Tyler Buckspan Read online

  "Fill 'er up, boy," he'd say to me, "and gimme the works."

  I'd top off his tank, check his oil, clean his windshield, and check the pressure in his white sidewall tires. He'd always inspect the windshield before he left, looking for streaks or bugs I'd missed. If he wasn't satisfied, he'd make me clean the glass a second time, puffing away on his cigarette or smacking his gum while I squirted and wiped, squirted and wiped.

  One afternoon, after Teague left the station, I joined Cletis in the lube bay, where he installed a new master cylinder in a Nash Rambler. I felt irritated, as Teague had insisted I fill his windshield washer reservoir, and then clean his rear window, in addition to my normal services. The day was blistering hot; I sweated from my labors. My coveralls stuck to my chest and the small of my back. Cletis used a socket wrench to tighten bolts, and the ratcheting sound only worsened my mood.

  "Do you like Mr. Teague?" I asked Cletis.

  After halting his work, Cletis looked up at me like I was crazy.

  "Nobody likes Byron Teague."

  "Then how come you do business with him?"

  Cletis wiped grease from his hands, using a rag. His face made an expression like he'd just sucked juice from a lemon.

  "Teague's an influential man in these parts, both in business and politics; he's not someone you want as an enemy. Let's just say it makes sense to stay on his good side."

  I crinkled my forehead. "I don't understand."

  Cletis looked left and right; then his gaze met mine. He spoke in a near-whisper.

  "Teague's high up in the Ku Klux. If a Volusia County man wants to run for public office -- county judge, legislature, tax collector, or whatever -- he needs Teague's blessing."

  Cletis returned his rag to his back pocket.

  "Now, I could earn a better profit if I bought merchandise from another wholesaler, but then my truck tires would be ice-picked or my dog might be poisoned. Understand?"

  I nodded, thinking of the Confederate flag license plate Teague displayed on his Fleetwood's front bumper.

  Cletis said, "All this talk of sending colored kids to school with whites? It won't happen in Volusia County, I guarantee it; not as long as Byron Teague draws breath. He's a mean man, Tyler. You're best off saying as little as possible when he's around."

  Rubbing my chin with a knuckle, I tried to imagine Teague in one of those silly Klan outfits I'd seen in television documentaries: the pointed hoods and the gowns with floppy sleeves. I hadn't even realized the Ku Klux Klan existed in Volusia County.

  Was the Klan something I should even care about?

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  While working at the station, I made acquaintance with Peter Bohannon, band teacher at the junior high school I'd attended in Orange City. Since I had never played an instrument, I hadn't known Mr. Bohannon while attending his school. But now he was a regular customer at the Sinclair station. He always talked to me while I filled his gas tank, while I put air in his tires, and washed his windshield.

  After we spoke a few times, he said, "Ty, I think you're old enough to call me Peter."

  Thereafter, I did.

  A graduate of Florida State University, Peter was only a few years out of college. He was tall and slender, and he kept his hair in place with Brylcreem. His green eyes had a way of boring into me when our gazes met. The way he looked at me made me so nervous I'd always glance away, after a few seconds. Peter wore long-sleeved, Oxford cloth shirts, khaki pants, and penny loafers shiny as mirrors. Or sometimes he wore a Banlon shirt and jeans with the cuffs rolled up a couple of inches. When he smiled, his lips would fold back, revealing two rows of perfect teeth, white as porcelain. His voice was deep like Devin's, easy on the ears, and he was a good listener too. He seemed interested in my views on issues of the day.

  I found it easy to talk with Peter on any number of subjects. Aside from my teachers at school, I knew no one with a college degree, and I'd often ask Peter questions about university life. What was it like, moving away from home and living in a dormitory? How many hours did a guy have to study each day, to keep up? And how should I decide on a major?

  Peter probably came by the station twice a week, usually around 4:00 p.m., just after summer band practice had ended. He'd lean against the fender of his Ford Galaxy while I topped off his tank, and we'd chat.

  One Friday afternoon, Peter asked what I would do with my weekend.

  I shrugged. "Nothing much."

  Peter said, "I'll see a film in Daytona tomorrow night -- The Sand Pebbles with Steve McQueen. Care to join me?"

