak options I may have opted to simply stay in the relative safety of my backyard and enjoy its serenity. Perhaps there’s nothing I really want besides not having this mental illness, as it wreaked havoc on my yesterday.

The breakdown which occurred emptied out the contents of my mind; in the past two years I haven’t so much as been piecing them back together as much as letting old things back in if needed. There are some memories best forgotten; there are some experiences best left in pieces; regrets seem to have their own distinct pile; I do feel somewhat hobbled together, as though the first me, the pre-breakdown me accumulated things like an attic; and for the most part many of these things, while important at the time, ceased in their importance, and therefore were forgotten. There are piles and piles of those things; there are sharp pieces of glass and mirror strewn everywhere, memories of moments when my appearance seemed important: but more that anything, there is an emptiness I feel, as though I were walking about an outdoor market an smelling and squeezing and weighing items which might make their way into my mind: the harbor this morning; Jenni in a puddle; Nick’s smile after his first mouthful of a warm dinner on a cold night; winning at cards; I want to learn to be okay with less. Less is lighter and mobile.

June 28, 2010

The Adderall seems to make me very anxious and quick to draw conclusions. I find myself to have a very short fuse. Without the Adderall I felt that the world was moving slowly. That my mind wasn’t filled with this scratching sound, as though the inside of my skull was being scratched by long fingernails; or white noise which fills my head with noise. I find I am soothed when I am surrounded by quiet and calm; I find that when I ride my bicycle I am surrounded by quiet and calm and the errant tinkle of a passer-bys bell. I haven’t felt euphoric since the first dose of Adderall a week ago. What I do feel is a need to move. To be doing something.

I’ve been waking earlier than normal these past recent weeks. Because of that I have been taking Jenni out for her walk. When I was struggling with my sleep meds for the past year, Nick has been kind enough to get dressed, even in the harshest of conditions, and take Jenni for a walk. She doesn’t seem to mind the weather, though. There were days upon days when I literally couldn’t pull myself out of bed in the morning. And on quite a few of them I’d find myself sleeping past the time Nick would leave for work. It was all a very difficult time, and not one in which one learns very much; I was dealing with all the symptoms of mania or depression that I never really spent much time on me, or what I would do. One of my biggest losses is my lack of desire. There’s nothing propelling me towards anything. It’s not that I feel adrift. It’s that I don’t really feel anything.

In these past two years I have surrounded myself with an environment in which I feel safe. It is quiet when I need it to be quiet; there are guests when I know there should be guests; I can nap when I feel tired (which is still daily); it’s as though I’ve created this little world in which I live. And I’m very comfortable here. It’s when I venture outside of the environment that I feel most terrified; crowds; noise; hostility; aggression; these are the things which unnerve me.

The coffee is set to brew at 6:00 a.m. We’ll load into the car after that and go to the lakefront for a walk. I hope that this too doesn’t become common place. I just wish I knew what was normal from what has been reengineered. I yearn for the mental march of my first fifty years; these past two year of reconstruction have been uncomfortable and confronting. Much like, I assume, the construction of an adolescent. Except that society accepts the adolescent, where society shuns us.

July 7, 2010

The anniversary of my breakdown was met with a variety of emotions: On Sunday, 4 July my partner and I were on a bike ride from Winnetka to the Botanic Gardens. It was a warm and muggy morning and we had already logged a 1.5 hour walk with Jenni earlier that morning. But there were a number of bicyclists already on the narrow trail and often they would pass us at a high rate of speed or say “on your left” to alert us that they were passing. All these things seems normal enough, but for me they were very stressful. Eventually I couldn’t even achieve the Botanic Gardens and had to stop by a lake and under some crab apple trees for a rest. More than physically tired, I was emotionally tired and felt myself on the verge of tears. I was deeply saddened by the reflection of my former self, my post two-year self and his physical and mental strength to ride a bike in a crowd, and this present timid, cautious, and moody bicyclist rattled by the velocity by which he was being passed. After some time had passed Nick graciously offered to ride back alone to the car and return, but I idiotically and stolidly mounted my bicycle for the return trip to Winnetka. Once back on the trail, again we were passed by menacing and reckless cyclists which aggravated my sense of diminished capacity, and which catapulted to the present my mentally weakened state. This sadness disintegrated into an overflowing of tears and weeping which sidelined our forward progress towards Winnetka.

July 10, 2010

It feels as though I’m sinking into a lower depression. The days seems harder to muddle through, and without the Adderall, I’m afraid I wouldn’t be of much use. Nick being on vacation is making me a little nervous as I know that he likes to be busy, and frankly, though I provide a lot of the housework around here, I’m afraid that he’s going to want to do more than I’m used to doing. So I will try to keep up.

The crying spells from last weekend alarmed both Marge and I and it’s something I should start to talk to Corey about. Perhaps we should start experimenting with anti-depressants again. I’m not too concerned that they will trigger mania; mania would be a relief from this constant, senseless existence.

