The Color of the Sky, Part Three

A day late, but here's the next part of my short story...

Enjoy!

CSM

*****

The loft was my hiding place when I wanted time alone.  I have a couple of books and some movie magazines stashed up there.  Nothing dirty unless you think Nancy Drew or Tom Swift is dirty.

I was studying a sepia-toned photo in Modern Screen Magazine of Johnny Weissmuller in a bathing suit then one in his Tarzan loin cloth.  I fantasized about what was under that cloth.  As I sat there, I got 'excited' and felt my trousers getting tight.

"Are you up here?" said a quiet voice. 

I jumped. It was Sissy Boy. He was at the top of the ladder to the loft.

"Sorry, I didn't mean to scare you."  Uninvited, he sat down next to me.

"What do you want?"  I pushed the magazine between my legs to hide anything and now Johnny Weissmuller was smiling up at me.

"I love the Tarzan movies."  He grabbed the magazine and pointed at the picture of Johnny in his swimsuit.  "He's very fit, isn't he?"

I politely took the magazine back.  "He is."  It was an awkward moment.  He knew what was going on.  I could tell.

Sissy Boy was blunt.  "I think he's very handsome."

I snorted.

"I do."  Sissy Boy waited to see what I was going to do.  I did nothing.  Like I said, I accepted it for what it was.

Sissy Boy leaned over and kissed me on the cheek then scurried down the ladder, looking back at me. I was smirking.  I wasn't sure what to think.  I heard him race away like a mouse.  That night, I laid in bed and still felt the soft touch of his lips press against my cheek.

The next morning, I stepped out the back door and slipped my boots on.  I needed to do some weeding in the garden.

After tying my shoe laces, that's when I saw it.  It was Gra'ma begonia that she had in a pot on the back stoop.

Against my sepia-toned world, the center of one of the flowers was bright red.

*****

I worked in the garden.  I pulled some beets and potatoes and shook the dirt off.  I handed the basket to Gra'ma and she went inside.

I needed some time to think and maybe cry.  My other private place was out in the field next to our house.  I pushed my way though the corn stalks to a large sycamore that had grown up next to an unmovable boulder.  There was a small place between the tree and the boulder where I could easily hide.

As I sat there, I could hear the rustling of the corn stalks and the leaves of the sycamore in the wind.  I was thinking about my parents.  How I missed mama's smiling face and the praise from my dad when I did well in school.  I began to cry.

"Why are you crying?"  Sissy Boy said gently and peeked around the boulder at me.

I wiped away the tears.  "You shouldn't be creepin' up on people like that."

"Sorry." Once again, he invited himself to sit next to me.  There was room for two, but it was a squeeze for both of us.

We sat there until he broke the silence.  "I miss my mother.  She died when  I was ten.  Daddy gets drunk a lot and cries for her.  My brothers say nothing and work in the fields.  I bet you miss your mother a lot too."

He was so understanding that I started crying again.  He put one arm around my shoulder and worked the fingers of his free hand into mine.  He cradled me like Gra'ma does when I get sad.  Then I could feel his lips on my forehead.  I felt a shiver.  I broke free from him.

"I gotta go."  I raced off.  I wanted to stay but for some reason I couldn't. To be honest, it wasn't right to be thinking of my dead mama and wanting to kiss Sissy Boy at the same time.

I emerged from the corn field and meandered back to the back stoop.

And there it was.  I leaned down for a closer look.  The entire begonia flower was pure red.

*****

The Color of the Sky, Part Two

And now Part Two of my new short story...

Enjoy!

CSM

*****

About a two weeks before, I was walking into town when I noticed that the youngest of the Fray boys was trailing me. He was also sixteen.  I turned to look at him.  He squinted from the sun in his face.

"What do you want?" I asked.

"Nothing."

"Well then nothing's what you'll get."  I walked on.

"Are you walking to town?"

"Yep.  Got to get a few things for Gra'ma from Milton's."

He caught up, but stayed a couple of steps behind.  "My name's Rusty.  Most folks call me Sissy Boy.  Guess that's cause I take of the house while daddy and my brothers work in the field."  He hung his head down and put his hands in his jeans pockets.

"Yea, I know."  I also knew that he got teased and taunted a lot.  We walked the rest of the way in silence. I could feel his eyes glance over at me.  To be honest, I was thinking about Cesar Romero again.

We cut down the alley behind the businesses on main street.  It was quicker.  I could go in the back door of Milton's.

About half way there, Neil stepped out from behind a garage opposite the bank building.  He was a hulk.  He was seventeen and no smarter than a dead cat.

"Well if it isn't Sissy Boy." Neil shoved him.

Sissy Boy backed up, trying to avoid Neil.

I stepped in. I don't know why. I just did.