  The invitation took me by surprise. Peter was an adult, an educator respected in our community. Me? I was just a high school kid, a gas pump jockey. I felt flattered an adult with a college education actually wanted my company.

  I said, "Sure." After I jotted my address on the back of an envelope, we agreed Peter would pick me up at quarter 'til seven, the following day.

  Saturday evening, I showered and shampooed. I scrubbed my nails with an old toothbrush, to get at the grease beneath them. I styled my hair with tonic, and wore my best outfit: a Madras shirt over an undershirt, chinos, white socks, and penny loafers. When I descended the stairs, counting the money in my wallet, my mom sat in an easy chair; soaking her feet in her Epsom salts solution. She wolf-whistled when she saw me.

  "Big date tonight?"

  I chuckled and shook my head. Then I explained what was up.

  Mom crinkled her forehead. "How old is this man?"

  "Twenty-four."

  She puckered one side of her face. "Doesn't he have any friends his own age?"

  I shrugged and didn't answer her question. Moments later, Peter pulled to the curb out front, his car engine purring. The sun was already behind the western tree line, and Peter had switched on his parking lights. His radio played a jazz tune, something by Chet Baker.

  Mom peered out a window; she studied Peter's car. "What time should I expect you?" she asked.

  I shrugged. "It's a long film -- three hours. Don't wait up."

  After bounding down the front porch steps, I thrust my head through the Galaxy's open passenger window. I greeted Peter with a grin.

  He raised a palm and smiled his porcelain smile. "Evening, Ty; hop in."

  I felt quite the adult, cruising down the highway toward Daytona with Peter. We talked about his day at school, about The Sand Pebbles, and how the film was Oscar-nominated for Best Picture. We talked about my work, as well.

  "The heat's bothersome," I told Peter, "but I've learned a lot from Cletis and Blon. They don't treat me like I'm a kid, and I appreciate it."

  "You're how old?" Peter said.

  "I'll be seventeen in a few weeks."

  Peter nodded, looking at me. "Then you're certainly not a 'kid,' Tyler."

  Heat rose in my cheeks and I looked away. I felt flattered Peter considered me his equal, and not some punk who only tagged along.

  How cool is this?

  In Daytona, we dined at a fast food place, munching on burgers and fries, and sipping from soda cups. Peter explained how he'd been raised in Ft. Lauderdale, where his folks owned a marina.

  "I grew up around boats. I sure miss living near the ocean."

  I nodded.

  "One day I'll leave Cassadaga," I said. "Maybe I'll live in St. Augustine or New Smyrna -- someplace I can walk the beach every day, if I want to."

  The Seaside Movie Theater was Daytona's finest venue at the time, with a columned entrance looking much like a Greek temple. Just off US Highway 1, it stood less than a block from the Intracoastal Waterway. I smelled the Waterway's briny scent, when we parked the Galaxy and strode down the sidewalk. We passed under streetlamps; their glow reflected in our penny loafers.

  At the ticket booth, Peter insisted on paying for both of us.

  "This was my idea," he said, "so it's my treat."

  The Sand Pebbles was pretty good. Set in 1926 China, it focused on the troubled crew of a US Navy gunboat. Besides McQueen, I knew many of
the film's cast: Richard Crenna, Candice Bergen, Richard Attenborough, and Ford Rainey. During intermission, Peter and I visited the men's room; we peed side by side at urinals. Then Peter bought us Cokes and popcorn.

  Already, I felt at ease in Peter's company. While we waited for the movie to resume, Peter asked me questions. He thought McQueen was one of America's great actors. Did I agree? What did I think about the issues of racism addressed in the movie? In the faculty lounge at Peter's workplace, there was talk Volusia County schools would soon be integrated, by order of the federal court in Jacksonville. How would I feel about going to school with Negroes?

  I took my time answering; I didn't want to say something foolish or immature. Peter listened as I spoke, rubbing his chin and nodding from time to time.

  Then, about an hour into the film's second half, something unexpected happened: Peter shifted position, and the springs in his seat creaked. He reached across the armrest between us. Then he placed his hand on my thigh, a little above my knee.

