Lookaway, Lookaway (40 page)

“We’ll stick with the cannon,” said Colonel Haslett.

Joshua knew, from his homework, no cannon were fired in the historic fateful half hour in question, but it would be nice to see cannon go off. Contentedly, Joshua sat at his computer, in his boyhood bedroom, polishing and typing and answering e-mail queries from as far away as Worcester, England. And when Dorrie and his father were in his Civil War Study hashing out the web design downstairs, Josh sneaked a look at charlottedownlow.com. He smiled. There was a message from Nonso.

*   *   *

CDL had a following of twenty thousand members but some of them were white worshippers like Josh. The gamut of North Carolina’s African-American closeted world was here, professionals, church deacons, married men, athletes, teachers, the hunky guy at Home Depot, the assistant vice president at First Union. Many profile photos did not show a face since this was “on the down low,” and some went straight for the crotch shot, letting it all hang out.

“Damn, the black thing is surely true,” Dorrie observed.

“Yep,” said Josh.

Josh couldn’t care less about endowments. That was the inevitable sneering summation of his gay acquaintances when they found out Josh was into black guys.
Oh,
their expressions (and sometimes extended banter) would say,
another size queen
.

When Josh was growing up, their housekeeper Alma’s son Jeffrey would come over and he and Josh, both the same age, would play cowboys and make forts and sit on Josh’s bunk bed looking through picture books on rainy days. Nothing was as important as Jeffrey coming over—he asked every morning if Jeffrey was coming to the house, and since Alma only came three days a week (but varying days), mostly Josh was disappointed. At Mecklenburg Country Day School there were just one or two black kids at that citadel of white privilege, including his lab partner, Ronny. Josh manipulated his teacher, his classmates, the planets and the stars, to end up “by chance” being assigned Ronny as a lab partner in seventh grade. Ronny was his first love and was oblivious. Then there was Calvin Eakins Jr.

Josh remembered that Calvin’s school-age pursuits were mainly devoted to martial arts films and white girls but, during a sleepover or two, Calvin prodded Josh for some hormone-driven homoerotic touching and rolling around. It was all Josh could do to put up a mild resistance as if he didn’t want to do this more than anything. I don’t know, Josh remembered saying, aroused to new extremes.

“What do you mean, you don’t know?” Calvin whispered in the dark bedroom, prodding without any malice. “You’re a hundred percent fag.”

Josh’s love of African-American boys was primal, congenital, conceived in utter innocence of sex stereotype, some mystery in the beautiful skin itself that drew him, would always draw him as close as he was allowed to get …

Calvin was now residing on Josh’s sofa, rarely leaving the living room, never more than a few yards from ESPN. Josh discovered Calvin had ordered some pay-per-view without asking but, aside from that, he was a pretty low-key houseguest.

“Lakers versus Celtics in five minutes!” Calvin yelled from the sofa, a room away. “Anybody in the mood for a pizza?”

“You paying?” Dorrie yelled back. Silence. “Thought so,” she said, before whispering to Josh, huddled at his laptop, “Any estimated time of departure?”

Josh shrugged.

“I hate to think you actually blew that loser in there—”

“Sssshhh!”

“Okay then,” said Dorrie, “show me your Favorites.”

On CDL you could click and drag a profile to a door graphic on the left (a closet door, presumably) labeled
MY FAVORITES
. A click on the door would bring them up.

“Um. There’re some weird choices in there that I cannot justify to you.”

“I’ll withhold savage commentary about the miscreants you’re in negotiations with.” Then she grabbed the mouse and clicked on the closet door before he could stop her. The standout was a Nigerian boy with the most out-of-proportion blinding tooth-filled smile to his lean oval face.

“Whoa, look at him,” Dorrie marveled. “It’s like one of those racist minstrel-show posters. Somebody go get dis chile a slice a watermelon!”

“How could anyone not want to see that first thing in the morning?”

“Africans have great teeth,” Dorrie said. “Then we got dragged over here and started eating American crap and it’s dentures by the time we’re forty.”

“I think he’s adorable.”

Nonso was from Lagos, Nigeria, and the six photos revealed a slender, chiseled body and his skin was purple-blue dark, which made the perfection of the big smile all the more striking.