  

Neil laughed.  "Oh yea, Danny Boy, is he your girlfriend?  Does he get your gun off?"

"What?  I don't have a gun."

"What's ya got then?  A muff?

"A muff?  It's too hot for a muff."

Neil shook his head in disbelief. "Yurra dumb ass. Don't even know what I'm talkin' 'bout."  He pushed me then shoved Sissy Boy again.  This time Sissy Boy fell.  I kicked Neil in the shin.

"Oh you're gonna get it, you son of a bit..."

"What in blue blazes is going on out here?" Mr. Leiber came out the back door of the bank.

Neil ran off.

Mr. Leiber helped Sissy Boy up.  "Damn that Neil Henderson. I'd like to whoop that boy over the head.  Maybe knock some sense into him."

We thanked Mr. Leiber and we went on to Milton's.

Sissy Boy followed me back home.  I knew he was watching me as I walked.  He walked over to a tree in his yard and sat down and leaned against it.  I gave Gra'ma the bag of sugar and salt. I went out to the barn and ran my hand over the hood of the 1934 Ford sedan that sat idle since Granddad had died.  It needed a part.  I climbed up into the hay loft.

*****

The Color of the Sky, Part One

But first, my opening commentary... I wrote this short story last summer and for some reason, I love it.  The idea popped into my head one day while looking at some old sepia-toned photographs.  For the first time, I felt like I had written something good and my harshest critic thought so as well.  This was a defining moment for me.  It's a short story; several pages long.  I am editing each section as I go.  My goal is to post a new section every Tuesday.

Enjoy
CSM

The Color of the Sky

By Christopher Marshall

Sissy Boy ran down the lane to our house.  He was crying and wearing a striped dress that he held up to keep it from dragging in the dirt.  I saw him and yelled to Gra'ma and she came out on the porch.

"What the hell? You've been beaten," she said as Sissy Boy ran up the steps. "Just look at that lip and that eye's gonna swell up.  What happened to you, honey?" 

"My daddy's drunk and he beat me.  Made me put this dress on and..."  Sissy Boy cried harder.  She took him into the house. "I can't go back over there."

I followed and Gra'ma said to me. "Danny, be a good boy and fetch some water and there's some iodine and cotton in the bathroom cabinet." 

I could hear it in her voice that she was shaken by the sight of him.  Sissy Boy was crying.  Gra'ma was crying.  I held my tears in.  I knew at that moment how I felt about him.

*****

My world was sepia-toned. Everything I saw was made up of shades of browns, whites, and grays like in the movies.  It was 1942 and there was a war on.

I came to live with Gra'ma Jeffries earlier that year.  I was sixteen. My parents had been killed in an automobile accident.  Gra'ma had suffered not only their loss but recently Granddad from a heart attack and her son, my Uncle Will, killed at Pearl Harbor.  She had only me and her brother in California.

We lived in a small four-room house outside of Whitcomb, a town south of Terre Haute, Indiana.  Gra'ma rented it from Mr. Leiber, the town banker and took in sewing, mending, and laundry.  Three times a week, I worked for Mr. and Mrs. Milton, who owned the local five and dime, to help with the rent or whatever else.

And here's something important. One afternoon, I sat in the movie theater watching Betty Grable and Cesar Romero sing and dance. All the boys hooted at Betty Grable. I watched her and watched her, but no matter how gorgeous she was, my eyes kept wondering back to Cesar Romero.  I thought he was dashing and handsome.  That was the first time I thought about who I might like.  Somehow, I didn't really care.  I was like that.  I accepted things and moved on.

To Trivia I Go... Or What A Group!

Once a week, I hang out with a group of guys and we compete in a brain-testing game of trivia.  I enjoy their company and have been wanting to write about them. I decided it was time.

First comes the disclaimer... I can't write about everyone in the group!  I just don't know everyone that well. So don't be all judgy if you don't read about yourself.  I've decided to write about the ones I know best... Or at least I think I know them... Hmmm... Maybe I don't know them... Maybe they'll become offended by what I write...  Ha!  Oh well. They'll just have to spank me... No wait.... I better rethink that.  Anyway...

Okay, back to the ones I know best...

First, there's this couple I like to think of as Little Cub and Papa Bear.  They are so cute together.  I've known Little Cub the longest; in fact, he was the one that invited me to trivia.  I've seen him go from very heart-broken to finding the love of his life.  However, at trivia, Little Cub can get pretty annoyed when we agree on one answer, then debate it and chose another, then find out we should have gone with the first choice. We really should have listened to Papa Bear...  He knew best when he said Monet. I can picture this pair together, snuggled up on the couch, watching a zombie-infested world go by.  They're so in love.  They make me feel hopeful that I will find that someone who will think of me more than just a "wham bam thank ya ma'am".

