Memories of Emily: A Plague to Men & Lump Wars
A Plague to Men, Sister Logttuny, The Gratitude Ledger, Boating, & First Grade
A Plague to Men
Answering the knock on the front door revealed a neighbor returning my stepfather’s tools. He entered and went to the basement while I returned to watching television in the living room. The humorous eighteen- or nineteen-year-old inspired positive feelings, and the many hours he and my stepfather discussed sports engendered trust in him.
Ascending the basement stairs, he stood by the sofa and horsed around, grabbing and pulling my legs in a light wrestle of play until his hands touched differently. Not understanding and ignoring, the odd behavior worsened with any pretense of fun ceasing when a tug of the belt let his pants fall. Pushing my head between his legs, he demanded I put his penis in my mouth, and after a while of this, he turned me over and repeatedly forced himself upon me as I stared at the television.
These encounters continued in the months before his departure to college and my attendance to first grade, each incident ending with him swearing me to secrecy, claiming this was the way older kids had fun. Never revealing the truth resulted not from believing him but from the truth blurring in the ether as the play of television drowned his grunting and blurred the vision of him inflicting desire that released a myriad of curses, trapping within me, my lie.
Lump Wars
Sister Logttuny
Outside the window, the motion of kids laughing, talking, skipping rope, and chasing one another beneath the rustling trees sparsely growing on the playground formed from the ether as loose images and sounds, lacking continuity like old photographs showing random scenes of indeterminate geography, time, and meaning beyond knowing the playground and children firsthand, and eventually, only the way photos are valued in a historical or antiquarian way after all meaning faded, leaving only those fragments, telling of those children and that place’s existence, until finally, all trace disappeared into the void of the forgotten.
“You’re slow as molasses.” Sr. Logttuny’s voice boomed across the classroom, commanding attention from the window to where she sat at her desk eating what appeared to be a feast. Slowness completing my first-grade math assignment forbid joining recess enjoyed by classmates beyond the window. I finished and handed her the worksheet, which she studied while flabby jowls chewed candy, garbling, “Stop writing your nickname on your worksheets. Now go outside.”
Called “Bo” but named “Vince” made no sense, and I hated the nickname since people called me “Bozo the Clown” or accused me of having a fag’s name. Sr. Logttuny’s request made sense especially considering the inability to answer when asked the nickname's origin, having never been told by my parents. Never again designating myself with the name and only responding if people already knew it, I ended the use of the moniker that day, but “Bo” continued to haunt me.
Grabbing jacket from the coatroom in the rear of the classroom, I proceeded outside to the low brick wall topped with a high, wrought-iron fence enclosing the playground. Perching on the wall in the playground's corner, the ebb and flow of activity appeared a fluidic motion highlighted by the girls’ plaid uniforms, saddle shoes, and boys’ matching light blue shirts and dark pants.
The corner provided an unobstructed view of the playground and some safety from the strike of stray balls or kids. More importantly, watching Isabel occurred without distraction.
Isabel glowed, running with the other girls playing Tag You’re It. The mysterious, lovely creature with long, dark ethereal hair and a hypnotic accent whisked me to the land of the Puerto Ricans where she originated. At the start of the school year, as customary, Sr. Logttuny stood Isabel before the class and announced, “This is our visiting Puerto Rican Catholic. Tell everyone your name and describe Puerto Rico.”
She introduced herself, discussing the magical island of Puerto Rico filled with beautiful Boricua conversing in romance, enjoying sunny days on the beach where Isabel and I would someday marry.
Time watching Isabel ended with the smack of a basketball pivoting my head like a Pez dispenser which announced the arrival of the other part of my daily routine. Caught off guard while watching Isabel, I held the stinging spot on my head, worsened by the cool fall air. Earl Az appeared before me, attracting other kids as nuns and teachers milled in discussion across the yard, oblivious of Earl’s behavior as he strutted back and forth, hosting his daily insult variety hour from Do Unto Others Elementary School. “You’re stupid.” Earl walked around me in the circle of laughing kids, applying his version of an intelligence test:
“Say the pledge of allegiance.
“What’s five times five?
“Who discovered America?
“See. You’re dumb.”
I despised this test the most. The questions raced past too fast to figure or remember. Feeling embarrassed and stupid, I tried walking away, but Earl stood in my path. “Are you going to cry like a girl? Pussy.”
Recess ended, and everyone moved into the classroom, where the show took the form of spitballs and people making mean faces when the teacher looked away. My throat hurt as the lump swelled and ached, routinizing in a daily battle. Although skirmishes with the lump started at home before first grade, those memories fragmented, but I distinctly remembered the fighting escalated after the first Wednesday church service.
