Becoming Andy Hunsinger Page 5
Aaron’s tone of voice let me know, not subtly, there’d never be another time.
Okay, I told myself, let it go. At least you tried.
Two nights later, I attended another Rap Group session. Six new people participated, two of them women, one a petite lesbian named Julie. She spoke in a husky voice.
“If you guys have the courage to demonstrate on the street, then I should have the guts to join your group on Sundays. You do allow women, don’t you?”
It seemed I wasn’t the only one thanked, or harassed, during the preceding week. Eddie, the Leon High student, had been shoved and spat upon in a school hallway. Another boy, an FSU freshman named Blake, played clarinet in the Seminole marching band. Someone had spray-painted the word “cocksucker” on his dorm room door, and now he spoke in a shaky voice.
“I don’t know if the graffiti was a one-time thing, or if it’s just the beginning. I keep asking myself if taking part in the demonstration was a mistake. I don’t know how to fist fight. What if I get beat up?”
After I spoke of my talk with Dr. Wiskowitz, David Pettyfield nodded while he rearranged his limbs. “Half a dozen people thanked me: students, a professor, and the assistant manager at the fried chicken place I work at. I think we’re onto something here.”
“Like what?” someone asked.
David’s gaze traveled from face to face in the chilly room. “We need to formalize our group, create an official student organization recognized by the university. We need office space in the student union.”
“It’ll never happen,” said Kit, a Chinese-American boy from Orlando.
David closed his eyelids. After he re-opened them, his gaze drilled into Kit’s.
“We can try,” he said.
***
After a two-week hiatus, I returned to Capital City on a brilliant but frigid Saturday morning. A cold front had swept into town, and my breath steamed in the chilly air when I pedaled my bike to work. The sun shone in a cloudless sky. At the club, dew glistened on the putting green. Men struck balls on the driving range, making sounds like pistol shots. They wore sweaters and wool slacks to ward off the cold.
Inside the clubhouse, I found Bucky Buchholtz in his office, a comfortable space with a view of the first tee and beyond. Trophies gleamed on the shelves behind Bucky’s desk, and framed photos of Bucky, standing next to golfing greats like Jack Nicklaus and Sam Snead, decorated the forest green walls. Steam rose from a paper coffee cup resting on Bucky’s desk. When I knocked on the door jamb, Bucky looked up from a clipboard he studied. His face clouded, and when he spoke his voice sounded flat.
“Come in, Andy, and close the door behind you.”
Uh-oh.
I took a chair before Bucky’s desk. Then I studied my hands in my lap.
Bucky cleared his throat. “How’ve you been?” he asked.
I shrugged and didn’t say anything.
“You know, your dad and I have been best friends for thirty years. I’d do anything for him.”
I nodded.
“The same holds true for you, Andy. Jake and you are like sons to me; I mean that.”
I looked up, and then my voice cracked like an eighth-grader’s when I spoke.
“Are you going to fire me, Bucky?”
Bucky’s eyes narrowed. “Shit no, but I’m going say things that’ll hurt you, and I don’t like it -- not one bit.”
I kept quiet while my brain churned.
Bucky rose; he turned to a window facing east. Sunlight revealed the deep creases in his face. He stuck one hand in his pants, jingled his pocket change.
“I don’t understand this whole gay thing you’re involved in. I mean, I was in the service, I saw all kinds of things you wouldn’t believe. The fact you like boys is... your business. You’re still Drake Hunsinger’s kid -- I won’t ever forget that -- and you’re a damned fine caddy to boot.”
“Thanks, Bucky.”
He looked at me from over his shoulder.
“Just the same, we have problems.”
I crinkled my brow. “Like what?”
“You know how this place is: news travels fast. The day after I saw you on TV, half a dozen people asked me about the situation. I’ve heard unkind words, stuff you wouldn’t believe. And you’ve lost one of your best regulars, Ray Connor. He told me, ‘I don’t want that little cocksucker anywhere near me.’”
Tears welled up in my eyes.
“Jesus, Bucky...”
Bucky returned to his swivel chair. After he rested his elbows on his desktop, he formed a steeple with his fingers. Then his gaze met mine.