Now there is this one guy...  All I can say about him is...  He can be such a Gloomy Gus!  Look here Gus... Here's what I've got to say to you. "Be happy.  Don't be bitter. You're attractive. You have friends who care about you.  And yes, we know you're a loner.  But don't be so hard on yourself. Just remember you make other people hard..."  Or at least that's what I overheard. He reminds me that everyone has walked rough paths and we need kindness and lots of beer.

Of course, I can't forget the one I think of as "The Matriarch."  He reminds me of the type who sits and watches and evaluates.  You know like Maggie Smith on Downton Abbey.  I could see him in one of her big brimmed hats. With his white beard.  Sipping tea. I'm sure he would have nothing but nice things to say... Maybe. And don't even get him started on politics. He's pointed out that "orange" is truly the new black...  Or I should say "black-hearted." That's why I like him. His views encourage me to keep in touch with what's going on in the world.  And that there's a few things that after you've touched them, you'd better go and wash your hands.

I've heard of couples where one is outgoing and the other is quiet.  There's a pair that makes me think that is true.  And it appears to be the case here. One seems to be introverted.  For some reason, I regard him as a wise sage. I suspect if I needed advice on anything, he should be my first choice to ask. His partner, on the other hand, appears to be the extrovert.  Always smiling.  Always laughing. And always looking kind of... hot...  Well, to be honest they're both hot.  Okay, I'll be even more honest if they wanted to, I'd let them "take me down and pass me around"... I'd be happy to be their 99th bottle of beer on the wall...  Hey, I've got to stir in a little controversy into this.  They show me that great relationships do happen and that I shouldn't give up hope. And periodically check the expiration dates on "the supplies" in the night stand drawer.

Well, my post has met its limit and here I must stop. So much more I could write.  Maybe next blog post...

CSM

On Being Gay... Or Would You Like Sex with That?

Being gay sometimes gets me down.  I don't see it as a curse or a disease or a punishment.  It's part of who I am, but it's not my entire world.  I've filled my life with so much more that just my sexuality, like writing stories that I store on my computer but never try to get published.  There's my expensive Lego habit.  My Disney mania. The love of Ethel Merman belting out everything's coming up roses... Okay, yes, I know, but I didn't say I wasn't a stereotypical gay.  I just said that it gets me down.., And yes, listening to The Beauty and the Beast soundtrack does get to me.  It's Angela Lansbury...  But I digress.

But there's that one part about the gay lifestyle that grinds my ax.  

I get really tired of feeling like all I am is a piece of meat for oversexed a-holes who think that's what being gay is all about.  First, good for them.  I'm glad they have a lusty hobby and I'm glad they found meaning for their lives.  What I'm not glad about is when they tell me that I'm the a-hole because I won't pleasure them.  I'm avoiding graphic detail, like describing what they want to do to me.  I actually had to look up a couple of terms... Those S&M guys...  Oh brother!

I have only one response for these guys who won't take "no" for an answer...  "Go fuck yourself, honey. I've got better things to do."  Since being back in the dating scene, I have said this a lot.  

On my dating app, guys will send me unsolicited pics of their... well... you-know-whats and their you-know-wheres.  And trust me, I've got my new canned response... "Thank you for the pics.  I will assume that you are showing me your true personality and that you are a dick and an ass.  Thank you for being honest up-front. Sincerely, I'm-blocking-you."

I'm sorry but I think this so-called world of gay hook-ups isn't that great.  In fact, the guys I know who do a lot of hook-uping seem to be the most self-abusive. But if we consider the old saying "You are what you eat..."  

They also seem to have no self-worth or low self esteem. They sleep around with guys that turn them on at that moment then simply move on.  I recently had a crush on a 20-something who told me that he had already been with 50 guys... and apparently counting.  I'm 47 years old and not any where near that number.   I can't help but roll out the sarcasm by saying "Gee, there's something I'd like to be remembered for.  Not things like I loved all my friends and cared about their well-being.  Or that I wanted to teach people about history and how it got us where we are today.  And god forbid that I be remembered for my caring nature."

Why would someone want to do that -- just sleep around?  So, I asked, read a few reports, gathered information, slammed back a very glasses of Riesling and drew up a theory.  Please disagree with me if you like... but I've decided that most gay men are just like dogs.  They only want to sniff your behind. And my response is "Get your damn nose out of my butt."

Over the past few months, I've kept swinging back and forth between the realization that I'm going to be single the rest of my life and the complacency of  just giving in and fuck around since no one gives a shit about the fact that I have a life.  

Once, I met this kind of a nice guy who just wouldn't let up.  He wanted to... you know... go "downtown"...  He finally wore me down.  I simply gave in, dropped my pants, and said "There!  Knock yourself out!" Guess what his response was... "Well if you're going to be a-hole about it..."

It gets old so fast... No wonder I have a "Why Bother" attitude... Sigh.

