Are You a Friend of Jesus
     
When I left the albino collective at the Oran Institute and returned to the Pittsburgh public school system, most kids still mocked my pallid skin, hair whiter than the moon's mane, and my way of wearing sunglasses in the classroom, cafeteria, and gym.  They called me names I hadn't heard in years, giggling behind my back or laughing in my face.  But I knew they were the different ones, suffering their anxieties.  My eyes, so rarely seen, had gained tranquility.  When boys called me Ghostie, I laughed with them, knowing I truly was a ghost: an apparition passing through the world like a breath of wind.  If I heard whispers labeling me Grandpa or Old Man, I smiled, accepting.  I was old, all right, regardless of my youth. 
     
One good thing: my uncommon features kept me from being beaten like weaker, more colorful kids in my grade.  Kids were afraid to touch, as if I might give them what I had.  I heard those whispers, too. "Don't touch him, Man.  He's got the rot," said one.  

He'll steal your breath," said another, "and you'll drop dead in your tracks."  

A third declared, "At his last school, he just sat next to a kid at lunchtime and poisoned his food."  Oh, then the admonition: "You know what happened to Silly Jill?  She bumped him in the hall.  Wasn't looking.  Ain't nobody 'round here seen her since."
  
Did that bother me?  Myth shared by superstitious boys?  They elevated me as much as they slandered , and when ups and downs are equal, I felt safe.

I only took one beating: at the hands of the girl I later called "My gentle fist of God" after I gave her a lover's secret name.  The new girl in ninth-grade, she looked wiry and unkempt.  Having been expelled from her previous school after bringing along brass knuckles - though perhaps this too was a myth - she'd grown up understanding violence.  Also fearless, she refused to be scared off by a fifteen-year-old ghost in prescription sunglasses.

"Don't touch him or you'll turn into a statue," one boys warned, loud enough for me to hear where I sat lotus-like under a tree on the playground.  

"Nobody messes with that one," another boy added, pretending to cross himself.

"He a mean one?  I'm not worried."

Not mean," said the first boy.  "He's just spooky."

"I'm not worried," she said again.

The second boy laughed, coming close to a beating of his own.  "You touch him, all your skin falls off," he said.

"He'll turn your hair white like his" said the first.

"He's got the plague, too."

She saw through those stories.  She had real smarts as well as street smarts, and she didn't give in to childish superstitions.  She had as little use for them regarding me as when similar ones were aimed her way.  I wondered if her abusive nature fueled her defenses, keeping her safe from the same violence she routinely handed out.  And she wasn't gullible.  

"He doesn't have the plague.  He's just different.  I'm not worried."

"Oh yeah?" said the first boy.

"Yeah," she said.

"Bet you won't go up and touch him."

"How much?"

"Fifty cents?"

Groaning, she said, "Get real.  For fifty cents it's not even worth the effort."

"You afraid?" said the second.

She replied with a glare that warned the boy not to push his luck.

"Okay," said the first.  "Bet you a dollar."

Her scowl shifted, broke in to a grin.  "Now you're on.  One dollar.  And all I just got to touch him."

The first boy knew he'd made a mistake.  I could see light dimming in his eyes.  Changing his mind, he said, "Got to hit him."

"Punch him," said the second boy.  "Give him the bag tag."

"Yeah," the first agreed.  "Got to beat him up."  I could tell he expected to lose his money, but at least he figured he'd get a decent show.

She looked from one boy to the other.  To refuse because that would blow her image.  New rumors would spread: she's a coward, not so tough as everyone believed.  The others would mock her and get in her face.  After a long pause, she shrugged and said, "It's a bet.  But it'll cost you both a dollar."

"Uh," said the second boy, choking back the  words.  Resigned to his fate, he nodded .

"Good," she said.  "It's settled."  She stood and walked in casual steps toward me.  Her dirty blonde hair and the loose fabric of her rust-colored cotton tee blew wildly in the Pittsburgh wind, making her, too, look like a wraith.  "Get up and take what's coming to you."

Passively I stared up at tight cheeks and dark, sunken eyes.  I wanted to climb inside those eyes and swim in the dense blue waters.  So serenely lovely, she sent my heart beating faster.  Just then, I didn't care what she did so long as her skin touched mine.

