Mirrors of Narcissus Page 10

  Now Christine looked at me. “Your turn, Guy. Scott, you do the squeezing.”

  He got behind me and I began taking deep breaths, feeling his arms pressed against my belly. Just being like this, with his body so close to mine, was enough to make me happy. I lost count of the breaths as I felt my head getting light. Somewhere off in the corner of my vision was Christine, smiling, looking benevolently on. I thought, momentarily, that I still had something important left to say—and then I was gone.

  In no time at all I was coming to from somewhere; I felt as if I were stepping into a brand new morning, the air fresh and pure. It was heavenly; I wanted it to last forever. This was a memory from out of my dreams, the glorious childhood feeling of endless possibilities.

  The echo of a song was on the edge of my consciousness, a song I’d learned in the fifth grade, so pure and beautiful that I always imagined it sung by an angels’ choir of boy sopranos. It was about the delights of wandering the mountain trails with a knapsack on my back…the trails of a fabulous land to which I wanted to return…always.

  I looked in wonder at Christine and Scott, feeling as if I’d been away a long, long time. A hollow ache in my chest told me that a part of me was still wandering those mountain trails.

  They were giggling at my look of baffled loss, but the whisper of a truth, desperately suppressed from the very start, now emerged within me, blossoming forth like a tropical flower in fast-motion: I was in love with Scott.

  5

  In my explorations of the secret homosexual underground on campus, I had come upon what looked like the most frequented spot: the cement bunker-like outdoor restroom by the football field, near the changing rooms. The graffiti in there was the most explicit I’d yet seen.

  I recalled many times, late at night, going back to the dorm from the library and seeing dark shadows slinking in and out of it, and the orange cigarette glows hovering like lurid fireflies in the heavy gloom beyond. Now as I realized the true significance of those shadows, I became intrigued. In the daytime, the place was innocuous enough, but surely it must assume another aspect after dark.

  I decided to go there and see at firsthand just what went on.

  It was past eleven o’clock when I stepped out of the dorm and turned toward the football field. The autumn night was cool, and the stars were pinpoints of cold fire. Just beside the football field was a grassy hillock where music students during the day could often be seen practicing on their instruments. But at this hour it was empty. Here and there, like lonely beacons amid the trees behind the bleachers, were the dimly-lit yellow rape prevention phone boxes. There was a ghostly air to the whole scene and I began to wonder if I should continue.

  I followed the paved bicycle path which I often took during the day to go to my classes. It looked deserted and forbidding. The campus now wore a completely different guise from the one I always saw in the daytime.

  I was nearing the football field, but my destination was on the opposite side, and I didn’t dare cross the vast expanse of the brightly-lit playing field. An oblique approach suited me better. Just past the football field, the path took a sharp bend to the left, curving down towards the arts building. Here, a tiny wooden bridge spanned the stream which meandered across the campus. A slight breeze made the trees beside it stir, and I listened for a moment to the rustling murmur they made.

  Then I crossed the bridge, peering among the trees to the left under the eave of the arts building. There seemed to be no one about. I stepped off the path into the shade of the trees, suddenly plunging into greater darkness. Crickets fell silent at my approach. There were the usual sounds of night—a far-off siren downtown and the wind soughing in the trees.

  Pressing myself among the shrubs lining the stream, I proceeded back toward the football field, approaching it from the rear. Some instinct within me was alerted to invisible emanations coming from among the trees, and I could feel a skin-tingling prickle of other presences unseen in the dark, hidden and watchful.

  And then my heart almost stopped as I spotted a figure ahead of me, standing off to one side of the bicycle path, peering intently into the night. After a long moment of immobility, it stepped away from the shadows to reveal itself to me, then stepped back. The orange glow of a cigarette, man high, brightened and faded, then spun like a roman candle, scattering sparks along the ground.

  I had an eerie dreamlike feeling of familiarity, as if I’d been here before.

  Cautiously, I moved away from the bicycle path, farther into the cloaking shade of the bushes. I felt safer taking this more circuitous route to the football field. My immediate goal was a slight rise which gave me a vantage point from which I could observe the restroom and the area around it without being seen. As I approached it I knelt beside a bush and peered all around. Only after I’d reassured myself that no one else was about did I proceed. I made my way up the slope and found a suitably hidden hollow, bounded on one side by a huge rock. There was a clear view of the restroom below. I took up my post and waited.

  For a while, nothing happened, and I began to wonder if I’d been imagining things earlier. And then I saw two men suddenly come out of the darkness, slipping past the shrubbery into the shadow of the trees beyond the restroom.

  I was wondering whether I should follow them when I heard a faint noise coming from under the trees to my right, behind the bleachers. As my eyes adjusted to the dark, I could see in their shadows a man standing flush against a tree trunk. He appeared to be gazing in the direction of the restroom, but I could see no one down there.

  All around me was silence. I could hear shouts from far off—a dorm party or people returning from the late movie at the Parkside. The man seemed to be waiting for something to happen. What?

  And then I heard a rustling. About fifty feet away, down among the bushes to the left was a furtive movement. I strained my eyes and made out the man I’d seen earlier standing next to the bicycle path. He was walking up the shallow slope toward the bleachers beyond the rise. He stopped a moment and seemed to be looking around, then continued on.

