We humans were designed in such a way that we shouldn’t see some things, you know, the things we like watching the most: Pretty people having sex, which is, we would all agree, better than watching ugly people having sex. Big guys fighting and killing other big guys. Alpha men and women running amok to amuse the rest of us who are further down in the Greek alphabet. Girls taking their clothes off and getting on their knees. The images might not damn us in the hereafter—I’m no theologian—but they sure as hell can ruin us now.
Mr. Stamps blamed Benjamin for seducing him in the park. In fact, Mr. Stamps went so far as to say that he met Benjamin to counsel him and warn him against pursuing a life of profligate homosexuality, but, Mr. Stamps continued, Benjamin was relentless in his desire for sexual congress—relentless!—and it was, in fact, Benjamin who pulled down Mr. Stamp’s pants. Of course, Mr. Stamps lost his job anyhow. And even though Mr. Stamps lied about Benjamin, I almost felt sorry for him. Poor Mr. Stamps: It’s for men like him they invented the words “collateral damage.”
As a result of the scandal, Benjamin was kicked off the football team, stripped of his class office, shunned by all his former admirers, and forced by his father to enroll in a military academy somewhere out east. Here was success beyond my wildest hopes!
But what about Jennifer Briggs?
She came in the store a few days before Christmas break, looking pale and woebegone: her hair was limp and oily and pushed back over her ears; her face had broken out; and the marks around her wrists were redder and more blistered than ever. I wondered how that could be, given the fact that she and Benjamin ended things when the scandal broke. He had let her keep the letter jacket—he said he wouldn’t ever wear it again anyhow—and she was looking smaller than ever when she bought her Coke and Cheetos.
“So, how are you doing?” I asked.
“Shitty, Cliff. What did you expect?”
“Well, you look great,” I lied.
“Don’t pull that line on me! Like you said, we’ve known each other too long to bullshit each other.”
“You always look great to me.”
“And that’s supposed to make up for the shitshow my life has become?”
“I’m sorry.”
“I bet you are.”
As I was ringing up her sale, I asked as casually as I could, “What’s wrong with your wrists?”
She sighed. “If you must know, my dear father left us in October because he said he couldn’t make any money in the boonies, and he missed the city, but he didn’t want me and Mom to come with him because he was starting over, really starting over, so fuck us. Now Mom watches TV all day, and in order for us to have enough money to eat, I clean machines covered with blood and guts at the Piedmont meat packing plant from six to midnight, and the rubber gloves they give me should go up to my elbow, but they don’t; they end, oh, about right there.” She held up her arms and the sleeves slid below the chafed rings around her wrists. “Are you happy now?”
“I didn’t know you were doing that.” I had a sick feeling in my stomach.
“Well, now you do. And then all that bullshit happened to Benjamin.”
“Oh, yeah. I heard about that.”
“Don’t ‘oh, yeah’ me. Everybody talked about it all the time. He was a good guy. He said we should wait to have sex until we got married.”
“Married?”
“It doesn’t matter now, does it? Because he’s long gone. You know, I still wonder who set him up?”
I gulped. “What do you mean?”
“Some guy called and said he wanted to fight Benjamin at the park. But the guy never came, just Mr. Stamps. Then somehow Stu and Will happened to be there to see the whole thing.”
I didn’t say anything. Jennifer went on, “And they said you were there, too.”
I felt like I might throw up, but I still didn’t say anything. She was watching me closely. Then she asked, “Were you there?”
My head was spinning. Finally, I said, “Yes. I was with them in the bushes.”
“Uh-huh. And how did you happen to be in the bushes?”
“We were drinking beer when a car pulled up, and we thought it might be the cops.”
“Okay . . . ?”
The words came out in a rush. “So, we hid in the bushes. But it was Benjamin, and he acted like he was looking for someone, but about that same time, Mr. Stamps came up. It all happened so fast. I never said anything about it because I didn’t know—”
“Know what?”
“I didn’t know if, well, you know—”
“No, I don’t know.”
“I didn’t know if he was there to meet Mr. Stamps or not—”
Jenny’s eyes narrowed, and her face went ugly. “It was you. You set Benjamin up. I knew it! And I thought you were my friend.”
“I didn’t set him up! I swear! The whole thing was a bad coincidence. Nobody set anybody up!”
“I gotta go.” She put her money back in her purse, left the stuff on the counter, and walked to the door. But as she opened it, she turned and said, “You know what you are?”
I felt flushed and scared, like somebody else was in my skin. “What?”
“You’re nothing. Absolutely nothing.” Then she was gone.
She was right. Envy and jealousy grow like briars out of the feeling that you’re empty, insignificant, nothing. I vowed to change and become “somebody.” I started lifting weights and put on ten pounds. I got a haircut and bought some new clothes. I studied even harder and went to the university in Rolla and graduated with a degree in mechanical engineering. Got a good job. Married. Had kids. But through it all, I always remember what Jennifer said, “You’re nothing. Absolutely nothing.” As it turns out, our youngest son, John, is gay, and now I know how it feels when someone you love is bullied and made to feel like he’s nothing.
Until now, I’ve kept the bathroom stall in my head locked and hidden while I’ve acted my part in the play that is my life: Spouting political opinions. Going to church. Doing my job. Going to ball games. Nevertheless, the deepest reality of my being is a bathroom stall with graffiti scribbled on the walls and a toilet that won’t flush.