Each Wednesday, a serpent formed in the schoolyard, made from girls on the left holding hands with boys on the right, then snaked the empty street to the church about a block away from the school. The rural area of Westminster, Maryland, kept the road abandoned during school hours, but we still formed the human chain to maintain order.
My first mass began with nuns telling me to sit in the pew behind the congregation. My parents felt Catholic school a necessity for quality education, but their choice to never baptize me meant ineligibility to participate in mass, but nuns and priests encouraged me to pray for salvation. When that first mass ended, Earl approached me in the church’s hall while preparing to leave. “Why do you sit in the back of the church?”
I shrugged. “Not baptized.”
“You look like a girl.”
I shrugged.
“You’re an ugly fag.” Making sure to walk behind me in the chain, he continued commenting on my ugly, faggy, clown hair on the walk back to school and from that day forward.
Thoughts returned to class and Sr. Logttuny’s blackboard scrawling just as a warm spitball spattered my cheek. Wiping it away and turning my head to avoid a hit to the face, I stared out the window as the war with the lump ramped up.
Sr. Logttuny waved her hands in the air presenting her history lesson. “Rome was the mightiest of empires. So advanced were the Romans that they built aqueducts that brought water into the city, allowing for running water just like in your kitchen at home.”
Waddling her massive frame to the chalkboard, she drew a crude mountain, archway, and an abstract Coliseum below connected with wavy lines representing water moving from mountain to arch to Rome. Stuffing candy in her mouth while illustrating the Roman plumbing garbled her lecture. “Wader f‘owed do’n the moun’ain in’o the aquedu’t and then to the Coloss’um, w’ere they used t’e wader to hydrate the lions.” She stopped and swallowed. “Then they released the lions on unsuspecting, innocent Christians who were more than willing to die than forsake their belief in Jesus. Seeing the willingness of the Christians to die for God, the Romans became convinced of the truth of Jesus Christ, and they all converted to Christianity.”
Sr. Logttuny finished the history lesson. “It’s time for penmanship.”
Penmanship might’ve been enjoyable because I liked duplicating cursive letters on the worksheets, but slowness stole this joy since cursive writing required speed. Speed's necessity launched the class into a thirty-minute race to rewrite simple sentences and the alphabet in upper and lower case. Inability to complete assignments timely upset Sr. Logttuny, triggering a frantic rush to avoid her anger. I finished the task in the allotted time, but the letters sloppily broke the margins, causing Sr. Logttuny to frown at my worksheet when she took it. “Well, you finally finished on time. Maybe next time, you can put some effort into making your work look good.”
The class laughed as Sr. Logttuny waddled to her desk. “Hush. It’s time for reading lessons. Now open your books to page four. Now everyone read along; God is great. God is good. People hate. God is…”
A hot spitball hit my face, and searching the origin revealed Earl with thumbs in his ears and tongue pointing at me. Sr. Logttuny stuffed candy in her mouth and read as I stared out the window so as not to feel alone battling the lump.
The Gratitude Ledger
Television formed a science fiction collage around Barretta. The gritty detective and his pet parrot tremendously appealed to me, but science fiction like Star Trek also ruled the mind. Like most kids, I enjoyed a Saturday morning cartoon diversion, but animation lacked science fiction's entertainment and life's wisdom imparted by Barretta.
Barretta presented a better application of the rules sporadically thrown at me by adults and kids, identifying bad or unfair behavior as “not playing straight,” or the need to be sly because “bullets can’t turn corners,” or the universal economic ethic of “you got to pay or die — period,” which dictated “don’t go to bed with a price on your head.” There were good guys and bad guys, and sometimes, you needed to wear a mask to catch the baddies.
Barretta’s formidable knowledge found challengers only in the teachings of cinema. The gold standard for weekly media learning was the movie. In the Westminster shopping center resided a dollar theatre that played many older, good films such as The Planet of the Apes but many bad movies like Son of Godzilla. Studying the big screen provided a pleasure unduplicated watching television. Matinees brought much happiness when my parents left me to watch movies in the half-empty theater where I took ownership of the screen, and nobody bothered me.
Television remained the primary education outlet providing access to older movies unavailable to the big screen. Abundant westerns and many science fiction classics like Atlantis, the Lost Continent fueled much speculation, but ultimately, the love of television proved my undoing as TV’s ingenuity escaped understanding. I understood the theatre because a projector produced the images on the screen, but television’s transmission from some distant place baffled and confused, driving me to question my stepfather.
