Excerpt One: Briefly Told Lives

Briefly Told Lives

Introduction

An Interview with the Author

Excerpts:

"On a Railroad Bridge, Throwing Stones," Part One

"On a Railroad Bridge, Throwing Stones," Part Two

"The Mother," Part One

"The Mother," Part Two

Briefly Told Lives "On a Railroad Bridge, Throwing Stones" Part One

By C. Bard Cole
From Briefly Told Lives

This is the way it went: I'm leaning on the stone embankment, right about eye level with Todd's knees. Todd's throwing rocks at moving shapes in the water he says are catfish. Dan's standing up against the rail, bare legs pressed up against the rusty metal. It's hot. It's summer and we're sixteen.

Todd used to be my playmate when we were kids and he'd just moved out here from the city. We pushed matchbox cars around in the dirt, mostly. He was dumb in school and I was smart and after a year or two of being stuck in different reading groups, pushed in divergent directions by the adults around us, we gave up and caved and went where they wanted us to. Last year in tenth grade we ended up in the same art class, and once I was willing to try pot, pretending I'd done it for years, I won a friend back. Dan lived up the road from us and had been Todd's friend all through high school. They built skateboard ramps together and went to rock concerts.

This summer we spent hanging out, smoking pot, throwing things off bridges. Dan's efforts to teach me how to stay on a skateboard failed early on, me acting like it's boring me instead of admitting I can't do it. Todd's picked up the habit of knitting these little macramé bracelets out of embroidery floss and I've got two on my left wrist, jumbled up with the band of my father's outsized Hamilton wristwatch. My father died in February.

"Can you tell me something," Todd says, watching his rock hit an alleged catfish shadow. "Are you a fag?"

This is it, I think, the question that is going to ruin my summer, the question every real boy at school asks me, usually when I'm trying to change discreetly, hidden behind my locker door, after gym, or in the hall, as they turn to knock a notebook from my hand. I should have known better than to expect different. "What?" I say, not light enough to pull it off like a joke.

"Well, the other day Dan and I were talking, and he said he bet you were." Todd's smiling this tight-lipped grin he has. Dan's face is expressionless, he's staring into the sun.

"Asshole," he says, real quiet.

I'm just staring at Todd, stern, weary of this question already, this one time more. I'm shaking too, but only a little. I'm waiting for his eyes to meet mine, but he doesn't look up. "Uh-hun," slips through my teeth.

"Is that 'uh-hun' like yes, or 'uh-hun' like 'uh-huh'?" he asks, content with his trap. Lips still tightened, curled slightly. A usual expression on his face now seems full of meaning. So calm, expending so little energy to be this cruel.

"I meant 'uh-hun' like, go on, but yeah." I go for it. I'm not going to be the patsy I'm supposed to be. They can hate me for being a fag but I won't let them hate me for being a pussy. "Uh-hun. I'm a fag." I know it's still a joke. Standing up for myself now doesn't count for anything, no matter how strong I am. I thought they liked me, so the joke's on me. I'm a pussy for bearing this hurt as much as if I cried, letting it out. Still, I'm not going to give them the chance to see it.

"Okay," he says, game over.

"Why did you ask me that?" I demand.

Todd drops a handful of rocks, bunches of round wakes rippling through each other. He's my worst tormentor, leaving me to pull myself away, head home, disgraced. They'll break into laughter almost as – not after – I'm out of hearing distance.

"I'm going to go home now," I finally say, administering my own coup de grâce. Stepping up onto the bridge, I walk past Todd's back, past Dan, who regards me balefully, reaching out his hand.

"Hey, man …"

Pity's worse. I don't need anyone to feel sorry for me. I don't need that. "Yeah?" Cold monotone.

"I know what you're thinking – he's an asshole." He shrugs in the direction of Todd's back.

"It doesn't matter," I say.

Dan's more sensitive, doesn't like people to think bad of him. "Uhn. He's just asking that…"

Todd's so tickled by what a fuck he is, how successful in meanness – "heh, heh" – he's chuckling. I respect him more, maybe. More than Dan, who'd prefer to have left their fag speculations unchecked. I turn to go. I don't need to say good-bye.

"I told him last week I was gay," Dan says, holding out his empty hands. "I'm gay."

"Yeah?" I believe him. I'm more scared, feel more sick than before, feel like someone died. You wouldn't even say that as a joke, not like this anyhow.

"And he thinks it's pretty funny for some reason." I hear a few stones drop, and quiet laughter.

"Yeah I can see that."

"Hey," Todd breaks in. "Hey, don't bitch at me."

"We were talking about people and I told him I thought probably you were too," Dan says.

"Oh." I'm not upset, or nervous. No, I am. I am both. This isn't something you talk about. This isn't something you admit to.

"The reason I think it's funny," Todd says, still raining hail on aquatic life, "is that y'all are so funny about it."

Read Part Two of "On a Railroad Bridge, Throwing Stones"