You grow up with someone, really grow up together, share
a room and a daily life, from the time you're born until one of you
leaves, I guess you'd just think you'd know all there was to know about
that someone. See that picture, that's my brother Alex and me, we're
five and eight, nice cowboy hats and bandanas, huh? Alex and I shared a
room since I was born; he got here three years before me and far as I
know never resented me moving in with him. He was a good guy and a good
older brother. Don't know if you can tell from the picture but he was
almost movie-star handsome, muscles, square jaw, blond hair. Myself, I
took after my mother's side of the family, dark hair, rail-slender
build. Alex was always there for me, looking out, protecting. So many
older brothers try to put as much distance as possible between them and
their kid brother, call them things like "Squirt", and
"Slowpoke," mine took me fishing, hunting, even let me hang
with him and his pals after football games. Three years as the starting
Quarterback, they didn't let freshmen play Varsity otherwise it would
have been four years, he was honor society, class president, church
youth leader popular, a guy with an unlimited golden future.
Maybe a one day in Congress kind of future.
We had a few years of James T Pyle High School together.
Remember the treat of those years, in-crowd, out-crowd, feel like
homemade shit years? Even in the halls of the most stratified society
this side of Calcutta, Alex looked out for me. All his jock friends
winked at me or called me by my designated nickname "Pick"
which I liked to think came from my narrow shape rather than a finger
tip display of snot. His church group gave me little blessed smiles. The
Honor Society, of which he was President, nodded at me. Teachers gave me
higher expectations than my fellow classmates and when I failed to meet
those expectations gave me understanding pity grades. 'Cause really,
someone like Alex could come out of one body only once.
Our dad was gone early enough that Alex became my idea
of a Dad. But like brother we would sometimes lie in the dark and talk,
hopes, dreams and what should we do with our lives talks.
He also gave me my only moment of high school glory. In Alex's
senior year, I was a Sophomore. With neither the body nor the
inclination toward reckless abandon that High School football seemed to
require, I went out for the team, in part, because it was expected. The
coaches had me figured out right away, so they slotted me into a
position that required no brawn and from which I would see no real
playing time, Third String Wide Receiver. First day of practice the
coach said, "Son, go stand over there." Stood I did, through
most of the season, my only real body to body contact was at the parties
after the games. Then, during a blowout, Coach allowed me on the field
and I caught my only TD pass. Running a post route Alex floated the ball
right into my hands. A picture of me crossing into the end zone, arms
outstretched, ball hanging on God's unseen string, made the front page
of the local paper and the school paper. Man, my mother even had it
framed, brother to brother, son to son. See, what I'd tell you, always
looking out for me.
It was after a football game that I first learned
something new about Alex. Football hero that he was, and as they say,
"You got to be a football hero, to get along with the beautiful
girls", Alex could have his pick of any girl but settled on Patty
O'Brien early on. Blond, Irish, sun freckles, strong legs, slim waist
and softball sized breasts, it was not really settling. A member of the
John T Pyle Cheer Squad, "Go You Tigers!" she could jump high
and do the splits, landing legs still akimbo. Even though I had my own
girl, couldn't get my mind off Patty. Flexibility, grace and strength,
the possibilities ran through my brain, as well as other, more sensitive
areas.
One night I asked, "Natural blond?"
Alex laughed. "What's wrong, Mary Lou ain't keeping
you busy enough? Got to pay Rosie a visit?"
"The question is asked for scientific purposes
only."
"Yeah, far as I know, it's natural."
That gave me pause, far as I know? Who'd have more
direct knowledge? Was it a religious thing?
"You saving yourself for marriage," I said,
half-joking.
"No, we've done some stuff. But I'm saving myself
for something that feels right." Then, after a long pause,
"You want her, you're welcomed to her." Then, as if he's
trying to convince himself, "I mean, I'll be going away for
college, she's got a year left of high school."
At the time those two ideas - feels right and you can
have her - fought for supremacy. You can have her won hands down.
I did have her once, twice, three times, more the next
year. Felt more than right to me.
Despite the scholarship offers from some Big Ten Schools, Alex headed
off to a NCAA Division II college, got a free ride for academics, played
QB, studied Pre-Med and joined the state's National Guard.
"Couple weekends a month," he'd said.
"Helping folks out."
Made it through that next year of high school without
him, though I barely lasted the football season, Junior year, still
third string wideout and a grand total of three plays from scrimmage. In
my senior year, my then girl friend's mother started working days. I
traded a senior year of diminished Football glory to spend some quality
time between 3 pm and 5 pm in a pink and purple bedroom playing human
trampoline. I scored more in that bed than I ever would on the grid
iron.
