I was born the year I turned twelve.

Who I was, previously obscured, peeked out. A powerful force collided with my life. Thus began a journey, always moving too fast for me to understand. Being knocked off balance by an encounter with the first stable adult I'd ever met, meant considering him.

Our first meeting meant little in the greater scheme of things, but the events surrounding our first meeting left an impression on both of us. It was a chance meeting that set me on the road to discovering my identity. I didn't know I didn't know who I was, because I'd never dared to consider myself beyond my family. I still wonder if this was fate, destiny, or an accident. I still don't know.

Before twelve there was no me beyond the labels I wore, bad, lazy, and defiant. The other frequent label that I most identified with after beginning school, stupid.

At twelve life grabbed hold of me, or I it, and all I could do was hold on for dear life. Changes came so fast I stayed off balance. But the start was slow. At first it was a singular event unrelated to anything else. I can see how the chance meeting was related to other changes that took place in my life and in my mind. This confluence set my unfocused life in motion without me having any idea where I was heading.

As is true of most twelve year olds, I was going through puberty as I was about to enter junior high school. These didn't seem like they'd be huge deals at the time. There was one change that came out of the blue to furnish me with the first happiness I ever knew.

My grandparents had retired to Fort Walton Beach, Florida, and I was going to spend the summer with them. It would be the first time I was away from my parents. This is actually deceptive. I spent as much time away from my parents as I could get away with. I lived in their house and I stayed in my room when I wasn't lost in the tube.

Among the other events, I accepted I was a homosexual and I had an experience that made it clear that my feelings were real. When I went to my Baptist minister, the only man I trusted enough to ask for advice about such a thing, he said, 'you're a very nice boy. It's a shame you're going to hell.

I hate it when that happens? I liked the summer heat but this seemed a bit extreme.

These were the highlights of the summer I turned twelve. It was like being born, but it was just the beginning. My entire identity was being formed without me being all that clear on it. I had survival techniques that worked well and kept me isolated from much of the craziness that lived at my house.

By the time I was twelve I had no desire to fit. I trusted no one and suspected everyone, especially adult types. It made my encounter with Mr. Q interesting, but hardly life altering. If I explain the events it doesn't seem to mean much, except it left an impression on both of us. The fact it left an impression on him caught me by surprise.

It was no big deal once it settled into my past, but it turned out to be the biggest deal of my life. To best explain it I should start this tale before the year I turned twelve to gain some perspective on where I was coming from.

You can't become twelve without being eleven but it was when I was ten my ignorance was highlighted. Ten wasn't a banner year but I was defined by it. It's not so much what I was, and it isn't even what the teacher said I was. She merely asked me a question, which started the ball rolling, and in my family if a ball got rolling, look out.

Teachers either were astounded by my incredible inability to perform, or ignored me for the same reason. My fifth grade teacher was a bit more direct when she asked, 'Are you stupid?' In her mind it must have been a legitimate question. I wasn't qualified to answer but she asked me anyway. She was the teacher. Shouldn't she know?

It wasn't the first time the subject had come up. I didn't mind. I felt like I must be stupid or the question wouldn't have been asked.

In sixth grade something unusual occurred. Mrs. Foster, a purple haired teacher, liked me, and I became the 'teacher's pet.' I usually took a desk in the furthest corner of a classroom, believing out of sight, out of mind. Mrs. Foster moved me front and center in the desk closest to hers.

Imagine that. A teacher actually acknowledged my existence beyond the first two weeks of class. Mrs. Foster could often be seen turning the pages of my textbook to get me on the same page with the rest of the class. She never raised her voice or called me names. She was the first teacher who attempted to make me part of the class. It wasn't my idea but I didn't mind. She was very kind.

It was my third elementary school since 2nd grade, and I was dizzy from moving and being forever on the outs. Sixth grade was my best year in school. I still couldn't read, which was a handicap, but Mrs. Foster was pleasant about it and never asked me if I was stupid or not. Of course she was the teacher and I was always on the wrong page, so I think she knew.

Graduating elementary school was cause for celebration at my house. I wasn't the first member of my family to make it out of sixth grade, but I was least likely to. I didn't get too excited realizing junior high school wasn't that far off.

I graduated on my twelfth birthday and thus I was born. There was no me before twelve. I was a series of nerve endings, responses, waiting for the predictable stimuli, at which time I'd jump. I was a bit like the dead frog in those experiments and by attaching little electrodes to their tiny dead legs you can make them jump by giving them a little jolt of electricity. I'd been jumping my entire life, but at twelve the jolt brought me to life.

