I Am His Own

Moonlight over the glimmering dew on the high school football field warmed our bodies. Neither of us had ever seen the field like this before. This night was as special as it was new. Sam and I were still seventeen with bright futures and there was plenty of time.

We sat next to each other on one of the bleachers, at first holding hands but before long, embracing, foreheads and lips touching, our lips moist, whispering-like a mantra-the voice I hear with consoling words: Chapel Hill isn't far from Raleigh. We would still see each other in college.

As my body quaked, Sam held me so tight I hoped he wouldn't let go till it thundered. And I wished there was no such thing as thunder. Together almost every day since junior high sealed our friendship. I'll drive to Chapel Hill to get you and we'll spend our weekends together like we did in high school, Sam said as he pulled me closer,

On weekends we'd meet from time to time to see a movie so we could safely hold hands. Fully dressed some nights I'd wait under the covers of my bed, wet with fear, till Mama Celia, my grandmother, finished boiling water in the old kettle. I'd hear the hot water and the Ivory Soap splash in her white Ironstone washbowl; and, singing the hymn I Come to the Garden Alone, I knew prayers, then sleep, would quickly follow for her. Sam would soon push his small, red car, lights off, into my grandmother's driveway for me. On Key Club field trips, sharing connecting rooms in the hotel, doors locked, we giggled, laughed, and played together in the shower. Now things would be different.

I stayed with him on the field still kissing, we stood up, removed our shirts and belts, unzipping our jeans, pushing them around our ankles. And, feeling like a convict planning an escape, I laid back on the chilly bleachers while Sam slid in on top. Our grunts and moans harmonized and faded into the nocturnal music of all the other night animals. Sam k issing my ear softly said, It'll be alright; nothing'll change. I promise.

We climbed the stairs leaving the school football field with our memories ringing in our hearts, as he walks with me to the car and perhaps back to the large graduation party at Rhonda's daddy's hay barn where we were before I wanted to leave to be alone with Sam.

Moonlight's glow casts strange shadows on the dew-drenched grass and against the red brick walls of the old high school, making everything appear bigger, even strange. But when a shadow appeared to be walking toward us, we prayed it was just an odd flicker of moon-bleached light. Our hands dropped to our sides. We quickly, instinctually turned to go around the other side of the building.

Stop! Don't move, goddamnit! yelled the former shadow now deputy sheriff. On your knees. Take off your shoes, now! His voice was an overpowering boom, as hard and raw as the morning dew was soft and peacefully. Resembling a cano n, his gun was drawn not far from our face. Under the school's walkway lights, our hearts were an air raid pounding in our ears as we tried to remember how to untie our shoes and stay on our knees at the same time. Why couldn't we get our shoes off our feet?

The deputy watched us at the same time a police cruiser drove up and stopped. Wearing a matching Cub Scout uniform and a hat festooned with colorful fishing lures, the sheriff stepped out of the car. Good work, Deputy Chandler. I see they did not get away from you, he calls out and leers at us. He looks more put out than angry.

He walks closer and screams, You boys really f*cked up my fishin' weekend! The deputy, overly pleased with his catch, moves to make way for the sheriff, lowering his weapon. What the f*ck ya'll doin' out here anyhow? Somehow I managed to say, Nothing, just walking around, sir. What, he shouts, is your name, boy? Lorrie, sir, I say breathlessly still on my knees, holding my sho es in one hand, while looking up, amazed by the girth of belly. You must be, the sheriff storms back at me, one of them lying, no good, 'Lorrie,' ain't you now! No, sir, I'm not lying.

More deputies show up. Sam and I are escorted barefoot to the school's main office. I glanced at Sam. His otherwise flush cheekbones, which normally look like a baboon's bottom shimmering in the sun, were now pasty, school glue white. He was scared; I was dizzy with fear. God, I wanted to console him with my arms, but I knew better. He'd probably faint if he took another step. Once in the office, they separated us and for the first time I understood that our love for each other might not be enough to save us this time if they saw us on the bleachers. No one knew where we were.

Are you a student of this school? says the deputy. Yes, we both are. I said. The deputy, picking up the receiver and while dialing glances sternly, unbelievingly at me. Good evening, Principal Chri sti, hate to bother you and your family at this hour. This Deputy Clarke, Wake County Sheriff Department, sir. As you know, we heard there might be some illegal drinking on school grounds here tonight. And we've got a SAM PARKER and a TYRONE LORRIE here at the high school's office, he says reading our names off our driver's license. They say you know them and that they are students of Henson Senior High School.

The officer repeats the names again. Student Council Vice President, you don't sayuh and members of the Honor Council. He again looks at me disappointedly this time. Does it matter which one? Ok, just a moment.

Take it, the deputy commands, the principal wants to talk to you.

Oh, no! Trembling I taking the phone trying hard not to drop it on my toes. How are you, Mr. Christi? I say foolishly clenching my teeth.

Mr. Lorrie, he says in a strong southern growl of a voice, I don't like gettin' phone calls from the sheriff at one o'clock in the a.m. the night before graduation to hear that my honor roll students are running around on campus playing hide the beer can. Do you hear me, Mr. Lorrie? Yes, sir, I do. But he cuts me off and say, Put the deputy back on and I will talk to you in the morning. I gave the phone to deputy. Mr. Christi talks; the deputy listens, then I hear, Yes, sir, I understand. He bids the principal Goodnight, hangs up the phone.

We found an empty beer can and a straw in a school bus, Deputy Clarke told me accusingly. Which one of you brought the beer? What beer? We were just at a party not long ago where sliced oranges, limes, and lemons floated along side ice cubes in a mixture of 190 proof Everclear and Kool-Aid, called 'P.J'. There were four, seventeen-gallon, galvanized round washtubs of it at Rhonda's hay barn gradation party. Beer? There was P.J. -not a word passed from my lips.

The door opens; Sam walks in, followed by more grown men wearing Cub Scout ge ar and with a glance, confirmed that the joy we shared was safe for now.

2006

Author:: Ramekon O'Arwisters
Keywords:: I am his own, gay inspirational, coming of age story, Authenticity
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