When we invaded Iraq, Alex wondered if his Guard Unit
was going to get the call.
"Nah, kid, don't worry about it," his CO said.
In his senior year, studying for the MCATs, they were on their way to
Iraq.
Out of high school, as a freshman at State, I majored in
getting stoned, laid and drunk.
Alex went off to make the world safe for George W. Bush's
re-election. We stayed in touch through e-mails and IM.
After a year, my studies had been so successful I made
the Dean's List, in a personal letter I was asked not to return to the
University. Alex's tour ended up with him being "asked" back
for another tour, this time with the option of returning as an officer.
I was living back at home, doing whatever shitty job I could find,
summers landscaping and painting, winters plowing and window
installation. Good thing these jobs rarely interfered with my
educational pursuits, I took up my preferred course of study - drinking,
chasing tail and getting stoned ? at home. Often enough work and study
walked hand in hand, advance credit for life experience.
When Alex got leave, they gave him a month off between
tours, he wanted to have a serious talk.
"Let's not get carried away here," I said,
lighting a cigarette, dreading the talk.
"Look, Mom's worried about you. Hell, I'm worried
about you."
"Well, I'm worried about you," I said, trying
to get the upper hand. "You're the one who's gonna get his ass shot
at."
"Good point, ass wipe. Then who's going to look
after Mom? Your drunk ass self?"
"I do okay," I said, knowing that he knew I
didn't.
"Come on man, work with me. Clean up your act. Let
Mom stop praying for you everyday. I'm the one who needs the prayer
help," he said, laughing. "People are trying to kill me. You,
you're just trying to kill yourself."
I laughed too.
Before he left, I joined AA. He sat through the first
meeting with me and was on his way back to Iraq by my third week sober.
I cleaned up, started working days and weekends at the mall, selling
men's clothes, and studied Business Administration, one class a quarter
at the local community college. Sobriety, it was like entering a
different country.
One year later, Alex was dead.
His unit had been set up to guard the border between
Syria and Iraq. Lots of stuff goes across that border, insurgents,
contraband and equipment. Alex's unit was there as gate-keepers. They
were part of a joint Iraq - US patrol. One day, they stopped what seemed
to be a trader moving a herd of sheep and someone must have planted
something. It blew up half the patrol. Alex rushed in to pull out the
wounded and the second IED went boom.
Air lifted to some place in country, once he was
stabilized, missing a leg and an arm, they flew him to a facility in
Germany. "Football Star Wounded" the local paper said, as if
Alex was still in high school, getting ready for the big game when those
ratfucks blew up their bombs. He died before we could make the
arrangements to be by his side.
At the same time we're learning this, I get an e-mail
from someone in his company, one Lt Tommy Edwards, bemoaning Alex's
death, talking about what a special officer, person and man he was. That
he was going to try to make it to the funeral. It was weird.
"What the fuck you trying to say," I wrote
back.
Turned out Alex was being investigated for violating the
Military's "Don't ask, Don't tell" Policy. Apparently someone
unasked had told and as a result, both he and Lt Edwards had been
determined to be unsuitable for service and on their way out the door.
Edwards had already received his don't let the door hit you in the queer
ass notice. Alex's was sent, unopened, in a box full of his personal
effects. It arrived two weeks after his funeral. Something that feels
right.
You may have read about his funeral in the paper or saw
some of it on the tube. In the space of three 24 hour news cycles, he
went from Military/Football Hero to a Gay Rights Cause to a Sinning
Demon. The National Guard sent an Honor Guard, they gave us a flag to
drape over the coffin. Tommy Edwards turned out to be a great guy, a lot
like Alex, a born leader. He shared some letters and photos with us,
spoke at the service right after our Reverend's eulogy, told us stories
about Alex's bravery and compassion, how Alex died trying to help
others. Former teammates, friends and even Patty made an appearance at
the podium, singing his praise. Neither my Mom nor I had it in us to
speak. The public testimony lasted a long time.
The protestors turned up at the gravesite. They held
signs that said things like "GOD HATES HOMOS" and "ALL
HOMOS GO TO HELL" and ?IEDS = GODS SWORD.?
They chanted what was on the sign.
On the march from the hearse, their leader, a
turkey-neck self-proclaimed Man of God from a state over got between the
coffin and my mother and I. He had an oversized bible in hand and he
shouted himself red about God's judgment. Shouted about Homos burning in
sin and burning in hell. "It's not too late," he said to my
mother, "it's not too late for you to renounce your son and his
homo sinning ways." One of the local cops pulled him out of the
way. "I have rights," he said, "rights under the
Constitution and rights under the laws of God." It was too much to
hope that the officer would start hitting him with his club. They just
moved him and his equally wild-eyed congregation behind a rope line,
where they pulled out megaphones.
