Читать книгу Full Circle - Michael Thomas Ford - Страница 14

Now that I’ve almost certainly passed the halfway point in my climb up the mountain of this life and am coasting down the other side with a tailwind at my back, I sometimes wish I could slow time to a crawl. I think this is why many of us, as we age, require fewer and fewer hours of sleep. It’s not that our bodies have become more efficient; it’s that we’re afraid we’ll miss something by wasting precious hours in slumber when we could be eating ice cream, reading Shakespeare, or scanning the night sky for falling stars. How many times have I wished for just two or three more hours in a day, not in which to accomplish a task, but simply to enjoy being?

Contrast this to the teenage years, when time can’t possibly move quickly enough and every second seems to arrive more slowly than the last in the plodding journey toward adulthood. Those days are all rushing and hurrying, leaping from one adventure to another, storing up experience and memories enough to last the rest of our lives. Like bees, we dart and gather, pausing only long enough to take from life whatever we can carry. Only later do we realize that we can’t remember what color the flowers were, or how they smelled.

Many things happened in 1965. Malcolm X was assassinated just as Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. and the civil rights movement he championed took center stage in American life. Lost in Space premiered on CBS and Quaker Oats introduced Quisp cereal to grocery shelves. In Detroit, 82-year-old Alice Herz poured a container of lighter fluid over her head and lit a match, immolating herself as a protest against the escalating violence in Vietnam. Willie Mays hit home run number 512, breaking the National League record, and the Rolling Stones released “Satisfaction.”

For Jack and me, none of these was the major event of the year. That honor belonged to our two-week stay on Treasure Island. For several years we had been part of local Boy Scout troop 49, meeting once a week after school and learning the basics of camping, knot tying, and other skills that would come in handy should we ever find ourselves lost in the woods and needing to construct temporary shelter and a fire. We went primarily because we liked collecting merit badges, and together and separately we’d managed to amass a number of them.

That summer we were going for the rank of Second Class. We’d reached Tenderfoot the summer before, and were anxious to be rid of that embarrassing designation. In order to reach our goal, we had to, among other requirements, plan and execute a 10-mile hike, display proficiency in swimming, identify ten examples of local wildlife, outline the procedure for removing a foreign object from the eye, and, to quote the handbook, “demonstrate Scout spirit by living the Scout Oath and Scout Law in everyday life.” Should we accomplish all of these things, we would be allowed to attend the annual Pennsylvania troop gathering at Treasure Island, held the week following our birthdays.

Inspired by the idea of two weeks away from our parents, we completed our tasks in record time, earning our Second Class patches and our places on the trip. And so a few days after turning 15, Jack and I found ourselves loading ourselves and our gear onto a bus with thirty-two other scouts and heading for the Avalon of local scouting.

Treasure Island is legendary in scout circles. Open as a camp since 1913, it sits in the middle of the Delaware river, connected to its sister island, Marshall, by a small footbridge which, because Treasure Island is part of New Jersey and Marshall Island belongs to Pennsylvania, is considered the smallest interstate bridge in the United States. While this is undoubtedly fascinating, of more interest to we scouts was the knowledge that the Unami Indians had once called the island home, and that arrowheads were still sometimes found there.

There were twelve campsites scattered around Treasure Island, named after animals or important figures from scout history, and which site your troop was assigned to was considered an unofficial measure of your rank in the scout hierarchy. Wolf and Eagle sites were the most prized, for obvious reasons, and those such as Baden-Powell (named for the founder of the British Boy Scout Association) and Edson (after the co-founder of the elite scout program the Order of the Arrow) were acceptable if unexciting, while the hardly-intimidating Beaver and Bok were not high on most scouts’ list of desirable locations. For those of us from Pennsylvania, the greatest calamity was to be assigned to the site called Jersey.

When our group learned that we would be camping at Nip site, we were relieved. Although its name was hardly inspiring, its location at the southeast end of the island, close to the Unami ceremonial grounds, gave it a certain cachet among the other campers. Slightly removed from the center of camp life, it also afforded a little more privacy, and its proximity to the Jersey camp (which that year was indeed populated by scouts from nearby Frenchtown) assured us of some memorable nighttime raids.

Jack and I quickly set up our tent and rolled out our sleeping bags. Housekeeping thus accomplished, we joined our troop mates for the walk to the clearing at the island’s center. There, gathered around the flag pole, we were welcomed to Treasure Island, informed of the rules of our island society, and given the day’s schedule, which began with a mandatory health check and swim test and finished with a campfire.

The daily routine of a scout camp is interesting only to those who are in the midst of it, and so I will pass briefly over the mess hall meals, survival skills practices, archery competitions, leather craft classes, and canoe races. In these things our Treasure Island experience was no different from that of scouts throughout history. Where Jack and I diverged from our fellow scouts was in what occurred on the night of Saturday, August 21.

