It seemed too much, that the boy would be gentle, pampered, and nasty. I guess it might have been easier if he had looked, sounded, or at least pretended to be a little like me or the boy I remembered myself to be. But on trips, he traveled with his own pillow and blanket, which he called his "blanky." He needed them, he said, to be "comfy."
"Boys," I said, "do not have a blanky."
"Yes, they do," he said.
"No, they—" and I gave up and walked away.
He was too pampered, too helpless, I thought, to enjoy or endure the company of men like me. He was a sensitive, loving, gentle boy who said his prayers without being told, loved his momma, and, to my horror, attached himself to me with fishhooks I could not pull free. At night, in front of a television frozen forever on Animal Planet, he used me for a pillow, and no matter how much I chafed or squirmed or shoved, he always came back. I would fret and the woman would smile as he dozed on my shoulder, a toxic wad of neon-green bubble gum hanging half out of his mouth. He followed me like a baby duck, stood glued to me in restaurants and stores, and expected me to hug him, as nasty as he was. I hugged, grimacing, as if I had wrapped my arms around a used Porta Potti. He even expected me to tuck him in at night, and as I did I wondered what had happened to me, and who was this nearly neutered man who stood in line for Day-Glo nachos and sticky juice boxes and paid good money to see
March of the goddamned
Penguins.
I will never forget the first time I saw him. He was still just a roly-poly little kid, playing in the white sand with his cousins on the Alabama coast.
"Hey," was all I said to him, but I thought:
You're going to be my boy. I'm going to have a boy, after all this time.
"Hey," he said, with just half a glance, and went back to burying his cousin in the sand. I watched him awhile, then went to the souvenir shop and bought him a shovel. If you're going to bury somebody, bury 'em.
He was too pampered, too helpless, I thought, to enjoy or endure the company of men like me. He was a sensitive, loving, gentle boy who said his prayers without being told, loved his momma, and, to my horror, attached himself to me with fishhooks I could not pull free. At night, in front of a television frozen forever on Animal Planet, he used me for a pillow, and no matter how much I chafed or squirmed or shoved, he always came back. I would fret and the woman would smile as he dozed on my shoulder, a toxic wad of neon-green bubble gum hanging half out of his mouth. He followed me like a baby duck, stood glued to me in restaurants and stores, and expected me to hug him, as nasty as he was. I hugged, grimacing, as if I had wrapped my arms around a used Porta Potti. He even expected me to tuck him in at night, and as I did I wondered what had happened to me, and who was this nearly neutered man who stood in line for Day-Glo nachos and sticky juice boxes and paid good money to see
March of the goddamned
Penguins.