On The Periphery (novel excerpt)

05/24/2012 ~ Harlan Didrickson

The school day at St. Joe’s started promptly at 7:30 am with a Latin low mass. We were ushered into the high-backed wooden pews and told to face the altar, to stop fidgeting, ignore a classmates whispers, to focus on Christ’s suffering for our sins and pray to God Almighty for trespassing. The nuns, clothed from head to toe in long black habits waddled up and down the aisles, on the look-out for any misdemeanor, and at the first sign of insurrection, would crush an entire pew of second graders to surprise the hoodlum from behind; her thick, strapping hand landing with phenomenal precision on the scruff of the heathen and plucked him from his spot like an ugly weed. They all appeared to be well over the age of eighty and kept their hands tucked snuggly beneath wide, white sashes or knotted behind their backs. Corporal punishment by way of rulers, canes, and paddles was customary even for the pettiest offenses like wetting your pants. They enforced zero-tolerance of misbehavior almost daily. It was rumored that they were part of a special Holy See order of nuns responsible for nurturing young and vulnerable catholic students: Sisters of the Evil Stepmother.

I began St. Joe’s in the second grade. The coagulation of cliques hadn’t yet occurred so a new kid didn’t draw suspicion and I was able to easily take my seat in the third row, behind Peggy, in front of Billy, and next to Jim. But it began soon enough, the curdling, the formation of small clumps of friends; those that chased girls at recess; those that sat quietly against the fence; those that hoped and waited for an indication to advance, the willowy ones, still too shy to attract and too timid to pursue. For the better part of the next five years I sat on the periphery, looking in at the popular, my nose flattened coldly against the window of their circle. They were the small, the athletic and most importantly the obnoxious boys; the same boys that would terrorize the girls, but those same girls would wait, patiently, like the family dog for the briefest encounter after school. I’d bet my mom was one of those girls when she was growing up.

That small, popular group of boys appeared to be completely satisfied; life occurred like a roaring adventure; the next day was another step towards their adulthood and independence. But for I and the other three boys on the periphery; Billy (who lacked personal hygiene); Gary (the nerd); Timmy (who had an affecting odor) observing the popular group, each day seemed to be just another in a long line of days, some horrendously long life-sentence, perhaps passed on generation after generation. It was a fact that a boy in the popular group was always the son of a popular father, a father that had a full-time job; a father that was a scout leader or athletic coach; a father that was found at home. That was what the boys on the periphery envied, more than friendship, more than even membership, even more than the popular group leadership, was a home-focused father, a man that taught manliness. For boys on the periphery it was an abysmal and persistent absence, a longing to have that one guy to show you how and what and where and when, that guy and only that guy you could call dad; your dad to look up to, to count on, and whose discipline was fair and to the point and feared. As I look back there was a void, a yearning that was never sated, a howling that never quieted, a wink never seen, a slap on the back that never stung.

The boys on the periphery seemed destined to spend their life in orbit, circling around others, singular, finding comfort in ourselves rather than as a pack. However, when the popular group would turn their attention to something other than themselves it usually turned to one of us; one of us on the periphery. And when the popular boys would begin their attack we would scatter like a flock of pigeons, only turning back to see if we had been caught or remained free. Unlike their pursuit of girls where each boy would target one girl like a pilot in a dogfight, one of the popular boys would leave the pack like a scout, sniffing out the school yard for the oblivious periphery boy, and upon selecting his patsy, tempt his thirst for attention through false complements, and finally summon the rest of the pack. In they’d come at full run to taunt, slap, tease, jeer, punch, push, tickle . . . any action that would confuse the stooge, until the desired effect would come to pass, tears, stuttering, even urination. It was in the grotesque embarrassment that the popular boys seemed to draw energy. It was a hideous game and all the boys on the periphery knew that their time would come when a gangster with wandering eyes and too much time would turn, setting his sights.

I flew under the radar until the fifth grade when I learned that Jim (the boy that smiled when I first arrived in second grade) despised me from the start and his perfunctory “smile and nod,” as benign as it was, didn’t mean “welcome,” it meant “game on, big boy.” Jim never missed an opportunity to exercise his animosity, a four-year commentary on my shortcomings, misgivings, and awkwardness. His rancor finally turned the corner of hatred and hostility during a mid-morning lavatory-break: I was using a urinal during his standard, derisive monologue when he noticed the absence of his audience (bullying him is boring, the other boys thought) and that was it, his disgust had compounded daily and that day he decided to close his account. I felt the hand on my shoulder grab tightly and pull me back, away from the privacy of the urinal; belt, snap, and zipper open, my fingers entwined in the fly of my brief’s, I stood there, the epicenter of mockery, ridicule, and indignity, my distress instantly appearing as damp and darkening spots on my trousers. Initially there was raucous laughter (to which I’d become accustomed), but slowly, boy-by-boy, the lavatory grew quiet, pity replaced ridicule as boy after boy turned and walked out. I stood there until Sister Reynolds threw open the door determined to discover delinquents but stopped immediately upon seeing me. She closed the door quietly, walked to me, and placed her ample arm around my shoulders. All I remember after that extraordinary display of compassion was letting four years of shame finally come out as sobs and weeping and finally dead silence as I finally understood that I would always remain outside the circle.