“There’s more: two club directors have asked me to dismiss you from service. I told them no, but they still want you fired. The monthly board meeting’s two weeks from now, on a Wednesday. Your employment’s on the agenda.”
My stomach did a flip-flop. “Should I quit?”
Bucky lowered his gaze.
“That’s a decision only you can make. I’m behind you if you want to stay, but the final decision’s not mine.”
I rearranged my limbs.
“How many board members are there?”
Bucky held up seven fingers.
“Do any have open minds?”
“Some, I’d say, would listen to reason. They’re not all prigs, if that’s what you mean. But if you don’t speak up for yourself -- if you don’t fight back -- you’ll lose your job. It’s that simple.”
I stared out a window and rubbed my chin with a knuckle. I pictured myself in the club’s oak-paneled board room, just down the hall. I’d face seven Tallahassee bigwigs who would lose nothing if they fired a faggot. And they’d gain nothing by retaining me in service. Did I have the balls to show up for the meeting? Would they let me speak if I did? If I spoke, would they listen to my side of things?
You’ve gone this far, Hunsinger. There’s no turning back, now.
I looked back at Bucky.
“What time’s the meeting on Wednesday?”
A smile crept across Bucky’s face. “Seven P.M. If you’d like, I’ll speak on your behalf.”
At the caddy tent, Dustin Ausley sat on a folding camp chair; he chatted with two other caddies while Jerry Justus stood nearby, cleaning a member’s golf clubs with a rag. Like me, all the boys wore sweaters with the Capital City logo on the chests, and golf slacks. When I approached the group, the chatter died. Dustin and the two other rich kids stared at me like I was an alien from outer space.
Jerry looked up from his work. “H-h-hi, Andy. H-h-how are you?”
I rubbed my hands together, to warm them.
“Good,” I said. “How about you?”
Jerry looked at the club in his hand. “I’m okay, I g-g-guess.”
I seized a clipboard hanging from a nail driven into a tent support. Then I studied each caddy’s assignments for the day. I would assist two nonmember golfers who visited from a private club in Atlanta, and I crinkled my forehead in puzzlement. Normally, I caddied exclusively for Capital City members.
Not today.
Dustin Ausley would caddy for Raymond Connor. Connor’s golf partner was Robert Du Bose, president of the Florida Senate, a gruff-talking redneck from Okaloosa County with a reputation as a boozer and a womanizer.
Jerry would caddy for Du Bose.
I glanced at Dustin. “I hope you like racist jokes,” I said. “You’ll hear a bunch from Connor today.”
Dustin lowered his gaze and shrugged. “I hear he tips well.”
“It’s true,” I said.
Dustin looked up at me with his eyebrows arched. “Is it also true you’re a fag, Andy? Do you like dicks instead of chicks?”
My face grew warm while the other two rich kids snickered. I kept my gaze fixed on Dustin. Then I said, “If you’re asking if I’m gay, yeah, I am. Is that a problem for you?”
Dustin shrugged again. “It’s a problem for some people, I guess.”
“Those people,” I said, “I really don’t care about.”
“Cut it out,” he cried. “Leave Andy alone.”
Dustin looked at Jerry, and then Dustin’s lips spread into a smile.
“W-w-what’s the m-m-matter, Justus? Y-y-you don’t like m-m-me teasing your boyfriend? I know you g-g-guys are close.”
The two other rich kids giggled.
Jerry dropped the golf club. He lunged at Dustin, tackling him and tipping Dustin’s camp chair backward. Dustin’s head hit the tent’s earthen floor. After Jerry shoved the chair aside, he sat on Dustin’s belly. Then he slapped Dustin’s cheeks, three or four times.
“Take that back, you stuck-up bastard. Take it back, or I’ll beat the crap out of you. I swear to God I will.”
Dustin tried struggling loose, but Jerry pinned Dustin’s wrists to the ground. Then Jerry spat on Dustin’s face.
“Take it back, you rich punk.”
Bucky Buchholtz appeared from nowhere. After grabbing Jerry’s shirt collar, he pulled Jerry off Dustin.