There at the graveside, as our Reverend read a prayer
and led us in song, and after the Honor Guard did their salute, my
Mother collapsed, one second standing next to me, then plop, right to
the ground. She started to spasm, doing a fish out of water thing,
spittle and some vomit spilled out of her mouth.
Turkey neck used the confusion to slip through the
lines. He was standing next to me, shouted something about the Devil
leaving her body and the Holy Spirit entering.
Unable to speak, eyes rapidly opening and closing, she began to sputter
nonsense syllables.
It's the Holy Spirit,? Turkey neck shouted. ?She's
speaking in tongues!?
Doctors told me it was a stroke and that she was lucky to be alive.
Lucky is a relative term. Half her body was frozen, she couldn't speak
and she could not move unaided. She lost control over her bathroom
habits. After her heart was stable, stable but still broken, they'd move
her to a rehab home and tried to do what they could.
Lt Edwards stayed with me the first two weeks, driving
me to the hospital, cooking, contacting the army to straighten out all
the insurance stuff. I waited a month after he left, working part time,
spending the rest just thinking about things, tempted to drink, smoke or
snort but resolved not to fall back into old habits. My grief became my
solace, if that makes sense. Took another month to formulate my plans
and it took me about three months to buy everything I thought I would
need. Problem with small towns, everyone knows your business so I had to
get out of town once or twice a week, move a few exits up and down on
the interstate. Bigger cities also meant better libraries and better
internet access for my research. Once Loganville builds that Wal-Mart
they been promising, you could get all the shopping done there, I
suppose, but I didn't want to lose my momentum.
I showed up at the right Reverend Frank Hatch's house,
aka Turkey neck's house, on the night of May 25th, which was my brother's
birthday. I had on a cheap black Value City funeral suit, a dated skinny
tie, hadn't shaved for a few days, enough that it was almost a beard. My
hair was unkempt and I had on a pair of off the shelf clear eyeglasses,
scotch tape holding them together. A cheap reinforced cardboard
suitcase, that had the tools hidden beneath some loose clothing, was at
my side.
I knocked on his door.
?Reverend,? I said, ?I am a sinner here to seek your
help. I've seen what you can do and I need your help to save my soul.?
I told him I had sinned with thoughts about men and I
knew God would send me to
Hell.
We talked. His end of the conversation was stuff like,
?Will you accept the Lord into your heart and leave your homosexual sins
behind?? My end consisted of whatever I thought I needed to say.
When he finally was convinced of my sincerity to leave
behind my life of man lust, we kneeled together to pray. I do believe he
made a pass at me, putting an arm around my shoulder, a move which
seemed to be there not to comfort but seduce. Maybe it was my
imagination, maybe it was his attempt at humanity but it sure felt
wrong.
And it was at that moment that I pulled out the
chloroform. It's amazing what you can find in the right feed store.
You probably saw the legit newspaper coverage, Preacher
Found Dead, Accident Suspected. The Midnight Tattler even had photos.
Self-proclaimed anti-homosexual Preacher Franklin Tatum was found dead.
He had a woman's scarf around his neck, the other end was wrapped around
a transom. A foot stool was near-by underneath.
The Reverend was nearly naked, he wore a woman's lady's
black lace garter belt and seamed black fish net stockings. Sex toys
were found around the floor, open pornographic magazines and a VHS
videotape featuring trans-gender sex was found in the tape player.
Police found the television on and that the tape needed to be
rewound.
Other article of women's clothing was found in an
upstairs closet, along with sex toys and pornographic material. A
computer on the premises had bookmarks for pornographic sites, including
sites that featured barely legal men and women. A portable drive was
found which had a gateway to child pornography sites. The dildo found in
his rectum had been lubricated and the ejaculate on his clothing and the
ground beneath him was determined to match his DNA. According to police
reports, neither his house nor his anal cavity showed any sign of forced
entry. Accidental death or death ?due to misadventure? due to autoerotic
asphyxia is common enough (between 500 to 1000 suspected deaths per
year) that police generally know what it looks like. This one looked
right.
His congregation was stunned. It just goes to show, when
you think you know all there was to know about someone, they always fool
you.
Copyright 2007 by
John Stickney
John Stickney
lives and works in Cleveland, Ohio. He can be reached at stickney_jj@yahoo.com.
