The Tin Box (20 page)

William moved his hand and gently stroked Colby’s hip until Colby ended the kiss and sighed. “That was nice,” Colby said. “The best part of waking up. How do you feel this morning?”

“Pretty good right now.”

“Good. I was a little afraid you might kinda… freak out over last night.”

“No retrospective freaking out here,” William replied honestly.

“Well, I’m proud, Padawan. You’ve been a brave little toaster.” Colby sat up and stretched. “And I should probably get out of your hair.”

“It’s okay. You can stick around. It’s your day off, right?”

Colby gave him an odd look. “Yeah. But there’s some stuff I need to do for Grandpa, and I gotta…. Is it okay if I use your shower first? I’m feeling a little ripe.”

Not understanding why Colby was in a hurry, William shrugged. “Sure. Go ahead. I’ll make us some breakfast while you’re showering.”

Colby gave him a quick kiss on the cheek. “Perfect.”

William watched Colby pad across the room—naked and gorgeous. Only when he heard the water running did he drag himself out of bed. He pulled on the previous night’s underwear and jeans, waiting for him on the chair where he’d left them. In the kitchen, he tried unsuccessfully to tame his hair with his fingers and washed his hands.

Shortly after the coffee was brewed, Colby emerged with dripping hair and a towel tied precariously low around his hips. “Smells great, Will.”

William smiled at him and cracked some eggs into the frying pan.

By the time breakfast was on the table, Colby was wearing his dance whore tee and tight jeans. They ate together, chatting lightly about the previous night’s band and the weather. Colby raved about some of his other favorite dishes from Dos Hermanos. And then, while William peed and brushed his teeth and finished getting dressed, Colby washed the dishes. William thought that was sweet of him.

Of course, William had to take Colby home. They didn’t say much during the short drive. Colby seemed a little subdued, as if he had something on his mind. When they got into town, he said, “Just drop me at the store, please.”

William pulled into the lot. He stopped the car near the building’s front door but didn’t cut the engine. Colby turned to look at him. “You gonna call that guy? Steve?”

William blinked at him in surprise. “I… I….”

“’Cause I got a good vibe off him. I bet he’s your type. But if you wanna meet someone else—or a lot of someone elses—we can go back to Fresno again.”

“But… I thought….”

Colby opened the door and hopped out of the car, the plastic bag with his other clothes in his hand. “Thanks for letting me be your first, Will. I don’t think I was anyone’s first before. It’s special.” And before William could reply, Colby closed the door and walked away.

Aug. 18. 1942

My dearest Johnny,

It’s been a very long time since I’ve had access to paper and pen. It’s been… oh, Johnny, it’s been the end of me.

You’ve forgotten me by now, I think. Perhaps that’s best. Better by far than my fate. If I hadn’t been so stubborn, you see… but then I always was stubborn. Father used to beat me for it, and you used to become so exasperated. I envied your easygoing ways and wished I could copy them.

Dr. Fitzgerald had a cure, he said. I was afraid he meant more insulin shock, or perhaps a newer technique they’re using now. It’s called electroconvulsive therapy. They give the patient a strong electrical shock to induce seizures. Somehow this is supposed to effect a cure. It’s become all the rage here, the very latest thing in psychiatric science. I’ve spoken to patients who’ve had the treatment. They say it doesn’t hurt because they go unconscious. But it makes them soft and confused for a time, and it scrambled their memories. My memories are the best thing I have—the only thing I have—and I didn’t want them scrambled.

But it turned out Dr. Fitzgerald had a different treatment in mind. This one is meant specially for patients like me: sexual deviants.

Shall I tell you what was done to me? I wasn’t asked for permission. I suppose my permission isn’t necessary—my body and mind belong to the hospital. I don’t know if my parents gave consent. I haven’t heard from them in a very long time and the good doctor doesn’t talk about them anymore. I wasn’t even told what was planned. I was taken to the medical wing. An examination, Dr. Fitzgerald said. I lay down on a bed and he put a mask over my face until I became very sleepy. And when I woke up….