"Get up.  You know what I'm here for?"

I nodded.

"Then stand up.  At least try to defend yourself."

I didn't move.  Instead, I grinned wider, hoping to pacify her with my ease.  Legs crossed, arms lax on my lap with fingers interwoven, I could've been a sickly monk or a statue carved in chalk.  Calmly I held my pose, accepting the moment.  If a beating were at hand, what did it matter to me?  I was just as eager to experience the dull ache of violence as I'd be for my first kiss, the first hand on my buttocks, my first time entering a woman's arms, her body.

"Your last warning.  I don't want to hit you sitting down."

Sitting down, standing up - was there a difference?  I took a deep breath, continuing to grin.

"All right.  You asked for it."  The blow wasn't fierce.  She bent and gave me a soft shove  against my chest.  A moment later, she did it again with force.  The second shot sent me rocking back like a hobby horse with broken legs: a slow, dizzying arc during which my head swung one way then the other. My legs dislodged, leaving me sprawled like a white seal sunning its belly.  

Just as quickly, I got to my feet, standing face to face with her.  I don't know why I got up, but I stood there lazily, arms at my side, open to the next meaningless act.

"That's more like it.  Now you're ready to fight."

I kept grinning and never raised a hand to defend myself.  Nor did I back away as her fist raced toward my face, crashing cleanly into my chin.  My teeth pierced my lower lip, and I tasted blood as my jaw went numb.  I'd tasted my blood before, but this time it was sweeter.  

A second shot landed at the corner of my mouth, sending my glasses flying to the ground.  The two blows staggered me, but neither stripped away my balance.  I took a step back to keep standing - arms lax, expression blank as ever.  My eyes were closed to avoid the sunlight, but I opened them when I heard her speak.  "Come on.  Fight me."  She was close enough I could see her in focus without my glasses.  I took a step forward, stretching out my left arm.  She raised her fists, but her fierceness dimmed as I took another step.  She looked into my violet-retina eyes and, after that, it was over.  I could see my serenity overtake her.  She lowered her fists, her barricades, nor resisting as I brushed a hand tenderly along her cheek.

In the background, I heard the two boys.  "Hit him, hit him, hit him."  They wanted blood.  Then I heard one groan, "He touched her.  She actually let him touch her."

My arm back at my side, I stood calmly.  I had no further part in this. 

The girl turned and walked off, her image blurring into colors.

"That's a dollar each," I heard her say.

"What?" said the first boy.  "You didn't hardly touch him.  That's not worth a dollar."

"I'll tell you what," she said.  "I'll hit you like I hit him.  If you still think it wasn't enough, you can keep your money."
     
     
     
She approached me on Halloween, wearing only her natural masks.  "Mars," she said, the first time she called me by my name.  In fact, she hadn't spoken to me since the incident six months earlier.  But something haunted her: my touch.  She felt my hand on her skin, and that sensation lingered.  It rested there like the illusion of a scar on her cheek, waiting for her to trace the line with her fingers, to confront it openly and then move on.  "Why are you always alone?"

I shrugged.  

"Well, it's okay," she said.  "I like to be alone, too.  It helps me sort things out."  

I had no idea what she meant.  It never occurred to me her father went to jail for attempted murder, her mom built up a nice habit, and both older brothers sexually abused her since she turned twelve.  Had I known, it might have explained why tenderness moved her so much.  

"You know," she said, with hesitation, "the costume social's tonight in the gym."

I shrugged again.  "So I heard." 

"Are you going?"  She'd turned away, staring out of the corners of her eyes. 

"I really hadn't thought about it.  But I haven't ruled it out."

She forced a sad-looking smile.  "What would you say if I asked you to go with me?"

"Couldn't begin to speculate.  If it happens, I'll decide.  Otherwise, what's the point?"

The girl nodded in casual strides as if controlled by clockwork.  She leaned in close so no one could hear and whispered, "Come with me," less a request than a demand.
     
     
     
We traded the usual question.  I replied, "I've already got a costume, one I never leave behind."  

