Some Go Hungry. J. Patrick Redmond
and since this will be my last holiday event at Harrison before I graduate, Pastor Daryl wanted to attend after-school rehearsals.”
“Oh. When is the high school’s holiday event?” I asked.
“Tomorrow. That’s why I requested the night off. I am off work, right?” Trace asked anxiously.
“Oh, yes. Of course. I remember.”
“Are you coming to Christmas service at church next week? Trace asked. “I really do hope you all attend. Our youth choir has been working really hard.”
“So far it seems we’re going. I swear, I don’t know how you do it, Trace. High school and church choir? Work too? I’m surprised you can speak some days.”
“My voice is my ticket out. Don’t get me wrong, I love my hometown. I’m just ready for something more.”
“As well you should be,” I said. “Don’t do anything to compromise your dreams, though. And speaking of, have you gotten word on your applications yet? Any auditions arranged?”
“No, nothing yet,” Trace said, his face tight under the strain of waiting.
“Well, it’s only December. My experience is that universities don’t make decisions until the spring.”
“Yeah, it’s going to take forever. Well, I better get inside. I want to eat before I clock in.”
“Yeah, you do. With this warm weather I bet we have a busy night. I’ll see you inside,” I said.
Trace flipped his backpack over his shoulder, grabbed ahold of the kitchen door’s handle, and struggled a bit to open it. The door also served as the delivery and stock entrance; it was heavy-duty steel, thick and wide. As the door opened, I heard the whirl of the air curtain kick in, and then a thud as the door closed behind Trace. He was a good kid, kind, polite, and a bit naïve. The prospect of Trace forming a friendship with Daryl made me uncomfortable. A little over a month has passed since Daryl took the youth pastor’s position at Wabash Valley Baptist, returning with his family to Fort Sackville. What were his intentions? Was he just being a concerned youth pastor? Trying to accommodate his congregants’ needs? Offering a helping hand, perhaps? My gut said no. But I knew Trace’s parents well enough, and if they had any misgivings, suspicions, or if they sensed ill intent toward their son, they’d be all over it.
I stood there behind the restaurant, dreading the night’s rush and thinking about Daryl and his father’s black Corvette.
At Harrison High School, Daryl Stone had been a year ahead of me. I watched him move through the halls. He was smooth like Tom Cruise in Risky Business with his penny loafers and black Ray-Ban sunglasses. Yet it wasn’t until the following summer, during summer school PE, that I was granted access to his inner circle.
Harrison High curriculum required two semesters of physical education and offered an opportunity to take the class for credit during summer mornings. Most students took advantage of this, in order to participate in the various outdoor activities not offered during the school year. I took the summer option so I would not have to shower in the guys’ locker room during school hours. I was fearful of being naked in a room full of boys. And, unlike my grade school body, my high school body had been developing, my hormones were raging, and erections were something over which I had no control. Getting a hard-on in my high school locker room would be devastating. That would get me labeled a queer for sure.
On that first day of summer PE before my tenth grade year I ate breakfast at Daniels’ Diner, and then a few minutes before eight a.m. I rode my bike to the school’s football field. After locking the frame of my Huffy ten-speed to the bike rack, I spotted everyone gathered around Daryl. When I approached, I heard him say, “Dad bought it for me in Indianapolis.” Daryl was showing off the latest sports version Sony Walkman radio and cassette player with miniature headphones. “It plays both sides. You don’t have to take the tape out to switch anymore.” I had wanted a Sony Walkman forever.
A few PE classes later, Daryl invited me over to swim. We rode our bikes to his house after morning class. His family lived on their farm south of town, off Knox Road. Other than my Aunt Charlene and her husband, the Stones were the only family I knew that had a swimming pool. Daryl’s older brother, James, a junior at Indiana University and home for the summer, drove a brand-new red Trans Am with T-tops and always seemed to have people around. Daryl’s mom and dad were just as popular. Their house, designed by Mrs. Stone, had been custom-built for entertaining. Rumors circulated around the county that the Stones’ money came from transporting drugs for which the trucking business served as a front. It was the only way they could have that kind of money, people said.
Parked in their four-car garage was a restored pink 1957 Thunderbird, which Daryl said belonged to his mother. Her father bought it for her to take to college—she was a Northwestern graduate. Daryl’s parents had met there. Alongside the Thunderbird was Mr. Stone’s restored black 1964 Corvette Stingray. A Cadillac Seville and Lincoln Town Car served as their everyday cars. I’d never seen one family with so many vehicles. Daryl and I spent the afternoon swimming and soaking in the sun.
“Hey, you hungry?” he asked.
“Yeah, I am.”
“Let’s go get Strombolis,” he said.
“That sounds great.”
Bowman’s Pizza on Broadway had been in business as long as my family’s restaurant. It was a staple in the community and a regular on many kitchen tables.
As Daryl and I stepped out of the pool and walked dripping toward the house, he turned to me then pointed, “Go ahead, shower over there. I’ll grab us some towels.” Affixed to the house near its expansive wooden deck, and somewhat secluded by two hemlocks, was an outdoor shower.
“Outside?” I asked.
“Yeah. It’s no big deal. No one’s going to see you.”
I walked to the side of the house and turned on the water. Somehow I summoned up the courage to step out of my wet bathing suit and into the stream of water. It was warm. I felt as if I were getting away with something, like I shouldn’t be showering naked outside. This is the life, I thought. Daryl soon appeared with towels.
“Looks like someone’s got some shrinkage,” he said, smirking. Thank God the pool water had been cold. My body didn’t have time to react to the warm shower and Daryl’s presence. “Here, grab a towel. Hold the car keys. We’re taking the ’Vette!” he said.
I stepped out of the shower—leaving the water running—placed his keys on the deck railing, and began to towel off. Daryl peeled off his swimsuit and stepped in. His water-slicked black hair and body glistened in the sunlight. The tiny prism-like droplets streamed across his smooth, taut skin, descended the curves of his triceps, forearms, thighs, and calves, the tiny beads becoming trapped in the smattering of dark chest and pubic hair. Daryl was an athlete: track, cross-country, tennis, golf, and varsity basketball. I wished my body looked like his. Walking away, my towel wrapped round me, carrying my swimsuit, I took one last glance behind me at Daryl showering. I definitely wanted a body like his.
Once Daryl and I were dry and dressed, we walked around the house to the garage. “Are you sure we should do this?” I asked.
“Oh, come on. Get in. Do you always worry about stuff this much?” he asked, opening the driver’s door.
The Corvette’s hardtop hung from the garage rafters above us. I helped unlock the soft-top and fold it back, securing it behind the two seats. We hopped in. When Daryl started the engine, I could feel the car’s power vibrate beneath my seat. The idling engine sounded restrained, first whining, then rumbling.
He backed out of the garage, then pointed the car toward the long paved driveway and punched the gas. The tires squealed; the sleek fiberglass body fishtailed before the tires took traction and rocketed us down the drive toward the Stones’ front gate, pinning my back momentarily against the passenger seat.
The Stones’