“Stop it -- both of you -- right now.”
Jerry pointed at Dustin, who remained on the ground.
“He called Andy a fag.”
Dustin wiped Jerry’s spit from his nose and cheek. His face glowed as red as a stop sign.
“Is that true, Ausley?” Bucky said.
“It’s true,” I said.
Bucky glared at Dustin first. Then his gaze traveled from face to face. “This is a country club, boys, not a high school locker room. Each of you will conduct himself like a gentlemen at all times, no exceptions. Understand, Ausley?”
Dustin rose; he brushed dirt and debris from his clothing, but he didn’t say anything.
Bucky placed his hands on his hips. “I want an answer, Ausley -- now -- or you’re finished as a caddy at Capital City.”
Dustin drew a breath while his gaze traveled here and there. “Yes, sir, I understand.”
Bucky pointed at me. “Ausley, apologize to Hunsinger, right now.”
Dustin worked his jaw from side to side. Looking at me, he spoke in a tone that actually sounded sincere.
“Sorry, Andy.”
“The two of you shake hands,” Bucky said.
I shook with Dustin, firmly, and then Bucky glanced at his wristwatch.
“The morning’s first tee-time is ten minutes from now; we haven’t time for nonsense. Let’s get to work.”
Bucky strode toward his office while Dustin headed for the men’s locker room to wash his face. The other two rich kids studied the clipboard, not saying a word, while I followed Jerry toward the first tee.
“Thanks,” I said, “for sticking up for me.”
Jerry looked at me and nodded. Then he spoke without hesitation.
“You’re my friend, Andy. If one of those little pricks tries that again, I’ll break his fucking jaw; I mean it. Who do they think they are, anyway?”
I couldn’t help myself; I had to laugh.
Jerry looked at me and scowled. “What’s so funny?”
“Do you realize your stuttering stops whenever you blow your stack?”
Jerry nodded; he looked at me as though I’d stated an obvious fact.
“I don’t understand,” I said, “how come?”
Jerry picked up a fallen pine tree limb, a small branch lying near the tee box. He swished the limb back and forth a few times. Then he tossed it into stand of camellia shrubs.
“My doctor thinks I stutter ‘cause I’m angry inside.”
“Are you?”
Jerry shrugged. “I guess so.”
“What are you angry about?”
Jerry shook his head.
“That’s the problem,” he said. “I’m angry ‘cause I stutter.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
I wasn’t much of an athlete. Yes, I’d played Little League as a boy, and I golfed. But I had never lettered in a sport during high school; I never exercised routinely. So when Biff Schultz asked me to join him for a run at the university track, I didn’t know what to say.
“You won’t believe the high you’ll experience, after running a few miles,” Biff told me over the phone. “My roomies and I do it every day.”
“I smoke cigarettes,” I said. “I’d probably have a heart attack.”
“Nonsense; meet us at five-thirty, and wear a wristwatch to set your pace. Believe me, you won’t be sorry you came.”
After digging through my closet, I found a pair of tennis sneakers. I wore those, a sweatshirt, and a pair of gym shorts with my high school’s mascot emblazoned on one leg. While walking to my car, I shivered in the cool evening air. Goose bumps sprang up on my milky legs, and I shook my head, thinking of what lay in store for me in the coming hour.
This is crazy.
Still...
Biff had stuck with me, that awful day of the Bryant demonstration; he wasn’t afraid to be seen with me, even though he knew I was queer. So, if he wanted me to run with him and his housemates, I would.
Located near Tennessee Street, FSU’s track wasn’t far from the Pastime Tavern. Slash pines ringed the track, serving as a windbreak. Dusk came early during Tallahassee winters, and field lights bathed the facility in their brilliant glow. I entered through a chain link fence gate. On the track’s west side, a press box crowned a dozen rows of metal bleachers. Rubbery Tartan turf surfaced the track, a garnet oval with gold lane striping.