She nodded, then gave her answer: "I wear too many masks as it is."  She referred to something distant, a part of her hidden by shadows and deceptions of a story kept for herself.

I didn't press, too content being by her side, listening to her soft whispers and subtle turns of phrase.  Every now and then, I touched her, either by wondrous accident or through her urging.  Once, her hand took mine with a firm, affectionate squeeze.  It was an offering - one I, eager to test all life's possibilities, accepted.  Even so, I didn't get to dance with her.  That would've made join the crowd.  We weren't prepared to go so far.  She and I stood out like gray hairs on a young man's coarse brown beard.  No way to hide that we were there, but no point calling attention to ourselves by pretending we were the same as everyone else.  So we moved without moving, shifted feet without swaying to rhythms from the trio on-stage playing pop songs.  For those few hours, we were twins in our isolation.  Deep blue denim of our unfaded jeans, the coincidental colors from our tee shirts, an aura of being alien - they set us apart and bound us.

We stood on the crowd's fringe - observing the rituals, studying masks.  We shared ourselves in an unexpected way, merging thoughts and fingers.  I listened hard to hear her rapid breathing, and she found hints of my ease when I finally let my thumb trace circles on back of her hand.  Here was our education: two new lovers taught desire.

She went further, uncapping a small silver flask.  Where it came from, I can't imagine.  The folds of her clothes seemed to leave no room for hidden treasure.  Leaning under shadows, she tilted the flask and pressed it to her lips.  

I listened to her swallow and gasp, learning from those sounds.  She had strength.  It stemmed not from a beautiful ambivalence but from extremes of pleasure and pain, love and hate, rage and empty calm.  She expressed her valor with sounds of fire swallowing a throat.

"Here," she said, tapping the flask against my arm.  The metal felt icy on my skin, its touch bringing shivers.  "This'll make you feel better."

I accepted the gift as any other.  "What is it?" I said, just before first drops dripped over my tongue.  Soon the trickle turned into a tide.  My first impression was bitterness: a foul taste like tainted milk.  The vomit urge built in my throat.  I stifled it, choking back its rebellion.  However, immediately I felt pain inside as if I'd ingested a knife.

"It's good for you," said the girl I'd soon rename My gentle fist of God.  "It'll help you relax, make you less yourself."

I didn't feel relaxed.  I felt ill.  A backlash gathered in my throat, working its way up to my mouth.  The most disturbing thing about the drink was having to swallow it twice.  Glancing over at my companion, I saw her encouraging me to try again.

"It hurts," I said, but did as told.  The second gulp went much better. 

"Only the first time.  You get used to it."  Relieving me of the flask, she flashed pure bravado, holding the metal container in plain view and downing a hefty swig with the rhythmic glub glub, glub glub of gas replacing fluid.  "It's good."

Again, I asked, "What is it?"

She didn't answer.
     
     
     
"Are you a friend of Jesus?" she queried during a quiet moment as I walked her home.  A clear night, the stars clung like tears refracting sunbeams on the sky's grim, black face.  A swirling breeze circled and passed over us every time we walked through a wind tunnel between two houses or across an open field.  Exactly when our hands came together or began swinging, I can't remember.  It just happened - like love or love's impostor, infatuation.  Her palm felt warm and moist against mine.  Such warmth and moisture hinted at the joy of bodies merging.  

 "What did you say?" I asked, distracted.

"My grandmomma says you're either a friend of Jesus or you're not.  She says my momma's a friend of Jesus, but my daddy, he doesn't have the guts.  How 'bout you?"

I shrugged.  "I'm a friend to anybody that wants it.  Anybody else, I guess not."

"Then you are for sure," she declared, nodding and squeezing my fingers for a tender but short-lived bear hug.  "Grandmomma says Jesus wants to be everybody's friend."

"Ah. . . ."  I left it at that.

My gentle fist of God kept silent for a long time as we marched across a vacant lot that was cluttered with beer bottles and other trash.  She stepped up to an old soda can and gave it a kick that sent it clattering across dirt and gravel a dozen feet or so.  Then, with a whisper and another lean in close, she confessed, "Not sure if I am."