  My pulse accelerated. I glanced at Peter from the corner of my eye. His gaze was fixed on the movie screen; when he moistened his lips, they glistened. I shifted my gaze to his hand; I could barely see it in the darkened auditorium. Had anyone noticed what Peter was up to? And how should I react?

  I liked Peter and found him attractive enough, but the pass he was making caught me totally off guard. I'd never even suspected he was gay, but he seemed to know I was, and I wasn't sure how I felt about that. Was my queerness so obvious?

  I kept still in my seat. My only movement was the rise and fall of my chest when I breathed. Minutes passed; then Peter's hand inched its way up my leg, toward my crotch.

  Surely he won't touch me there? Not in the middle of a theater?

  I worked my jaw and flexed my toes while Peter's hand crept toward my zipper.

  Do something, Tyler.

  Seizing Peter's wrist, I turned my head and looked at him. He looked at me and winked. Then he gave me a cute little smile, like we were conspirators in a devious plot no one else knew of.

  My stomach churned. Suddenly, I felt ambushed. I felt exploited and oh so silly. For a second, I felt like crying. I'd been played for a fool, hadn't I? Peter didn't consider me an adult or an equal; that's not why he'd invited me to join him, was it?

  He only wanted to get in my pants

  My gaze still fixed on Peter's, I shook my head as subtly as I could. Then I lifted his hand from my thigh and placed it on the armrest.

  Peter frowned. After returning his gaze to the screen, he gave his attention to The Sand Pebbles, and he did not touch me again. I was so shook up I found it hard to concentrate on the movie. In truth, I couldn't wait for it to end.

  We said little to each other during our ride back to Cassadaga. Peter switched on the radio, and we both kept our gazes on the windshield.

  When he pulled to the curb in front of Grandma's, I told him, "Thanks for the movie. I enjoyed it."

  Peter looked into his lap and nodded, but he didn't say anything when I left the car.

  I never saw Peter again.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  The fall of my junior year, I gathered my courage and signed up to try out for Deland High School's basketball team. I was six feet tall now. I'd added to muscle to my frame over summer, so I figured I could hold my own against guys my size or bigger.

  The coach was Raymond Ebersole, a former US Marine who'd once played basketball for Georgia Tech. Ebersole was a middle-aged, gum-chewing, barrel-chested man with big shoulders, a flat belly, and hands like paws. His gravelly drawl made me wince whenever he barked at someone. Deep creases in his cheeks and forehead made his face resemble a well-used catcher's mitt. His gray eyes lent his visage a spooky quality. Ebersole always wore a white T-shirt damp in the armpits, black football shorts that showed off his powerful legs, and canvas, high-top sneakers. A whistle hung from his neck on a braided cord.

  Tryouts occurred in the school's gymnasium, on a humid Tuesday afternoon. The place stank of sweat, liniment, canvas sneakers, and leather. Two dozen boys sat in the bleachers, me among them, all of us wearing numbered pieces of paper safety-pinned to the backs of our shirts. At one end of the court, six seniors -- returners from last year's squad -- practiced their jump shots.

  Ebersole stood before the bleachers, clipboard in hand, calling out names from the tryout sheet, noting the number on each guy's back. When he called my name, I raised my hand and told him I was number fourteen. Ebersole looked at me like I was something he might buy at a garage sale. His icy stare scared me. Despite the gym's heat, Ebersole's gaze made me shiver, and I quickly looked away. Thereafter, each time his gaze swung to mine, I'd lower my chin and study my shoes.

  After he'd finished roll call, Ebersole tossed the clipboard to the team's manager, Mike Monroe, a skinny kid with pimples and horn-rimmed eyeglasses. Monroe wore dress slacks and a short-sleeve white shirt. He kept a pen caddy in his shirt pocket. A slide rule hung from his belt in a leather scabbard.

  Ebersole crossed his arms at his chest. While scanning faces in the bleachers, he said, "Athletic association rules allow me twelve players only." Then he jerked a thumb toward the seniors on the court. "Those guys have already made the team; that leaves six slots to fill, so don't get your hopes up. Most of you will not -- I repeat, will not -- make the cut.