  Crossing a treeless open space, he walked straight to where the other man was. I couldn’t see if they were talking, but they were constantly looking around. Then they both slipped away. It was all so silent, like the elaborate choreography of a strange, music-less ballet. There was something inhuman and cold about it all.

  Mustering my courage, I began stealthily moving down the slope in their direction, keeping to the cover of the shrubs. I couldn’t see where they’d gone, but sensed they’d withdrawn a little further into the shadows under the bleachers. My heart was racing; this felt like the combat games I used to play as a boy. I hadn’t done this in a long time.

  As I approached the bleachers from the rear, I suddenly saw them again. One of them was leaning with his back against a bleacher support and the other was standing right next to him. Both of them were peering about so busily that, for several seconds, I didn’t realize what was going on. When I looked carefully, I saw that the second man had his hand down at the other’s crotch and was openly fondling the erect penis.

  A queasiness gripped my stomach and I felt sweat break out all over my body. Here in the open, in the middle of the campus! How long had all this been going on? And virtually under my very nose! I’d often ridden my bike through here during the day without the faintest idea of what went on at night! I strained my eyes to see more, my mouth dry with excitement.

  And then—I don’t know if it was a noise I made (for my blood was pounding in my ears too loudly for me to tell)—they looked up in my direction, and the one who was leaning back zipped up and began walking away. They parted swiftly, going separate ways. I ducked down farther into the bushes, my heart hammering so hard I felt a dull ache in my chest.

  It took a long time for my excitement to die down. What if the two men hadn’t spotted me? Despite the danger I felt, I knew I had to find out more about this strange nightworld. A whole hidden world was out here, an invisible
world which overlapped and intersected all parts of the daytime world, but which only a chosen few could see. It was a different country, not on any map, a perverse wonderland of the dark corrupt instincts.

  I didn’t feel like returning to the dorm just yet. Until I could learn more about this new world, I knew I would feel incomplete, unsatisfied.

  I decided it was time to go back and explore the restroom itself. It seemed to be the hub around which all the silent action in the dark revolved, their black heart. Indeed, the combination of the cool night air and my growing excitement necessitated a trip to the toilet.

  I made my way back to the restroom by skirting the fence around this side of the football field. All about me was the sound of crickets and the far-off traffic of University Avenue. The darkness along the fence was even greater in contrast to the lights of the playing field which were always turned on at night, presumably for safety purposes. They had the effect of throwing the surrounding woods into complete shadow. It was here that the darkest shadows lurked.

  The open area in front of the restroom appeared to be empty. I made my move. Stepping out into the open, I crossed the short distance and was just about to enter the restroom when I noticed someone sitting on a bench beyond it. I hadn’t seen him at first because the lights of the playing field had momentarily blinded me. By the time I spotted him, he must have been watching me for some time. Feeling a little foolish I stepped into the restroom.

  It was well lit. I entered a stall and closed the door behind me. The graffiti on the walls was the same I’d seen earlier in my explorations, but now they had assumed an immediacy which they’d lacked before. I knew now that they described real actions, not just the lust-inspired fantasies of a dreamer. I waited a few minutes for my tension to die down enough for me to urinate.

  When I stepped out of the stall, a boy was standing at the sink washing his hands. Was he the same boy who’d been sitting at the bench? His eyes in the mirror were looking right at me but I ignored him and quickly washed my hands and stepped out into the night again.

  Just as I exited the restroom, another boy came walking up to the doorway—where had he come from? I could have sworn the surrounding area had been empty. He peered searchingly into my face, but, scared, I proceeded onward. Things were happening much too quickly for me.

  I walked back toward the bicycle path as if I were on my way to the dorm. When I’d gotten far enough away from the restroom, I plunged back into the shrubbery and doubled back to a point beyond the bleachers, at the north end of the football field where the changing room was. From there I intended to make my way down through another wooded area, approaching the restroom from the other side.

  As I neared the changing room, I could see a boy standing in the doorway. He was leaning against the wall as if standing guard there. I knew the building was locked up at night. Before he could see me I hid myself behind a shrub from where I could watch him.

  Presently, an older man came out of the shadows behind the building and approached the front, giving the boy in the doorway a long look as he passed by. They looked hard at each other, the older man stopping to give his look added emphasis before continuing on. But the boy didn’t move.

  After a period of time, the boy stepped out from the doorway and began walking up the slope toward the football field. When he got to a slight ridge, he stopped and stood still, his hands on his hips as if posing. Under the illumination of starlight, I could see that he was a well-built boy wearing tight jeans and a long-sleeved T-shirt. The statue of a young prince of the night, arrogantly surveying his realm.

  I wanted to get a better look at him. Cautiously, I got up from my crouch behind the shrub. But before I could make a move toward him, a middle-aged man—not the one who’d approached him earlier—crept out of the dense shrubbery and drew near the boy. The boy, seeing him, suddenly turned and walked back down the slope.