CSM

My Eulogy... Or Don't Wait Until the Last Moment.

The other day I was thinking about making a will, who to leave stuff to, and what do I want to happen to my body... My flabby pasty body.  But even more, I wondered what I would want people to say about me.  So, I decide to write my own eulogy...  And here it is... Or at least part of it.... I may have more to say... And now here it is...

"When Christopher Marshall was born, the entire country celebrated his birth with fireworks... Well, okay, it was the Fourth of July, but who cares.  Christopher was definitely a Yankee Doodle Dandy, which he often sang "Yank my Doodle, it's a dandy."  He always had a way finding the dirty alternative.  He relished the world of double-entendres.   Regardless of his lewdness, he tapped his way into the world and never stopped.

He loved to entertain and make people laugh and smile.  I mean who wouldn't forget the time he dressed up as a nun and went bar-hopping.  And who couldn't forget about the time he helped that old lady across the street only to find out she wasn't an old lady who didn't want to go to the other side of the street.

Chris had a way about him... An honest way.  Too honest... He didn't really need to agree with Penny when she kept saying she was fat.  He was just being honest... "It felt like Godzilla approaching the city," he would say.  He always pointed out stray pink curlers.  He offered free and very useful advice like make sure that it's a pineapple ice and not yellow snow.  Or how about "Don't go away mad..." And he always loved it when people complimented his behind.  When he walked away, people often said "What an ass!"

He loved deeply.  He cared deeply.  He wanted to kick people in the balls. He loved so hard and so much he wanted people to feel the same pain and he figured that would be the best way.  And trust me, if he didn't care, he would let you know with a hearty round of a tune he called "Fuck off motherfucker and don't let the door hit you in the ass..."  I wish I could remember how the tune went, but I was quite a showstopper and toe-tapper that a chorus line could really kick to.

I will tell you this.  He believed that death wasn't the end, but just another beginning.  He believed that he would wake up and find himself in his own Heaven, filled with what he always wanted in life, including but no limited to, an unlimited pass to Disney World, time to spew all of his fictional stories into print, and win that Academy Award (where he can walk across the stage naked and nobody laughs.)  He truly believed that it doesn't end here.

I was there to hear his last words... "I loved too hard, over thought everything, and I accidentally farted during an organ recital one time, but nobody noticed. They must have assumed it was a D-flat and was part of the song."

And I was told to tell everyone his last three words...
"So long suckers!"

CSM

The Tell-All Story behind Last Week's Facebook Rant

Ha!  Tricked you into reading...

Although I know you might enjoy it, I am not going to write a tell-all about the very minor episode that unfolded over the past week.  And yes, my attitude towards it is that it was very minor...  very very very minor.  It was brought on by someone else's drama, not mine. And it would just give more power to the other person.

In fact, I am only going to reiterate "Thanks to those who congratulated me. Many hugs.  And thanks to all who posted kind words about the whole craziness."

I would like to say one thing. I was mad. Pushed to the limit and sent over the edge. Not the kind of mad where you're upset that you didn't get any of Joan's famous cheese ball at work or mad at Rover for chewing up your favorite shoes.  I'm talking about mad. I wanted to punch something. Like take a whack at Ouiser Boudreaux.  I might have been able to uproot a mighty sequoia given the chance or at least flip over a Mercedes.

Me getting angry is so infrequent that I'm surprised that the National Weather Service didn't picked it up as a sudden 90 degree heat wave across Central Indiana in mid-December. It just doesn't happen.

My father was the type to fly off the handle and the whole episode was over in flash.  My mother, on the other hand, had that type of anger you should fear the most.  You know that "look." The one that mother's give.  The one that says "no need to worry about what your father's going to say."  It's more like "you need to worry about right now and what I'm going to do to you."  That look that has made grown men cry.

I have my mother's kind of anger.  Once you're there, and it takes a lot to get there, you had better get the hell out of my way.  But not before I let it ferment and fester.  Or if you like, let it simmer and put it in the fridge over night, allowing the flavors to blossom, then reheat it and see how they dance across your palate.  Which is exactly what I would do... Push you down and clog my way across your face.

But for the most part, I chose not to get angry anymore.  There's no need.  I always stop and ask myself "Will this matter in five years?"  If so, then I might throw a temper tantrum, but even then I don't feel like dropping to the floor and banging my fists on the carpet.  It's just not good for my back.

I prefer to think that I am like a fine Chardonnay or Pinot Noir.  The more I age, the better I get. Pop open my cork and see what you get. Tasty. Bubbly. Flamboyant. Velvety. Yes, those are all words used to describe fine wines.  Don't believe me, just Goggle it.  Look up "words to describe fine wines."  Go ahead...  Search...  Go on...

HEY!  I said "Search..."  Or else!

CSM