My stepfather entered life sometime before first grade, but the exact time and event escaped memory. Not a tall man but highly athletic, he rose like a star in the corporate world, intimidating, inspiring awe, and commanding the respect of subordinates and bosses. Considered humorous and charismatic, people spoke highly of him and commended his fair and just nature. None of these attributes extended to me, which a Sunday afternoon of probing his knowledge of television’s workings revealed. “How do TV shows get in the TV?”
Sitting at the dining room table, he shuffled his work papers. “They come through the antenna.”
“How do the shows know which antenna to come to?”
“They just do.”
“How-”
The whip of his hand slapping my face stung and rang in the ear, causing a step backward from his fiery stare.
“I don’t want to hear you cry. Make one sound, and I’ll give you something to cry about.”
He returned to his work papers, and I returned to watching the old movie Journey to the Center of the Earth playing in the other room. Past actions elicited similar, less harsh responses, but this event frightened more than others and necessitated all my will to fight the lump.
My mother’s high-level management position for a large firm resulted from business science prowess, giving her and my stepfather many shared traits such as reducing all issues to their bottom-line. “There wouldn’t be poverty in the world if people just worked harder and saved money.”
She and my stepfather also spoke the strange business management language that articulated life in terms of risk-reward, ROI, cost-benefit analysis, brand value, and business strategy. The tongue of commerce polarized everything in terms of success and failure, even when objectives held no prize. A successful vacation equaled a trip to X, experiencing Y and Z with any formula deviation considered a failure. Viewing life through a boardroom lens, my mother managed everything using business applications and strategies — even me.
My mother started tracking my life debt by hanging an itemized ledger on the refrigerator, which I found when obtaining a soda. The ledger indicated a large debt owed to my parents, which my mother clarified when she entered the kitchen, and I asked, “What’s this?”
She pointed to the subtotal. “Bo, read the line items. You owe us $21,697.62. Since you were born, that is how much we spent raising you, Bo. What, Bo? Do you think food is free, Bo? Think of this as your gratitude ledger that shows, clearly in dollars and cents, why you’re lucky you’re not poor and have good parents, Bo.”
My mother updated the ledger weekly, adding the gas cost for driving me to school, food, textbooks, and all my stepfather’s time spent dealing with me. I didn’t take the ledger seriously because it had no real meaning, or so I thought.
One Saturday afternoon, while sitting in my room reading a comic book and listening to the radio, my mother entered and turned off the radio by unplugging it. “Bo, I told you not to play your radio loud.”
“I’ll turn it down. Please don’t take my radio?”
“Bo, it’s not your radio. Did you pay for it, Bo? No, Bo. I will subtract its depreciated value from the gratitude ledger, and if you want it back, you will need to pay for it, Bo.”
The gratitude ledger’s meaning clarified as a reminder of owning nothing beyond what I earned, including my room, which my mother explained as a long-term rental that could result in an eviction at any time. Belongings now became leverage for chores and jobs to work off the debt while new things increased the debt. My mother’s keen management of life’s business motivated me to earn money to keep the things I thought I owned but inspired no gratitude.
Boating
In June of 1977, I saw Star Wars, and life forever changed. There only existed the time before and time after Star Wars. In the time before, there were no lightsabers, no space dog fights, and no Force. In the time after, the fictional space cowboy occupation became a reality. With radio and TV discussing space shuttles, a new age of space exploration ushered in the promise of unknown worlds, new galaxies, and inevitable hostile alien interactions.
The new space age dictated training in the ways of the Force. Many a day, I attempted to telekinetically move objects and dueled stormtroopers disguised as cornstalks in the neighbor’s field, using a tree branch lightsaber. Along with Jedi training, I learned the value of work and action figures.
Performing yard work and other chores combined with holiday and birthday money sent by relatives filled the envelope containing my Star Wars action figure fund. The gratitude ledger’s balance grew, but dollars could not measure the value of action figures, and by the end of summer, an army stood on the bookshelf in my room, prepared to carry out any mission.
The excitement of action figures and space adventure lasted briefly as my parents’ new sailboat purchase darkened life. In theory, the boat seemed cool, but theory rarely proved entirely true, and although young, I understood adult considerations of fun often meant many monotonous hours for me.
Perfectly content to sit at home all summer with my action figures, I begged my parents to let me stay home with a babysitter, but my stepfather insisted I would love the boat, thoroughly describing the entertainment value. “What’s wrong with you, Bo? Everybody loves boating, Bo. Just bring some of your stupid toys or a book, for God’s sake, Bo. You’re going boating, Bo.”