  "What am I looking for? Speed, for one thing. Good ball handling's another. I want men who can drive to the basket and lay it up, consistently. I want smooth jump shots, good free-throw percentages, and defense. I want tenacious, dogged defense."

  He pointed toward his seniors again. "Just ask those pudwhackers. They'll tell you something: I won't tolerate laziness. I want a hundred percent from every player, every time he steps onto the court. No exceptions, no excuses."

  Ebersole pointed at a lanky kid in the bleachers, a boy taller than me with straw-colored hair falling into his eyes.

  "What's your name again?"

  "Hobgood, sir."

  "During the past week, how many hours did you practice each day?"

  Hobgood looked about him, as if seeking an acceptable response from the guys around him. Then Hobgood looked at Ebersole and shrugged.

  "One or two, I guess."

  Ebersole squinted; he puckered one side of his beefy face, while he shook his head.

  "One or two, you guess?"

  Hobgood licked his lips and didn't say anything. He studied his sneakers instead.

  Ebersole paced the floor, jabbing the air with his index finger. "In my book, three hours of practice per day is the minimum required. Three hours are what is necessary if you want to hone your skills, and if you want to help our team win games. If you can't make that sort of commitment, well..." Ebersole pointed to the gym's double doors; a red Exit sign glowed above them. "Leave now."

  On the court, Ebersole had us form two lines on either side of the key, each with an equal number of boys. A guy in the left line would dribble toward the goal; he'd attempt a layup. Then he'd go to the rear of the other line. A guy at the head of the right line would do the same, joining the left line after his layup. Half the guys missed their first two attempts. Many seemed more nervous than I, chewing hangnails as they waited their turns. I kept my mind focused on the backboard and my dribbling.

  I ignored everyone around me; I pretended I played on Grandma's driveway, and I made both my initial layups. The ball ricocheted off the backboard; each time it swished through the net.

  Ebersole stood at the court's edge, chewing his gum. He watched and made comments to Monroe, who nodded and scribbled notes on the clipboard.

  While I dribbled toward the backboard for my third attempt, Ebersole hollered at me.

  "Pick up the pace. This is basketball, not croquet."

  His comment distracted me, and I flubbed the shot. My cheeks flamed while I rejoined a layup line.

  You're an idiot, Tyler, a bumbling fool. But I calmed down and made my fourth attempt, leaping a bit higher than b
efore and lifting the ball toward the backboard, like it was a newborn infant -- a term Blon had always used when teaching me.

  I swung a fist when the ball hissed through the goal.

  That's better.

  Ebersole blew his whistle when the last boy made his fourth attempt.

  "Enough with the layups. Now we'll play a little two-on-two with the big boys."

  Ebersole pointed at two seniors. "Hartmann, Scheevers, guard the goal." Then Ebersole told the remaining seniors, "You crotch-scratchers grab a seat."

  We formed two lines. The guys at the head of both lines entered the half court with a ball, dribbling, passing it back and forth, and approaching the defenders. One kid was chunky, his legs thick, his movements plodding. The other kid was skinny as a fence post, with a mop of dark, curly hair. Hartmann, one of the seniors, was easily six-four, with huge hands and feet. Mike Scheevers was shorter, but quick. He moved away from the goal, approaching the chunky boy who dribbled. Scheevers kept lunging at the kid, swiping at the ball, and the kid quickly grew flustered; he tried dribbling past Scheevers but couldn't, so he passed it to his partner.

  "We don't have all day," Ebersole hollered. "Work it toward the goal."

  The skinny kid charged the goal -- his ball handling was pretty good -- but when he tried a jump shot, about twelve feet from the goal, Hartmann stuffed him, slapping the ball so hard it bounced into the bleachers.

  And so it went.

  I was paired with a guy I didn't know. A bit taller than me, with broad shoulders and a lanky frame, his auburn hair was straight as straw and it fell into his eyes. We entered the half court with my partner dribbling. Scheevers approached him, arms raised, his gaze fixed on the ball, but just as Scheevers lunged for the ball, the kid shifted direction and blew past Scheevers. Scheevers tripped over his own feet and fell to the hardwood. The kid signaled me to move toward the left side of the goal, while he approached Hartmann, who faced him with his hands raised, ready to block my partner's shot.