“And … oh no, kid. Uh-uh. Sorry to say, he is a certified nutjob,” Dorrie pronounced, while reading:

HELLO AMERICA HE MAKE ME CRYING SO MUCH WHEN I WANT REMOVE MY PROFILE FROM HERE . . HE WAS SO ANGREY AND HURT IN SAME TIME WITH ME … I NEVER BEEN SEE HIM BE LIKE THIS . . YES HIS REALLY LOVE ME SO MUCH . . AND I BELIVE IN THAT

HERE IS SOME FROM HIS ROMATIC EMAIL FOR ME------->>

-------((My Dearest Nonso,

How I love you from afar. I wish I could snap my fingers and make you appear beside me. Meeting you online has been one of the highlights of my life. You made me smile during the darkest times of my life. You made me laugh when all I wanted to do is cry. You are so much more than just a friend to me. Words can not even begin to say how much you being in my life means to me. Always know I am with you in spirit.

Love you always, forever and a day.

from Bob

!!!!!!!SO THAT IS WHY I BACK AGAIN HERE!!!!!!!!!I

^^

NOW FOR ABOUT ME

---->>((PLEASE TO READ MY PROFILE))<<------

1/ IAM SINGLE

2/ SEMPLE YOUNG

3/ SO VERY HANDSOME

4/ HONEST AND SERIOUS AND

5/ VERY ROMATIC

6/ VERY SWEETY ANF FRIENDLY

7/ SO SINCERE

8/ I VERY VERY SINCETIVE

9/ HERE IAM FOR FIND TRUE LOVE

10/ NON WASTER OF THE TIME

11/ ENOUGH OF HURTING ME

12/ BE HONEST AND SERIOUS WITH ME . . OR . . LEAVE ME ALONE.

13/ IAM POOR BOY BUT HEART IS VERY VERY RICH

OTHER SEID OF ME/ WELL IAM VERY LOVLY ONE . . WHO LIKE JOKE AND LAUGH . . VERY ROMATIC. SOME GUYS HERE . . THEY THINKING IAM VERY SADLY ONE . . YES THAT TRUE . . BECAUSE IAM LONLEY . . looking for white americcan boy for reall love.

my life nothing without love.

“I thought they spoke English in Nigeria,” Dorrie said, engrossed.

“He’s from some tribe,” Josh began, not sure which one or why it didn’t speak English. “Hey, the Skirmish at the Trestle. You really think—”

“I’m still reading the African Queen here. Don’t try to change the subject.”

some time i meet gays here but only SECRET life here. no desco here … some groups gays make it partey some time here . . but i dont like go there.because i know they what looking for . . I WISH have even a old man from usa who is very honest and serious for find about true love.not just sexy sexy … my dream is to study in USA and learn my better englsh.

---->>((… U KNOW SOME TIMES WHEN IAM BED . . I THINKING WE GO TOGATHER OUTSIDE AND SHOW THE USA GAYS PEOPLE HOW MUCH I LOVE YOU. HOW NICE WHEN HAVE SHOWER TOGATHER . . HOW NICE WHEN I LOOK AT UR BEATFULL FACE IN SLOW PLACE WITH BLUE CANDLES AND VERY SLOW MUSIC …

IAM SO SORRY FOR LONG MASSEGE . . AND ALSO SORRY FOR MY ENGLISH BECAUSE DONT HAVE GOOD SPEAKING . . but WILL LEARN IN USA NO NAUTY FOTOS OR SEX ON TELIPFONE OR SEXY THING ON SEX CAM.… YOU MUST KNOW IAM FOR LOVE.

nonso

“Whoa,” Dorrie said at last.

“I wanna get in the stream.”

“You are NOT getting in that stream.”

Josh was quiet a moment. “I’m not sure why he posts his profile in Charlotte. He may want to come to school here. I was thinking of sending him a link to—”

“I absolutely, as your Designated Black Friend, forbid you from taking up with him, if he somehow makes it over here. We cannot have that kind of hysterical gay drama in our lives.”

Josh sighed. “I don’t think there’s much of a chance of Nonso being admitted to our exclusive social circle.”

*   *   *

By mid-March Dorrie’s Skirmish at the Trestle website had garnered 95,000 hits. Cynical as they were, even Dorrie and Josh looked forward to it, checking the site daily to gauge its popularity, and answer queries.

—Officers are expected to bring sufficient troops to justify their rank.

—Any brigade, battalion or unit commander directly disobeying the order of their respective overall commander will be subject to removal from the event.

—Officers have a responsibility to know the medical condition of the men in their commands!

“I imagine,” Josh said, “this is a mecca for three-hundred-pound armchair warriors out there in the heat, clad head to toe in wool when it’s eighty-five degrees. The death toll will exceed the death toll of the actual skirmish.”

“Your dad said they’ll have an ambulance driver hiding in the bushes somewhere.”

—Unit colors must be full size and correctly constructed according to each army’s standards. Unit colors will be carried during battle scenarios only with the approval of event military staff.

—No tent camping is allowed in the parking area. Hookups for RVs will not be available.