Groups of male and female students jogged around the track. Girls’ ponytails bounced, and guys’ sweatshirts darkened in the armpits. A boy in an FSU track uniform leapt over a high-jump bar; he fell onto a huge blue mattress, looking more like a circus performer than an athlete. A gaggle of skinny high school boys, all wearing shorts and singlets, gathered about a middle-aged man who read to them from a clipboard.
This was my first visit to the track, ever, and I felt I’d entered alien territory.
Biff waved to me from the emerald infield. He and his housemates sat on the grass with their legs outstretched; they performed toe-touches. I’d met Biff’s pals a few times, at parties I attended. As mentioned before, both his friends were pre-med majors like Biff, but I knew little else about them.
Austin, a sinewy, bi-racial guy from Kingston, Jamaica, had skin the color of creamed tea. His sandy-colored hair grew in ringlets to his shoulders. When I approached the trio, he flashed a smile at me. His big teeth reminded me of piano keys. He spoke in a lilting manner one often hears in the Caribbean.
“It’s good to see you, Andy; or shall I call you ‘Mr. Civil Disobedience’ now?”
My face grew warm. Of course they knew about my TV appearance. Was there anyone in Tallahassee who didn’t?
I shook Austin’s hand. “Andy will do just fine.”
Biff pointed to his other housemate. “You remember Travis, don’t you?”
I nodded while gazing into Travis’ blue-green eyes. His dark hair was parted on the side; it grew over his ears and all the way to his shoulders. His milky skin, turned-up nose, and long eyelashes gave him an androgynous look, but the deepness of his voice rivaled Bucky Buchholtz’s. Travis’ limbs were lanky and his hands were big. He and Biff had been classmates and best friends at Jacksonville’s Robert E. Lee High School.
Travis spoke to me with a North Florida drawl while his gaze studied my face. “How’s it going, Andy? It’s good to see you again.” When we shook, his firm grip felt warm and moist.
All three guys wore similar outfits: hooded sweatshirts, running shorts slit at the thigh, and odd-looking shoes -- ones I’d never seen. The shoes’ uppers appeared to be made of nylon material. A swoosh logo appeared on their sides. Grooves crosshatched the shoes’ thick and rubbery soles. The heels on the shoes had padd
ing a half-inch thick.
I pointed at Biff’s feet. “Where’d you get those things?”
“We ordered them through a sporting goods shop. An Oregon company called Nike makes them.”
“Are they comfortable?”
“You’re damned straight they are,” Biff said. Then Biff arched his eyebrows and slapped his forehead. “Oops. Sorry, Andy: when I said you were ‘straight’, I didn’t mean, you know...”
Everybody laughed, including me.
When I had shared a dorm room with Biff my freshman year, he kept his auburn hair cut short like mine, but now it grew in waves to his broad shoulders. With his handlebar moustache and sideburns, he resembled a gunslinger from the Wild West. All he needed was a horse, a pair of leather chaps, and a Colt .45 to complete the look. Brainy but unaffected, Biff planned to enroll at the medical school at University of Florida, in Gainesville, where his dad had attended, twenty-five years before. To my knowledge, Biff had never earned less than an ‘A’ in any class he took during his years at Florida State.
My gaze swung back to Travis. After kneeling on the grass, he bent his upper body backward, until his shoulders touched the ground behind him. He stared into the darkening sky, blinking. His sweatshirt’s hem had crept up his belly, and now his hairy navel winked at me. His genitals bulged in the crotch of his running shorts. Dark fuzz dusted his calves, but his milky thighs were as smooth as a boy’s.
“We run three miles each session,” Biff told me, “at an eight-minute pace. But you should start with just one mile, at maybe a ten-minute pace. When you’re done, cool down by walking a lap in the outside lane.”
After sitting on the infield grass, I followed Biff’s lead. I joined the soles of my shoes before me. Then I grabbed my toes with both hands, to stretch my hamstrings. Already, my thighs burned.
Austin and Travis arranged themselves in another curious position: a yoga maneuver called the “plow pose.” After lying on their backs, they raised their feet and legs above their heads. Then they lowered their toes to the ground behind them while steadying themselves with their arms outstretched in front of them. Both guys reminded me of contortionists at a carnival.
“Doesn’t that hurt?” I asked.