Suspicions concerning the boat's boring nature proved correct, along with other unknown, torturous aspects of seafaring. The thirty-foot sailboat floated like a prison cell on the water with few places to move or sit without obstructing the shifting sails and ropes. Worse yet, the only protection from the sun meant going below deck where the stale, hot air and motion induced seasickness.
The choice of action figures instead of books as boat entertainment seemed wise since reading likened to watching a sitcom on a spinning TV. Sitting on the starboard side of the boat, I focused on action figures to make bearable boating’s endless, fun days, but sailing proved too risky for them.
Voyages consisted of my mother and stepfather contentedly sailing about the Chesapeake while discussing the vast importance of their jobs, real estate, and the country’s economy. Boating excursions proceeded miserably but without incident until my parents invited Dr. and Mrs. Agena.
Dr. Michell Agena MD. formed the pinnacle of manliness from mountaineering, water skiing, sailing, football playing, and I’m sure many other sports. Dr. and Mrs. Agena spent many days on the boat, telling witty stories and exalting Dr. Agena’s place within the medical profession. Beer and life’s wisdom flowed as my stepfather handed Dr. Agena a beer. “You know, Michell, it’s a crying shame America is turning into a welfare state. By the year 2000, we’re going to be living in a third-world country.”
Dr. Agena cracked his beer. “I agree. People just don’t value hard work and putting their time into education.”
“You’re damn right, Michell. Look at that kid. Sure, Bo’s not the sharpest tool in the shed, but he knows how to work. He’s been working all summer. Granted, he blows all his hard-earned money on stupid toys, but he knows to work if he wants those stupid toys.”
“What work is your son doing to earn money?”
“Whoa, Michell. That’s not my son. He came with the marriage.”
“Oh, sorry.”
“No worries. That’s why I let him keep his Guido father’s name, ‘Vincent Vito Triola,’ no way would I want that name near me.”
“Smart. You wouldn’t want an embarrassment like that hanging around your neck.”
“No sir, Michell. No sir.”
“How did he get ‘Bo’ for a nickname?”
“Don’t ask me, Michell. I think it’s some kind of white-trash, Baltimoron name. God only knows.”
“Well, he’ll be gone when he’s eighteen anyway. Let’s just hope for your sake he doesn’t join the mafia.”
My stepfather lifted his drink, roaring, “You’re a card, Michell.”
“Hey, does Bo know how to swim?”
“Doubtful. he isn’t athletic, Michell. He’s a bit of a pansy.”
“No better time to learn than right now.”
Grabbing my arm and leg, Dr. Michell Agena hurled me into the Chesapeake Bay, and everyone laughed as my stepfather raised his beer. “Sink or swim!”
Kicking wildly and screaming, I bobbed, gulping water each time I submerged until the boathook snagged my shirt, tearing it as my stepfather pulled me back to the ship. Coughing and gagging, I tried not to cry but couldn’t help it as I fell inside the boat where my mother stood over me. “Bo, I don’t know why you overreact to everything. No one is trying to kill you, Bo.”
My stepfather pointed in disgust. “Just go below, so you don’t make a spectacle of yourself, Bo.”
While sitting in the cabin feeling embarrassed, the realization struck that my Luke Skywalker figure fell in the bay, so I placed the action figures in their carrying case. Future trips resulted in staying below deck, despite the sickness, and I never again brought action figures on the boat. Many sickness filled days passed, sitting below imagining Luke Skywalker resting at the Chesapeake's bottom and hoping someone would find and rescue him.
First Grade
I dreamed,
Emerging from restless solitude
Singing in time’s endless amplitude
Walking sandals the schoolyard smiling
Regaling, freckled teen beguiling
Bell bottom wearing, queen of flowers
Fell solemn swearing, “Serene of Hours”
Grasping her jean’s hem in fearful play
Gasping scared, “I think I lost my way”
Asking, “Where’d they go: the ones I knew
“Basking in that tasking place untrue?”
Angelic girl of dreams kissed my head
Prophetic whirl of scenes, “Wist,” she said,
Strong I come; my flowers crown my drum
Rise and lift, my petals round my strum
Lies can’t rift my loyal sound I hum
Long I come; my sigils bound to none
Wield my sigils, they flash like metal
Sling my glyphs sketched with chaos mettle
Sing my riffs etched on iris petal
We shall not fall; we shall not settle!
Stand I to fend off hate that harrows
Friend those scoffed by faith-filled arrows
Friend those crossed by wrath-filled marrow
Stand I for you the cast-out sparrow…
Opening my eyes, Emily appeared smiling and tapping on the window of my stasis chamber as her golden hair fell against the glass. “Wake up.”
I roused as the chamber warmed and opened. “Where are we?”