"Why?" I asked, sensing a sudden downturn in her mood.

"My grandmomma says I'm a hellion, says Jesus don't have hellion friends."

"You believe her?"

It was her turn to shrug.  "She's been around a long, long time.  Knows a whole lot more than me.  I'm not about to argue with her.  All I can do's take her word."

"So, what makes you a hellion?"

She didn't reply.

We walked in silence, breathing in sweet despair from autumn, accepting that warm chill on Halloween.  All the children in their masks, singing and waving bags filled with sugars and chocolates, were long since stripped of illusions and sent to bed somewhat older, wiser, while their parents sorted through candy for pieces they didn't trust.  Perhaps those children lived nightmares about all they'd seen.  Or maybe they reveled in the gruesomeness, stashing a little mischief in their hearts.  However the holiday ended for children, their vanishing left us alone.  We could walk streets and cross fields free from spooks and warlocks.  

Night came along, joining us for a menage-a-trois of brooding.  We felt new life, even in what death darkness is.  It bubbled up in spurts, fueled by a touch, an accident.  I sensed her smile flickering if my skin brushed hers.  We made it a few blocks before she spoke.  "I go to church.  Momma takes me once a month.  For the sermon.  No waste-a-time'n Sunday school."

"Makes sense," I said, not really sure if it did.

"Grandmomma thinks it'll cure the hellion in me."

"Will it?"

"I don't know.  Maybe.  It worked for my two goober-headed brothers, I guess.  Momma used to make us all go.  Now she says them boys're innocent.  Blood's washed clean.  She says I'm the only hellion in the family ain't already 'bout to die in jail."

"Well," I said, "I don't guess it matters much.  Not really."

 "Yeah.  Glad you understand."

"Not really," I corrected her.  "The truth is, you don't seem so bad to me."  

She started smiling.  In moonlight, her cheeks flared up with a lilac hue.  Eyes sparkled like a cat's, and each time I turned to look, they mesmerized me like a magician's pocket watch.  I heard her sigh with a ton of heaviness.  She hung her head in such a Christlike pose.
     
     
     
Her bare skin seemed as pale as mine, or maybe mine had a jaundice like the one she wore.  As she sat on top of me, haloed in moonlight, I couldn't possess her.  Not that sweet moment either.  My reality belonged to her, and I left her to it - able only to ease my hands in strokes down her sides and back like a blind man seeing.  No longer struggling to control herself, she sighed at each caress, but with rapture in place of resignation.  

I loved her then - in a second way, a way I hadn't loved another human being.  She was my image refracted in the moment's darkened mirror.  Though so different, we were the same in our new excess.  She kissed with delicate motions, sharing herself in gasps and whispers. When she exhaled, each breath brought with it a wisp of such glorious soul-soothing wind, each gust as beautifully ambivalent as what came from inside ME.  It was that sense of acceptance and passion for every experience I'd described to my parents and those fools at the Oran Institute a thousand times.  But nobody before HER ever got it, ever searched for it and gave it back to me as proof I wasn't completely alone on the Earth. 
     
     
     
I lay at her side, thinking how I couldn't have been more pleased with the course of my life - not were I been born with dark skin or dull, grayish eyes, and not if everyone I met would be my friend, whether this girl's Jesus or the crazy punks who always flipped me off when they came over to pick up my sister Sonja.  No moment could ever compete, and from then on all moments would have to be measured against that one.  

"I can die now," I thought, after experiencing perfect serenity inside.  If my heart chose that second for last deliberate cry of freedom before liberation and the truest final freedom, I think I would've have laughed with abandon.  Afterward, I'd withdraw into my beautiful ambivalence as I always do when some new offer comes.  "I can die now," I whispered to My gentle fist of God, the poem to brand her with that name already stirring in a shadowy basement of my brain.  "That's how wonderful you made me feel tonight, how enchanting it still feels beside you."

I don't think she heard me.  Her breathing steady, untroubled by the cool air across her skin covered only by my shirt that I'd laid on her like a blanket - I believe she'd already found that lone instant of beautiful ambivalence everybody reaches if all the prerequisites are met to collapse from inside and outside through an altogether soul-appeasing sleep.