Have you guessed yet what’s become of me? If I were you I’d probably stop reading at this point. But then you’re not reading this at all, are you?

I will spare you the immediate aftermath of the surgery, which was painful and… distressing. There was a lingering infection. I had to be kept in restraints for some time, and Dr. Fitzgerald would stand beside my bed, telling me it was for my own good, that I would be grateful soon.

My penis is still intact, if that gives you any happiness. I am grateful for that much at least. Dr. Fitzgerald has all kinds of jolly tales of royal eunuchs who had to squat to piss, or who had to insert plugs into their body because they were incontinent, or who carried devices that they had to insert into the closed-up hole in order to empty their bladders. I can piss standing, the same as always. Aren’t I lucky?

In the months after the operation, my sexual desires waned, just as the doctor said they would. Given a bit of solitude—perhaps just a blanket in a crowded dormitory—I no longer fondle myself at night, thinking of you. I don’t dream of sex. I don’t wake up hard. In fact, it’s been a very long time since I’ve been erect. I’m not sure I could manage it and I don’t want to try.

So in that respect, the treatment was a success. I no longer wish to have sex with men.

But of course my feelings for you include more than that. The sex was lovely. Almost divine at times. But there was companionship too… and love. And dear Johnny, I still do love you. They could cut off every bit of my body but that wouldn’t change.

I’m not sure you ever loved me. You never said it, even when I did. But, I thought, that was your way. You didn’t often express your feelings in words.

Well, it doesn’t matter—I loved you all the same and I still do.

I don’t think Dr. Fitzgerald cares about love. He can’t measure it. But he showed me pictures of naked men and told me to masturbate to them, and he was very satisfied when I couldn’t get hard. He watched me as I tried, keeping his face very neutral. I wonder if he has his own sexual fantasies?

He pronounced me tentatively cured. He would write me up in a medical journal, he said.

I was transferred to another part of the hospital, one I hadn’t seen before. This was not in the main building, but rather some cottages behind it. I shared a room with three other men, all presumed to be on their way to sanity or at least of little danger to others. There were five other such rooms. I had a real bed, which was very nice. I could hardly sleep in it at first, so unused was I to a soft mattress. We could use the bathroom at will, and with the door closed. We cooked our own meals, with help from the nurses and the two employees who lived there with us. I cannot tell you how wonderful this food tasted after the swill I’d been eating.

During the day we worked in a shop, making furniture and repairing small items. I was terrible at it. You remember how clumsy I am with my hands! But it was good to have something to keep busy with, and in the evenings we could listen to a radio. I’d been away from news of the world for so long, Johnny. Can you imagine my shock at learning we were again at war? And in such faraway places too.

On Saturday evenings we and the other trusted patients were taken to a large hall to watch movies, and on Sunday mornings we were preached at in the very same hall.

I think, Johnny, that they had decided I no longer needed to be locked up. But they couldn’t decide what to do with me, because there was nobody to take me in. I overheard some talk about maybe finding me a job as a janitor somewhere. Something simple, they said.

I could have waited, and eventually I would have been free. But I couldn’t wait. I kept hearing the news of the war and thinking of you, and I began to fear that you’d become a soldier. I knew it was possible you were already gone, and every day I waited, I felt you slipping farther and farther away.

I think I knew, deep in my heart, that I’d lost you long before. But I wouldn’t acknowledge that. Couldn’t. Because if I didn’t have you, who would I have? I’d lost my family and could never have children. Who would take me as a lover, when I would never be interested in sex? Who would want me as a friend, when I was such a broken not-a-man, an invert, a lunatic, a monster?

So I escaped.

I was as clever about it as I could be. I left at night, when I could exit the cottage and creep through the grounds unseen. There are guards on duty, but they were easy to avoid. Their boots and keys are noisy and you can see the glow of their cigarettes from far away. There’s only one road leading to—and away from—the hospital, so I followed it all the way until it ended at a larger road. I had only a vague idea where I was and no idea which direction I ought to go. I found some brush well out of view of the road and hid in it until dawn.

