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Nature Vs Nurture Vs Diethylstilbestrol

Boys will be Boys

By John McFaulPublished 3 years ago 13 min read
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It all started as a life line; a quest to put something, anything, in order. Perhaps it was survivors guilt or maybe a thinly veiled vanity project. At any rate it started, and soon stopped. I wondered what needed to be said or if anything could be rationalized after all. The narrative had been banging around in my head for as long as I could remember, but recording it was too lofty a project and not really what I had intended. Nor was it within my grasp. I resigned myself to simply organize the disparate voices and find a platform from which to build contentment. Even at this, I imagined, the gods would snicker. And as my hand cramped, I saw how futile the endeavor would be. I put down my crayon.

It was time for Felix and mom had sliced some apples to accompany my afternoon entertainment. Nestled in the pink chair, in my parents pink bedroom, I carefully consumed my apple wedges while Felix demanded my attention in black and white. Hanging on the wall next to the television was my mothers latest mosaic, a peacock in shades of blue and purple. I worried about the clash of colors, the bird appearing as a blight against the monochromatic pink of the room. Perhaps some throw pillows could pull it all together I thought doubtfully. Felix didn't seem to care and I would never have mentioned my concerns to mom. Her craft projects gave her much pleasure and as long as they didn't end up in my room, I could muster up some appreciation.

The phone rang and my concern for Felix and the purple peacock was replaced by another. I could hear mom on the kitchen extension talking to Betty about an up coming “Hills Belles” meeting. I shuddered. Hopefully a suitable sitter would spare me the experience in the event I wasn't required at forth grade. It seemed I was forever being brought along to these meetings of the Belles. The ladies would lunch and laugh as they worked on their latest craft projects or just sun themselves by the pool. Few if any had children my age and all I had to look forward to was a wild ride home after an afternoon of glue, feathers and cocktails.

The chatter from the kitchen ended, and mom entered the pink room with a load of clean laundry. “Hows it going darling?”

“K” I said, squirming to see Felix over her furious fluff and fold.

“Enjoying your apple?”

“Uh huh”

“Just uh huh?” she questioned.

“The green ones are crisper” I proclaimed.

She turned and I could see her lips had curled at my audacious reply, but her eyes twinkled with amusement. “Beggars cant be choosers!” she teased.

Yes, I thought, but they can critique your wardrobe choices. She was wearing her favorite house dress, a riot of orange sunflowers over a field of brown checkers, how was it she wasn't depressed by that print?

“Why don't you ask Matt if he wants to play?” she said, opening the curtains and drowning Felix in a flood of afternoon glare. I held my ground in the overstuffed pink chair. “Oh, don't be such a boob, you could use some sun anyway,” she huffed.

Mom was always sending me outside in a never ending search for melanoma. Regretfully I left the plush pink sanctuary and headed into the bathroom to check my look in the mirror. I combed my hair, contemplating the miss-matched towels on the rack. Mom rounded the bend, “I thought you were going across the street to Matts house?”

“Ok, ok just hold your horses!”

“Don't sass me mister” she said with a playful swat, sending me in the direction of the door.

But I was never in a hurry to go to Matt's house. He was my best friend and lived just across the street but his was a house of horror. Two boisterous brothers, an obese father and a mother who looked as if she hadn't bathed since leaving the WACS.

I mounted my gold Schwinn stingray bicycle, rode down our long steep driveway, flew across the street and caught some air as I descended Matts driveway below. Skidding to a fish tailed stop, I approached the red door of Matt's iconic mid-century house. The door opened and there was Matt's mother, Amy, cigarette clenched between her teeth and a stained coffee mug in her shaking hand. “Well, if it isn't ‘ol Paddy John,” she said in a bronchial rumble.

I smiled and noted a new hair growing from the mole on her chin. “Can Matt come out and play?”

“Matt” she yelled with a fart. “Matt” she yelled again, coughing up something scary and sending cigarette ash to the sticky cork floor. “Matt” she screamed.

I thought of nothing but leaving. Thankfully Matt appeared and we set about playing with old lead soldiers on the hillside in his front yard. His dog Barron, a huge black Great Dane, came bounding over and sent our platoon flying.

“Let's pretend he's Godzilla,” I said, gathering up our fallen comrades.

“That's thstupid,” Matt lisped, “Godthilla ith green!”'