We were at the end of a perfect first week. The weather, sunny and clear, had turned our skins a golden brown. We’d racked up three new merit badges each, and Jack had led our troop to a Capture the Flag win over the previous year’s champions, Troop 137 from Erie. Already there was talk of nominating him to the Order of the Arrow once he earned his First Class rank. This distinction, the only one in scouting voted on by one’s peers, was bestowed upon only the most popular and accomplished campers. Jack, as a first-time visitor to Treasure Island, should have been far down the list of potential candidates. The fact that his name was mentioned for inclusion by both campers and scout leaders was further proof of his natural ability to outshine everyone around him.

With still another week to go, we were at the pinnacle of happiness. That night, we sat beside one another at the all-camp bonfire, lustily singing the words to the camp song. Although I’ve been able to forget many things in the intervening years, the words to that ode to Treasure Island have remained stuck in my memory, and only partially because they were sung to the tune of the familiar and oft-used “Annie Lisle.”

“By the river that surrounds thee, rolling mile on mile, ’neath the stars that shine above thee, dear ole’ Treasure Isle. We who know thy woodland treasures pause in thought awhile, calling back to mind thy pleasures, dear ole’ Treasure Isle.”

It goes on in a similar vein for another two verses, charming in its imagery and hideous in its outdated and ungrammatical wording. But we noticed none of that then, lost as we were in the camaraderie created when 150 boys are brought together for a shared experience. Like participants at a revival, we were filled with the spirit of the Boy Scouts, lifted high on a wave of brotherhood and pride. At that moment we were invincible, unafraid of darkness, rain, or snakebite. We were prepared for any emergency, sure that our scout resolve could handle anything. Had our scoutmasters asked us to launch an offensive against the enemies of Scout Law, we would have done it, and gladly.

As we arrived at the song’s final verse, with its message of finding warmth and hope in our fellow scouts, Jack leaned over and whispered in my ear, “Let’s go swimming.”

Swimming at night was not allowed, but before I could protest, Jack had disappeared into the shadows. I went after him, following his darkened form as he raced down the path, not toward our camp, but toward the southernmost end of the island. As we darted through the trees, I tried to get him to slow down. He simply laughed and ran ahead, forcing me to keep up. The moon, in its waning quarter, provided little light, and Jack’s shadow leapt from one patch of silvery glow to the next like Peter Pan’s running from its owner.

Finally the forest ended and I found myself standing beside Jack at the edge of the river. He was already removing his shoes and socks.

“We can’t swim in the river,” I said. “It’s against the rules. We’re only supposed to swim in the pool.”

“Come on,” Jack said. “It isn’t flowing that fast, and we won’t go far. Nobody will know.”

He pulled his T-shirt over his head and shucked his shorts off. I saw a glimpse of his ass, pale above his tanned legs, as he waded into the water. He turned and waved at me.

“Come on. It’s not that cold.”

I reluctantly did as he said, placing my clothes beside his and walking to the water. I stuck one foot in. While not exactly warm, it wasn’t as cold as I’d expected, and I followed after Jack until the water was up to our chests and we could swim.

“See,” Jack said. “The current isn’t bad at all.”

He was right about that. There was a slight current, but as long as we swam against it, we weren’t pushed away from the island. Confident that there would be no difficulty getting back, Jack ducked under the water. A moment later, I was pulled under with him.

We came up laughing and sputtering, our hair plastered against our heads so that we resembled seals. I returned Jack’s ducking, pushing him down and under. He came up behind me, wrapping his arms around my waist as he rocketed up and out of the water. For a moment, before he pulled me back down with him, I felt him pressed against me. His penis was nestled in the cleft of my cheeks, and I felt the curly swirl of hair at its root against my skin.

Then I was underwater, looking up as bubbles swarmed around my face. Jack let go and I floated away from him. I turned and watched him surface, his arms and legs ghostly against the darkness. I reached for him, wanting to pull him back against me, then remembered that I couldn’t breathe and swam toward air and light.

Jack was heading back to shore, his strong arms carrying him quickly. I started to follow, then realized that my cock had swelled to attention. I didn’t want Jack to see it that way, for fear he would guess what had caused it, so I slowed my strokes and waited for it to go away. By the time I reached shallow water, Jack was putting his sneakers on and my erection had abated. It was helped by the shock of the night air which, despite the relative warmth of the water, caused gooseflesh to rise on my skin.

“Let’s get back to camp,” Jack urged as I dressed. “We don’t want them to miss us.”

I nodded, saying nothing. Then I followed Jack back down the path we’d taken until it joined the one leading away from the ceremonial grounds. When we came to Unami Lodge, we went right, past the Win campsite and on to our own. Although several of the tents were zipped up and lit from within, others were dark, indicating that their tenants were still out, perhaps brushing their teeth or engaged in earning their astronomy badges. We had not been missed, and we entered our tent with feelings of having accomplished something dangerous and forbidden.