I jumped when I was spoken to, because I knew what happened if I didn't respond quick enough. At times this made for good fun. I'd sense what my parents wanted, I'd jump into action at the first sound of their voice, and they'd laugh because that's not what they wanted at all. If I was lucky that was the end of it. I'd always done things too fast, too slow, or I didn't do what I was told the way I was supposed to do it. It was all bad and rarely did I please anyone. As I was growing older, I did nothing, until I was threatened, and then, making sure it was precisely what they wanted me to do, I did it. The insanity came on the days I was asked to do something I was punished for doing a few days before. If you want to drive your kids crazy, that's how you do it.

My parent's rules were in a constant state of flux. I wasn't clued in until I had run afoul of one. When I protested the illogic of it all, I received a backhanded reminder never to talk back. When I understood I could never win, I lost interest in trying. This could explain my lack of motivation.

By the time I turned twelve I was oblivious to it all. It was the way it was and I couldn't do anything about it. I'd developed a strategy by then, or maybe it was more a disappearing act: when I knew it was coming, I disappeared. I was there but I wasn't there. I zoned out, didn't feel, hear, or fear anything. There were key words to tip me off when it was over, and I came back.

My disappearing act was a mystery to me. I can't remember when it was first employed or what brought it on, but by twelve the technique was perfected and it was worth whatever toll it took on my brain by requiring it to remove me out of a certain scene. At twelve there was no direct link to anything outside myself. I had isolated myself from anything unpleasant.

I didn't suspect it had something to do with my stupidity. My ability to simply tune out anything unpleasant or boring flipped on and off at will. I could zone out for hours in class. I think I discovered self-inflicted ADD.

I didn't zone out when I roamed. I roamed a lot and in places where I about to encounter adults. My best thing was roaming so I wanted to do it well. It was best when done alone with no one to cross me. I had little love for my fellow man and having someone around to insult me or to make fun of me didn't interest me. I learned at an early age the value in being a solitary man.

It was while roaming that I walked past my old elementary school one morning on my way to nowhere. I knew what to do. I'd keep on walking. I never went to school when I wasn't required to be in school, except this time something caught my eye.

'Open House,' a sign read.

Without knowing what it meant and before I had time to think it over, I found myself in the hallway with the red lockers lining the wall, following the arrows to the 'Open House.'

The arrows led me to the familiar wooden auditorium doors. I stepped inside and found a couple of dozen adults constructing booths where they'd peddle their particular idea of summer fun. Organized activities were a certain way for me to have no fun. Adults meant trouble, and so I did a quick about-face, intending to make my getaway.

As I was about to open the door a little man said, "Sink the ball and win a prize."

It was original and I fell for it. He got me to come over to where he stood next to a make-shift miniature golf hole about twelve feet long and three feet wide.

I knew better than to ignore him. He spoke to me, and that required me to give him my attention. I measured him up as I walked to where he stood. Maybe I could take him?

"Sink the ball and win a prize. Here, I'll show you," he said, seeing the vacant look in my eyes.

The fastest way to handle such situations was to appear to cooperate, while looking for the first opportunity to escape. In the mean time the little man set a golf ball down at the front part of the fake green grass. He looked at the ball, the hole, the ball, the hole, and he hit it with enough force to get it to go up a three inch-rise, continuing to roll until it came to rest an inch in front of the cup.

"Here, I'll set the ball down for you,' he said after retrieving it. "Take the club and see how you do."

I took the putter and looked at the ball at my feet. I looked at the hole, not drawing any link between the two. Without hesitation, I wound up and gave it a good whack.

Whack!

The ball hit the three inch rise in the make-shift golf course and kept rising, going up and over the back board that marked the out of bounds.

As quick as I hit the golf ball the little man took off in hot pursuit. He knew it would bounce off the wall a few feet away and he charged out into the middle of the shinny wooden auditorium floor. The ball skittered just beyond his reach, heading for parts unknown with the little man close behind.

Just about the time it should have disappeared under one of the booths being constructed, he slid on one side of his neat charcoal gray suit and intercepted the little white ball. It was the kind of move that would make a football player proud. He stood, brushing off his suit and he began walking back toward me.

I knew what was coming. I'd done enough screwing up by that time that the end result was predictable. I would take it like a man and get out of there before doing any more damage.

"You only need to tap it. Watch me again and I'll show you."

Bracing for the yelling, I didn't understand what this guy's game was. Didn't he know the rules? No one had briefed him on the getting angry part when a kid failed to do as he was told.

This was when the little man separated himself from the rest of the adults I'd known. Seeing my space-cadet eyes, he took a hold of my upper arm, shaking it gently as he spoke, "I want you to watch what I'm showing you. Are you paying attention to me?"