“Earth. We made it.”
She helped me exit the pod, and I stretched while walking off the suspended animation's effects, following her to the cockpit window where earth grew from starry space. Entering the atmosphere, the ship descended as Emily pointed and sighed, “We’re finally home.”
An eternity passed since I saw her so happy. Brilliant, beautiful, and bold, Emily stood out even amongst the Atlanteans, who were all smart and attractive. I felt blessed partnered with her on our ill-fated trip to Pluto, which stranded us traveling nearly a millennium. The year we met escaped memory, but the event remained clear like a movie.
We were children in the schoolyard of Atlantis, in the time before the Great Move when Atlantis floated near the Strait of Gibraltar, long before Rome’s fancy indoor plumbing, but long after the Atlanteans overcame imperialism and thirst for profiteering. There on the elementary school playground in the Old Republic, we met during recess.
An argument concerning some complex mathematical theory proved my schoolyard rival the intellectual-inferior, and while reveling in the debate’s victory with classmates, I noticed her a few feet away talking with a group of girls. Entreated by her beauty, I found myself edging towards her, but my advance stopped in the sudden blaring “red alert” announcing another attack by the Athenians on the great city.
When would the humans learn the superior technology of the Atlanteans outmatched them? The blaring siren served more as a public service formality but still required reporting to the war shelters. There in the tunnels below the city, she smiled at me, and we sat holding hands for a long time.
Drawing me back from musing, Emily pressed buttons from the pilot chair, working the communicator. “West Atlantis, do you read me, over.”
The speaker crackled, spurring thoughts of our brothers and sisters living in the city below the Bermuda Triangle, making the years in hibernation feel endless. Encountering a magnetic storm during a routine trip damaged the ship’s engines, throwing us far off course and forcing a limp through space on autopilot at sub-light speeds. A journey of several hours became a thousand-year quest to transverse the distance home, and now, the joy of homecoming darkened in our brothers and sisters' silence.
Checking the sensors failed to reveal Atlantis. “Emily, the city isn’t there.”
“What? That’s impossible.”
“It’s true. There’s no sign of West Atlantis beneath the Bermuda Triangle.”
Emily’s fingers worked the dial of the communicator changing channels until the static broke with a random, antiquated radio station singing, “They point the cannon at you, Lord!”
The sky filled with missiles as the computer squawked, “Danger! Danger!”
Emily punched the yoke. “Hang on!”
The ship nose-dived to avoid the missiles. “My god!” Emily worked the stick as the horizon filled with F15 Eagles.
Needing to get as close to West Atlantis as possible, I yelled, “Emily, head for Bermuda.”
Bullets riddled the spaceship while Emily guided the dying craft towards Bermuda, but extensive damage limited our travel, causing a rapid, spiraling descent towards the Chesapeake Bay. She leaped from the pilot’s seat, pulling me by the shoulder. “Abandon ship!”
Racing to the rear, we squeezed into a metal sphere, much like a diving bell, and parachuted into the waters below as the ship continued a doomed course. When the bell’s motion slowed, it opened, releasing us into the bay under night's cover. With military forces distracted by the burning, sinking spacecraft, we swam the cold waters to the nearest shore.
Weeks of hiding in the woods and surveilling the humans revealed our situation's bleakness. Emily stoked the campfire with a stick. “It appears the humans have taken over the earth. The Atlanteans may still be here, but I doubt it since they would have heard our transmissions.”
“I agree. It’s doubtful the humans conquered them because humans are far too stupid.”
“True. There must be some remnant to tell us what happened or to direct us to their new world. It could take years to figure out.”
I leaned back, pulling my laser pistol and aiming at the fire. “We may be trapped here, but we’re not weak.”
She shook her head. “We can’t rule the humans even though they don’t play it straight. No matter how dumb, they have the right to live their lives. We’re going to live incognito and never reveal ourselves to ensure we don’t disturb their civilization while we search for West Atlantis.”
I holstered my weapon, realizing the wisdom in her dedication to the Atlantean Prime Directive. “You’re right. We cannot interfere with their cultural development. Still, we would be saving them from themselves. They learned nothing since the fall of Rome. They turned their back on their God and each other to wage war. Punishment for their sins will be self-annihilation.”
Emily moved next to me. “Perhaps, but as the saying goes, don’t do the crime if you can’t do the time.”
I nodded. “We can’t hide in the woods indefinitely.”
“Tomorrow, we will assume human lives and try to blend in with the humans.”
I shook my head, frustrated. “Those damn dirty humans.”
Emily hugged me. “I know. I know. Just remember; when the going gets narrow, keep your eye on the sparrow.”