“Boy, that was fun,” said Jack, unzipping his sleeping bag.

“Yeah,” I said.

“What’s the matter?” Jack asked me. “You sound funny.”

“I’m just cold,” I told him. “I need to warm up.”

“Here,” Jack said, unzipping my bag and pulling it closer to his. “We learned this in survival class today.”

“What are you doing?” I asked him.

“Putting our sleeping bags together,” he answered as he fed the teeth of my zipper into the slider of his and joined them. “Now we both get in and our body heat warms us up. It’s how you stay warm if you’re trapped in the snow or whatever.”

He slipped into the new, double bag. I hesitated, then got in beside him, turning so that my back was to him. Jack zipped the bag closed and turned on his side. I felt his arm go around my chest.

“Don’t worry,” he said. “I’m not going to feel you up or anything. I know you don’t do that on the first date.”

He laughed, and I felt his breath against my neck. I closed my eyes. The tent smelled of wood smoke and water and pine. I tried not to think about Jack pressed against my back, or his hand resting on my stomach. I tried not to feel the heat moving between us.

“Now, if you were Cheryl Kipe, I might feel you up,” Jack continued. “I might even do more than that, if you know what I mean.”

He thrust his hips against me. Again I felt the bulge between his legs brush against my ass. My dick jumped in response, and I cringed inwardly. No, I told myself. Don’t.

“Man, I wonder what it would be like to be with her,” said Jack. “Have you seen her boobs? Pete Lowry told me she let him touch them once after he took her to a basketball game.”

He reached up and squeezed my chest as if he had one of Cheryl’s breasts in his hand. “I bet they’re soft,” he said. “So, who would you want to do it with?”

I struggled to think of an answer. My penis, already half erect, was getting harder. Jack still held me to him, his hand cupping me as he thought about Cheryl.

“I don’t know,” I said, picking at random a girl from my biology class. “Maybe Sheila Mullally.”

“A Catholic girl,” Jack remarked. “Everyone says they’re the easiest. I bet she’d let you go down her pants.”

As he said it, he slid his hand down my stomach to my underwear, mimicking what I might be able to do to Sheila. I held my breath, waiting for the awful moment when he realized I had a hard-on and pushed away from me.

His fingers touched the head of my dick and stopped. For a moment, Jack said nothing. Then he playfully squeezed my penis. “Looks like you already thought about that,” he teased.

He didn’t let go. Instead, he slid his hand under the waistband of my shorts. His fingers closed around my cock and stayed there. I could feel him breathing behind me, but neither of us said anything. He began to move his hand up and down, slowly, still not saying a word. I felt the bulge at my back lengthen, and I knew he was getting hard as well.

“You can touch mine if you want to,” he said hoarsely.

He rolled onto his back and I onto mine, so that we were lying side by side. My hand trembling, I reached over and felt him. His dick was shorter than mine but thicker. My fingers barely met around the shaft. Our hands moved together, stroking gently, and neither of us spoke.

I remember that Jack came first, but that even after his shuddering subsided he continued to pump me until I, too, had release. It was the first time that I can remember that he considered the needs of someone else once his own had been met. Neither of us said a word as we wiped our hands on whatever soiled clothing we had nearby, and neither suggested separating the sleeping bags. I remember falling asleep soon after, despite the thoughts racing through my mind, and waking up in the morning with Jack once again pressed against my back, arm around me, snoring gently.

That was how it began. Although I expected there to be awkwardness between us that next day, there was none. Jack acted as if nothing at all unusual had occurred in our tent the night before. He went through the day as usual, devouring his morning pancakes with relish, taking his first shots with a rifle on the Marshall Island shooting range, and orchestrating an evening attack on the Jersey camp during which we pelted our unprepared foes with toilet paper and shaving cream stolen from the older scouts. And that night, when we were once more alone, he asked if I wanted to fool around some more.

That’s what we called it from then on—fooling around. It continued for the remainder of camp, and then when we returned home. Several times a week we would find ourselves jerking off, sometimes alone and watching each other and other times together, our hands moving in unison. We came to know each other’s pattern of arousal, and were able to time our manipulations so that we reached orgasm at the same time, gripping one another tightly as we released in tandem.

Jack never spoke about what we did other than to ask if I was interested in doing it. I didn’t say anything either, afraid that if I did it would disappear, like the gold coins in fairy tales that turn back into coal as soon as dawn arrives to break the enchantment. Like so many relationships, ours was one that went undiscussed, each of us believing it to be what we needed it to be.

But silence has a way of growing loud beyond bearing, and eventually this one became deafening.