—Bedding straw will be provided for purchase by the event host.

The farm collective that owned the land on the other side of the river was gung ho. They would lease their field for the campers and RVs and modern campsites and set up concessions. The farmer’s son would drive a shuttle bus back and forth to the north side of the Catawba River, so he needed to be specially insured and indemnified, too. More details, more contracts, more paper, more stacks of paper, more lost stacks of paper, more doomed cries of “Alma!” and “Jerene, darling!” asking where the lost stacks of paper had run off to.

—Women may portray combatants with the approval of their immediate commanders. Every reasonable effort must be made to disguise their gender.

“Some of us,” said Dorrie, “won’t have to work that hard on our disguise.”

She was still on for going in drag as a Confederate soldier; Duke Johnston was contributing the uniform, scabbard, powder horn, and the insignia of a North Carolina unit that had black Confederate soldiers. “I’m nervous now,” she told Josh. “I’ll be traipsing around in a thousand dollars’ worth of museum antiquities. Not much time for rape and pillage of the local white women.”

—Modern eyeglasses will not be tolerated on the battlefield. Those needing period eyewear should make the needed arrangements prior to the event to acquire same.

—All uniforms should be constructed of natural fiber materials. Uniforms should also be of a proper design or style.

—Shoes and boots must be of the proper construction. Jefferson boots, brogans, and period cut boots are highly recommended. Modern military combat boots, cowboy or work boots will not be allowed. All re-enactors will wear shoes of an acceptable fashion.

—Bayonets must remain sheathed at all times.

—No horses will be ridden through camps or sutlers’ areas at any time during the event. Riders are asked to be particularly careful around the large number of spectators expected for this event.

—All horses/mules will be properly groomed and shod.

—Horsemen will maintain control of their animals at all times.

—Horsemen will bring their own feed and provender.

Provender
, thought Josh, reading his father’s notes.
Sutlers
. Even the words were romantically archaic and exciting.

Dorrie and Josh were spending every weekend at the Johnston house in the month leading up to the Skirmish. Getting the credit card PayPal hooked up to the website was proving an ordeal, so Josh left Dorrie and his dad at the downstairs computer and went up to his childhood room again. He lay on his short, teenager’s bed, stared at the shelves and the way the streetlight projected a shadow of the window frames on the far wall, squares stretched to rhombuses. In a year or so this room of secrets that, somehow, had not incinerated from all the adolescent longing would belong to some other person.

Mom and Dad, Josh understood, were going to sell this home (
had
to sell it, given their finances) and move to the new gated community on the Catawba, when it was finished being built. The developers would start construction on the site the Monday after the Skirmish re-enactment. Going to visit Mom and Dad in some South Carolina faux-antebellum-themed enclave, Josh thought, would be different, though, and a little sad.

He remembered coming back, a decade ago, to this house after five years at Chapel Hill. This was the beginning of his year and a half separation from Dorcas Jourdain as constant companion and adviser. To leave gay-friendly Chapel Hill was to be shown the door of Paradise by the flaming sword, condemned to his room in his mom and dad’s house where loneliness had been practiced and perfected. Joshua dutifully had carried the box of college artifacts up to his room but his photo album was too incendiary for prying eyes, so he deconstructed it, peeling out the more salacious photos. Birthday parties where cute boys made out with him in the coat room, amateur theater openings and the endless post-performance parties, weekends at some rich boy’s parents’ house at Wrightsville Beach, where he sat until three
A.M.
on the cottage’s steps with his arm around Alex Blayton, the only black guy on the UNC tennis team that year, talking about whether Alex might be gay or not. They ended up kissing, so you’d think that would have constituted an answer, but Alex was ignorant of what he wanted to an unusual depth. And that shot of him tongue-kissing Sanjay Patel on his birthday. Very shy and self-effacing and barely speaking above a whisper, a painfully thin boy whose effect was dependent upon his large liquid brown eyes and tremendous eyelashes that, Joshua thought, you could hang Christmas ornaments from. Well, at least the Patels were loaded, his dad one of the richest surgeons in North Carolina. See, Mom? Only the queers of “quality”!

Where had those photos gone? For years he would give the search one more try, hoping under some desk drawer or in the back of some closet the too-well-hidden envelope would miraculously show itself. Maybe Alma found the photos and destroyed them so his mother would never see them. Alma always stiffened when Josh asked about her son Jeffrey and how he was getting on, always was quick to mention how much he was dating, dating all those women, so many girls. Josh once asked for Jeffrey’s e-mail address or phone number so these childhood friends could be in touch and Alma affected not to know it. Yeah, Alma threw those pictures away.