Sharon dear,
What an autumn! Is it already Christmas? How could I not have written you for so long? I've been busy. No, that's too easy to say. I've been overwhelmed. That's more like it. I seem to have found myself in the middle of some alchemical experiment in which I've been cast, unwittingly, as the catalyst. At this point, I don't know where to turn. I'm writing hoping that you'll be able to lead me out of the morass. No - again, too easy. I'm writing hoping that the act of writing will crystallize thought. I'm writing hoping that I'll be able to lead myself out of the morass.
I don't even know where to begin. Shall I start at the very beginning? It's a very good place to start, or so I've heard tell.
It began in the gym. Don't my stories always begin in the gym? I had just finished a workout and decided to drop by the gymnastics team practice. The team here is top notch. They're a joy to watch and not merely for prurient reasons. Their artistry as tumblers is extraordinary. The coach is really good at putting together routines on floor, vault, and p-bars.
Anyway, there's this one kid I wanted to see. He had caught my eye the first time I went. A little powerhouse, it turns out. I've never seen such height in tumbling runs on the floor. And when he rebounds off the vault, I'm afraid he's going to bump his heels on the rafters. But that's not why I wanted to talk to him. I wanted to talk to him because of this move he did on the pommel horse. It was very curious. Reminded me of someone.
So I go to the practice and sit in the stands. There he was on the still rings, lowering himself into a cross. Lordy, Sharon, the power these boys have! At least he wasn't making it look effortless. He's a red head, this one - bright, daring hair - and you know red heads' complexions. He looked like a roasted Jesus on poppers. He brought the cross down to an L-sit in hang, then did a back kip before casting off into a felge upwards with straight arms to a handstand in the rings. Poetry, despite the sputters and labored breathing. The routine was clearly relatively new to him. He hadn't gained the smooth control the boys show to the public in competition.
With a giant swing to handstand followed by a backwards swing, he rotated into a piked, forward salto dismount with a half turn out. Alas, he lost sight of the floor until, over rotating, he was kissing it.
A few words with his coach were exchanged and he headed for a jug of water on the side of the gym. Seeing my chance, I hopped out of my seat and sauntered over.
"Hey," I said.
"Hey," he replied between gulps.
"Nice routine. You just start putting it together?"
Hardly paying attention to me he nodded, still drinking. His heart was pounding from the exertion. His rib cage expanded and contracted with his quick, deep breaths.
"Interesting combination. Reminds me of a Ukranian. What the hell was his name...Svet-something?"
He lowered the cup slowly and eyed me curiously, seeing me for the first time. I eyed him back. "Svetlichniy," he said. "I'm emulating his style. Who the hell are you?"
"Oh, no one," I said, "just passing through after a work out and thought I'd drop in."
"You a gymnast?" he asked.
"Do I look like a gymnast?" I replied, smiling. He smiled back.
"So how do you know about Svetlichniy?"
"Doesn't everybody?" This got a full laugh and his full attention.
"You go to school here?" he asked, beginning to unwrap his grips. His color was beginning to return to normal save for a lingering, healthy roseate glow to the cheeks. He had an appealing look, close up. Square jawed and Scottish.
"Yeah. Grad school."
"Masters in PE?"
"No, not quite. But you're not the first to think that, actually. You'd be surprised by what I've been mistaken for. I constantly am."
"Like what?"
"Oh, a doctor, a gymnast, a masseur, an anatomist. My friend Carey is convinced I'm a fiction writer...pretty much everything except what I actually am."
"People project a lot on you, huh?"
"Pardon?"
"They project - they see in you what they want to see..."
"I know what projection means," I said, interrupting him. "I...I just wasn't expecting you to say that. Sorry."
"No worries."
"You've been in Australia."
He grinned. "Yeah. I was there last summer. How did you know?"
"'No worries.' It's an Aussie thing," I said.
"And linguist? Do people mistake you for a linguist?"
I laughed. "All the time. For example, I can do amazing philological tricks."
"Like what?"
"Like this: say the word 'boat'."
"Boat," he said, smiling.
"Now say the word, 'sword'."
"Sword." The smile broadened.
"Okay. You're from Iowa."
The smile vanished.
"That's amazing!" he said.
"You think that's good? Say, 'ointment'."
"Ointment." This time he repeated the word self-consciously.
"Now 'marzipan'."
"Marzipan."
"From outside Des Moines. Northwest, I think."
"You're fucking joking!" He was aghast. "That's incredible!"
"Say, 'quibble'."
"Quibble." He was listening intently to himself now, with grave seriousness, trying to hear what I was hearing.
"Say, 'squeegee'."
"Squeegee."
"You went to Boone Senior High School."
His jaw fell and his pupils went small. "How...what did...how did you..."
I laughed at his shock. "I'm a friend of Matt VanLuyken," I said. "I saw you doing the break-dance thing on your head on the pommel horse the other day. He told me he made that up in high school."
He burst into laughter. "You asshole!"
"Yeah," I said laughing with him, "that would be me."
"Richie," he said holding out his hand, "Richie Hausmann." I took his chalky paw in mine.