In the morning, the cars, trucks, and buses arrive with the asylum’s daytime employees. I knew that. I peered from my hiding place to see where they came from, and that’s the direction I walked, always keeping out of sight of the road. It’s a sparsely populated area, which made hiding a little easier.

I was wearing only my inmate pajamas. But I came to a farmhouse and saw a woman hanging her laundry to dry. When she went inside I stole trousers and shirt. I’m not proud to have become a criminal, Johnny. These clothes were old and patched; I’m sure this farm family owned very little. But I owned even less.

After a long walk I came to a town of sorts. Not much to it—a store, a post office, a café, a gas station. I was terribly hungry but didn’t have a penny to spend on food. Still I went into the store with a concocted tale about searching for my cousin, Johnny Taylor. I asked the storekeeper if he knew you, but he didn’t. I even described you, just in case. But you weren’t there, and he said he knew everyone in town. I suspect he might have known I’d run from the asylum. My terrible haircut would have given me away. But he didn’t comment on it.

I decided to travel north. Home. Maybe you’d stayed there after all, and if not, maybe someone there knew where you’d gone. I found a ride in the back of a farmer’s truck. He must have taken pity on me because he let me eat some of the early season apples he was carrying.

There was a plan. I would find you. We would go somewhere together. Oakland, maybe. I’d heard on the radio that with the war on and so many men gone, there are plenty of jobs now. We could work in the shipyards, helping prepare our country for battle. Well, you could anyway. I’m not sure how useful I’d be at shipbuilding. But surely shipyards need bookkeepers? You’d be so pleased to see me that you wouldn’t care what had been done with my body.

We would fucking live happily ever after.

Yes, yes. Everything about the plan was foolish. I’d spent so long behind bars, so long deprived of my… my humanity, Johnny. Maybe the asylum and the insulin and the surgery have impaired my mind so that now I truly am incompetent.

I arrived home. The farmer dropped me off downtown. I headed straight down Main Street in the direction of your house. I could picture the look of surprise when you glanced up from one of your engines and saw me standing there!

But Edward saw me first.

It was the damnedest timing. Or maybe someone recognized me, ran to the store, and told him I was there. In any case, I turned the corner and almost walked right into him.

I tried to run, I did. But the bastard was always faster and stronger than me. He’s become a little fat since I saw him last, but still he caught up with me. He had no problem tackling me to the ground. “Police!” he shouted. “POLICE!”

I was back here in the hospital before sundown.

And I’m back in my old cell. They’ve taken even the mattress and my clothing this time. I have to be careful not to look down at my devastated groin because it makes me ill to see. My paper and pen and my tin box were still here, hidden behind the wall. I’m glad. I missed writing to you, Johnny. Missed giving you these words that I know you’ll never see. As long as I have these letters to write, I can imagine that someone still thinks of me, still cares for me. I can pretend I’m not a living ghost.

Dr. Fitzgerald, now. He still thinks of me. Still talks about a cure. Now I don’t think he even knows what he’s trying to cure me of. Of being me, perhaps. Maybe he thinks himself a modern Frankenstein, able to create a new man out of pieces of the old. Or maybe he just wants to destroy. I don’t know.

They took me to his office the other day. He didn’t bother to ask me questions. Instead, he kept peering at my head as if it were a puzzle. He made notes. He talks out loud sometimes when he writes, did I tell you that? At least I can manage to write silently. He scribbled on his pad and he mumbled to himself. I didn’t glean much. Too many medical terms. All I could tell was that he’s decided I’m a good candidate for something called the Freeman-Watts procedure. I hope it doesn’t involve shock, or insulin, or cutting parts off.

Next time I escape I’ll be much more clever about it. I certainly won’t return home. I hope I’ll find you, Johnny. Until then, you remain in my heart.

Yrs always,

Bill

There were a half-dozen additional sheets of paper in the tin box. But they were all blank.