I can't explain the result of his treating me with respect. This got my attention immediately and I wanted to show him I could do what he asked me to do. I'd been alive for twelve years and no one had ever taken the time to show me where I'd gone wrong and how to do it correctly. If I didn't do what I was told quick enough to suit the teller and in a fashion they liked, I caught hell.

"You look at the ball and get your club face ready," he said, checking to be sure I was looking. "Look at the hole, the ball, and back to the hole so your brain can calculate the distance and the amount of force necessary to get the ball to travel that distance. You tap it, keeping your eye on the ball and the club face flat. This allows you to process the amount of force you used and if you miss you can make whatever correction is necessary." He spoke softly before tapping the ball.

It ran up the rise, dribbling to within an inch of the hole, stopping in almost the same spot as the first time he did it.

"Here," he said, handing me the putter, as he went to get the ball.

He set it down for me to duplicate his example. It was my turn and he didn't go through the steps again. He not only explained how to putt but how to get the result he was after. I didn't give a hoot about the prizes. I wanted to show this man I could follow his instructions. It was the kind of challenge I'd never been given before.

I had never hung around grown-ups long enough to see if one might have something to teach me. My experiences told me that my best bet was to steer clear of them all. There was something different about this guy. For one, I'd been there five minutes and he hadn't yelled at me.

"Remember how I did it," he advised softly.

I did remember. It was imprinted in my brain. Lord knows there was nothing in there to get in the way. I stood over the ball, looked at the hole, at the ball, the hole, precisely as he'd done for precisely the same amount of time, tapping the ball the way I'd seen him do it, but adding a slight more force than he used, making the correction for him.

The ball ran atop the fake green grass, up the rise, and plop, right in the center of the hole. It was a hole in one. It was beautiful. I'd done it.

"Yes," the little man celebrated as he patted my back and I nearly dropped the putter. "Yes, you did it. Go over to the table and take one of the prizes. That was very good."

Hell with the prize. Oh, that was cool, but having someone make me feel good about myself was so strange that I kept hearing him repeat, yes, knowing he meant me.

I came from a "NO" world. I'd done something right. In the same week I turned twelve, graduated elementary school, and had an adult be tickled by something he taught me to do. The world was certainly weird.

Leaving well-enough alone was on my mind. It couldn't get any better than this, except if I did it again. It might be worth trying. I wasn't a risk-taker but I couldn't resist the idea of seeing the little man tickled all over again.

"Can I try again?" I asked hesitantly, figuring I'd get my no.

"Sure, but if someone else comes in you need to let them take a try, but you can try as often as you like," he said, making his first mistake.

Plop! Plop! Plop! Plop!

The ball had eyes.

I couldn't miss.

I was on my game.

I was in the groove.

I was in the zone.

I was on fire.

I owned that hole.

Well, I may not have owned the hole, but I did own all the little man's prizes.

The biggest prize was the man telling me how sensational I was. The prize was in having someone believe in me. The real prize was in how he had made me feel more alive than I'd ever felt before. I was magnificent. I was a winner on a day when I couldn't loose.

"That's it. Game's closed. You've cleaned me out," he said, removing the club from my deadly accurate hands and leaving my final putt in the cup where it ended up.

For the first time there wasn't the compliment, the pat on the back, the bragging about my performance. In fact, he seemed a little ticked that his day had just begun and his game was already out of business. I'd sent him to the showers early.

A better kid might have offered to give the prizes back, but I'd won them, and I wanted to take them home and line them up on the dining room table, so that when my parents came home and they asked me, 'what the hell is all that junk on the table,' I'd explain about the Open House and the day I couldn't miss. It played way better in my head than the event itself.

Before I left he'd gotten the box in which he'd brought the prizes. He loaded them back up, handing it to me, and opening the door for me to leave. It was a couple of blocks to my house and I more floated than walked. I kept hearing the little man's compliments, thinking of how good he'd left me feel. It was a life altering experience for a kid who'd never been very good at it.


Send Rick an email at quillswritersrealm@yahoo.com

On to Chapter Two

Chapter Index

Rick Beck Home Page

"Gay Boy Running" Copyright © 1 April 2010 OLYMPIA50. All rights reserved.
    This work may not be duplicated in any form (physical, electronic, audio, or otherwise) without the author's written permission. All applicable copyright laws apply. All individuals depicted are fictional with any resemblance to real persons being purely coincidental.

Home Page | Authors | Christmas Stories | Stories by the Writer Suggested Reading | Suggested Viewing | Links Privacy Policy | Terms of Service Send a Comment All Site Content © 2003 - 2024 Tarheel Writer unless otherwise noted Layout © 2003 - 2024 Tarheel Writer