"Mark. Nice to meet you."
"So how is Mattie? I haven't seen him in a while."
"He's great. Going to give you a run for the money on floor, I think."
"Yeah? He always sucked on floor. Even before he fucked his ankle."
"Not anymore. He's been..."
"You come to see me do my new high bar routine?" It was Corey interrupting.
Having spotted me, he had come over assuming, in his solipsistic way, that I was there to see him and was only passing time with Richie until he was free.
"Actually, I..."
"It's hot, isn't it?" he continued without waiting for a response. "I know I keep doing form breaks on the giants, but fuck, man. I'm going to look so good when I get it down. Hey Richie."
Richie nodded at him. Corey put an arm around my shoulders - an alarmingly confusing move given our last exchange - and began leading me away from Richie.
"Umm...I guess I'm talking to Corey now," I said over my shoulder. Richie laughed.
"Nice to meet you, amigo," he said.
"You as well." And with that and a tug, my attention was turned forcibly to my little ash-haired, ashhole friend..
"So what did you think about the routine?" Corey asked, his arm still around my shoulders. "It's good, isn't it? I mean I know it has to be smoother and all that shit, but it's good, right?"
I laughed. "I didn't see it, Corey."
"Oh." He sounded truly disappointed. Having steered us over to the stands he released me. The warmth of his bicep had made the back of my neck begin to sweat, and the sudden cold resulting from its removal sent a shiver down my spine. We sat next to each other and surveyed the floor.
"Do you know the guys on the team?" he asked, mostly, I think, because he was afraid of being silent with me. "That's Richie you were talking to. He's pretty good. And that's Ric over there on the tramp. Kinda strong on the vault and floor, but I got him hands down on the rings and pommel horse.
And that's TJ. He placed top ten last year in Nationals, but he's not so hot. And that's Shayne on the p-bars. Thinks he's god, but he ain't. That's..."
I interrupted him. Turning to face him, I frowned. "So we're best buds again, eh, Corey?"
"Sure. Why not?"
"Well, kiddo, the last time we were together, you called me a faggot and stormed out of the room."
"So?"
"So?!?"
"You are a fag," he said with such naïve innocence that I could no longer sustain the frown. I burst into laughter.
"Indeed I am, Corey, my dear. But that's not the point!"
"What's the point? I was angry. I yelled at you. Then I wasn't angry anymore. What's the big deal?"
"A marvelous impersonation of mental health you got going there, kid." I looked at him for a quiet beat. He just didn't get it. I let it pass. "So how're classes going for you?"
"They're hard," he said frowning. "They suck. They're not supposed to be hard. This is supposed to be the best time of my life."
"That would be a pretty sucky life, don't you think? Peak at 20, then downhill for the next 60 years?"
"They're all talk. Talk, talk, talk. It's like being with you!"
I laughed. "You're not the first to say that."
"Let's not talk. Let's do something."
"Do something?" I asked. "You want to do something?"
"Yeah," he continued, oblivious even to himself. "Take me shopping. I don't know shit about clothes. You always look good."
"You want me to take you clothes shopping?"
"Yeah."
I blinked at him.
"Oh fuck, Mark," he said rolling his eyes. "Don't go all pussy on me. Just say you'll do it, okay? Say you'll do it and leave it at that."
"Okay, Corey," I said. "I'll take you clothes shopping."
He beamed. "Great!" he said, rising to his feet to head back to the floor. "We'll go this weekend!" And with that, he bounded off back to practice.
I watched the team practice for a few more minutes before leaving. Corey was spotting a teammate on the high bar. The boy landed with uncertainty and Corey grabbed hold to steady him as a good spotter should. Muscles pressed to muscles, hands gripped curves. But there was more to it than just spotting. The embrace was a hair too sustained, a coiffeur too complete. Satisfied I wasn't nuts, I arose and wended my way home.
In the elevator on the way up to my apartment, I ran into the third thread in the weft that has warped my past few months. The Bam Bam.
He was leaning, arms akimbo, against the back of the car as I entered. He nodded slightly in recognition. I watched his face. He was quietly sucking his own teeth and his cheeks undulated absently as his tongue moved behind his closed lips. The stubble on his chin was, at once, fair and rough. His full eyebrows caught the light in prismatic splendor. His eyes were fixed on the lights above the door, paying me no attention at all.
"Sorry I couldn't come over the other day," I said falteringly. He lowered his gaze to me.
"Hmmm?" He said, pulled from his own thoughts. "Oh, that's okay. No biggie. Maybe some other time."
Now, Sharon, here's the thing. As foggy as I was the first time we had met, I was completely clear-headed in the elevator. There wasn't a hint of it. It's as if all the considerable power he had demonstrated the first time we met had simply evaporated. Sure, he was still hot, but he did not have the smell of the alpha about him. Is that not tremendously curious?
So there, within the space of twenty minutes, I had interacted with each of them: the three boys who would cause me such tumult over the next three months. Richie, Corey, and Bam Bam. Come have lunch with me, and I'll tell you what happened next.