  The man, undeterred, followed about ten paces behind. I followed them both like a stealthy animal of prey, nimble, silent, alert. But at the foot of the slope I lost sight of them in the dark shadows there. I continued walking in the same direction until I caught sight of the boy moving past a low hedge. Before the hedge was a line of benches. A young man sitting on the first one muttered something to the boy but the boy ignored him and walked straight on.

  He walked firmly, erect, head up, glancing neither left nor right. The middle-aged man continued to follow him, always about ten paces behind. And, unknown to either, I trailed them both.

  At the end of the path, the boy cut up through the shrubs again, with the man right behind him. The latter made no secret of the fact that he was doggedly following. The whole silent pantomime was like a grotesque farce. There was the beautiful young boy; and there was the unattractive middle-aged man. This man had eyes only for the boy—who was obviously disgusted by the other’s attention. There was no subtlety in their actions. The man’s posture, his rounded back, the slightly obsequious way he moved, revealed his utter infatuation with the boy. And the boy’s disdain and loathing were evident in his haughty strides. Still, the man doggedly followed him. And I secretly following them both, was amused, yet fascinated by the entertainment. It was like watching the mating habits of animals who—unlike humans—make no secret of their desires and needs. Perhaps the older man felt that his persistence would pay off, that the boy would eventually give in out of sheer exhaustion, weary of trying to evade his attentions.

  As we made our way past the bleachers to the south end of the football field, I heard the sounds of gravel steadily crunching. I looked right and saw that the road which looped down behind the main stand was filled with parked cars. Now I knew how all these men had gotten here. One car started up and turned on its headlights. As it swung around to back up, its headlights arced like a searchlight. The sweep of its glare washed over the boy who suddenly froze looking in the direction of the car. His face, caught momentarily in the light, was beautiful.

  When the car had gone and all was dark, the boy turned his steps back toward the main campus. We were now walking up the sidewalk leading back to the arts building. It was lined on one side with statues. Here, the boy picked up his pace, and the older man was hard put to keep up with it.

  Not taking my eyes off them, I’d become clumsy, knocking against a wire trash can in my haste. Before I knew it, I was nearly right up against them, not two paces behind, and almost ran into the man when he suddenly halted, turned around and hissed at me: “Stop following me, will you!”

  I turned and fled into the night, feeling naked, and didn’t stop running till I was back at the dorm.

  6

  The ringing of the campanile bells woke me. I counted them off as the hours sounded: eight…nine…ten o’clock. My mind was still so full of what I’d seen last night that it took a while for the time to register. And the day: today was Wednesday. I was late for my chemistry lecture. In a sudden panic, I jumped out of bed realizing I’d never make it in time.

  What was I to do? And then I relaxed. As if I’d suddenly remembered something from far back, the solution hit me: I would simply drop the course. Why not? I hated it anyway, it was the most boring class I took. Feeling as if a great load had been lifted off my shoulders, I lay back in bed. The decision to quit had come to me in an inspired flash, but I knew it had probably been building up in me for weeks.

  From the very first lecture in that course, I’d felt lost, completely lost. With a sense of baffled amazement, I’d listened to the professor speaking in the most amazingly technical terms, and not a word of it had made any sense. It was as if he’d been speaking in a foreign language. Helplessly I’d taken notes but when I looked at them afterwards, they looked like they were written in code. I was beginning to wonder if college was the right place for me. Back in high school, the chem teacher had given me a B+; here, that grade didn’t mean a thing.

  I yawned and stretched. At this hour, almost all the other guys in the dorm were in class; the whole place was quiet.
For all I knew, I had the whole dorm to myself. It was a luxury.

  I got up from bed and went into the bathroom. After urinating, I came out and sat down on Scott’s bed. It was neatly made and everything was in order. No doubt he’d tried to wake me this morning, and being unable to, had gone on to breakfast without me.

  I liked to go over to his part of the room when he was out. We had each other’s permission to use or borrow anything without asking; only the locked top drawers of our desks were completely private. Being alone in his side of the room, surrounded by his belongings, I felt I was absorbing his essence in a way otherwise denied to me. Sometimes when I saw his things without him, I felt even closer to him than when we were actually together.

  His wall was hung with reproductions of famous paintings and his bookshelf was crammed to overflowing with books—textbooks, paperbacks, library books. He was a voracious reader. We shared a love of books but I was always surprised at the wide range of his reading. He explored areas of literature which I found boring: the novels of Walter Scott, Nathaniel Hawthorne, and Henry James. But he also read popular books, mysteries, science fiction, and spy novels.

  We had begun lending each other the books which had moved us. It was an intimate exchange, I felt, because when a book touches you in some way, and you recommend it, you pass on a part of yourself. I read his personality in the books he liked, and in the passages he’d underlined. I, too, underlined the parts which I liked so that when I returned the book, he would see what had moved me. And we liked to write notes to each other in the margins, airing our comments about the writer’s views or style. Later we would discuss each other’s opinions.

  Our tastes grew together, though I couldn’t say whose influence on the other was stronger. It was mutual in the best sense. I felt we were growing together toward a sensibility which was uniquely ours. (I didn’t dare tell him about the gays books I read, however.)