“Well, maybe he is a Negro Godzilla” I harrumphed.

Matts eyes crossed.

We set up camp a little higher up the slope, careful to avoid the giant Godzilla droppings. From there you could see over the roof of Matt's house, the roof that Matt's mother had built, if you were to believe that story. The view was obscured by smog which filled the San Fernando Valley below. I worried about Matt and his asthma. He often seemed to suffer on those smoggy summer days. I too had often lost my breath when the skies went thick and grey.

After numerous attempts at keeping our nemesis from scattering the soldiers, we packed up the regiment and ran from the towering Negro Godzilla. Finding safety indoors, I settled down on the threadbare sofa while Matt worked the controls on the Philco TV, wrestling a picture from the static. Barron scratched at the wall of glass beckoning us back outside.

Matts house smelled of rancid bacon and cigarettes. Making matters worse, poor Barron was dog food intolerant, leaving the cork floor with a patina of poop staines. As we sat spell bound, deep in a Dragnet drama, Amy, in the adjoining kitchen, looked up from her radio show and toasted us with a wheezy laugh. She always had that coffee mug but I never once saw a coffee pot.

Secure in the knowledge that Broderick Crawford had saved the day once again we decided to give the wavering Philco a rest. Amy, through a cloud of Chesterfields, sang an almost unintelligible version of “When Johnny Comes Marching Home Again”.

“Leth's thsplitsville to my room,” Matt sprayed.

“K” I said, and with a “Hurrah, Hurrah” we marched off.

Matt and I both had an appreciation of pop music. We played endless forty-fives and LP’s on his scratchy phonograph while we danced and sang. Petula Clark told of the virtues of a trip downtown and Puff the Magic Dragon sang of a land called Hanalei. I thought I would kick it up a notch and slipped into rotation “The House of the Rising Sun” by The Animals. Next came Donovan’s “Sunshine Superman.” “I’ll pick up your head and slowly blow your little mind,…mind,…mind,…mind…” (Will, my older brother, was gonna be furious when he found out I had scratched Donovan.) To follow was Procol Harum’s “A Whiter Shade of Pale”. Matt lisped his approval. I was introducing him to my favorites from Will’s collection of current rock and folk music. I concentrated on the British invasion. The Kinks, the Who, and the Animals fought alongside the Beatles and the Rolling Stones for my musical heart.

Soon bored with our dance-a-thon, we jumped on our stingrays and went about our exploration of the neighborhood. Steep and winding streets kept us winded and dirt trails through the hills and canyons proved a treacherous path. Along with snakes and poison ivy, we had to watch out for Matt’s older brother, George. George and his cronies, cruised the same areas with their Bull Taco and Huskewvana mini bikes. They would often ambush us, knock us off our stingrays, and pelt us with stones. George was the ring leader and I envisioned him as a sort of evil Marlon Brando, showing off to his eager cohorts. Thankfully the bullying rarely got out of hand and they would usually just leave us in a cloud of dust. As luck would have it, we avoided the motocross gang that day and rode back to Matt’s house for refreshments.

“John Patrick, dinners ready!” mom yelled from across the street. Even inside Matt’s house, I could hear her operatic bellow wafting down the hill.

“Hit the road Pat and don't ya come back no mo” Amy sang with a snicker.

I peddled home brushing off my velour and corduroy, not because of our dusty bike ride but because Matt’s house always made me feel tainted. Running to the bathroom I washed my hands hoping to shed as many ‘cooties’ as possible.

Dad’s whistle indicated that dinner was ready and I took my place at the table. Lamb chops and a new creation mom had gotten from Julia’s child, ‘Elegant Eggplant Surprise.’ Not being a picky eater, I dove into the gelatinous mass with my usual fervor. It became evident, mid swallow, that this was not going to be an easy task. While my parents discussed the news of the day, I deftly transferred the murdered vegetables to Viceroy my German Shepard who was stealthily positioned under the table, waiting for just such an event. One sniff and he backed away from the offending offering, head between his paws. I knew it wouldn't be long before my transgressions were discovered and I figured I could just forget about dessert. I asked to be excused and left the room with a furtive glance at the elegant surprise beneath the table.

Things rapidly went from bad to worse. Perhaps because I knew I would soon be severely reprimanded for my antics at dinner, I thought I would go for broke. Back in the pink bedroom, I put on one of my mothers freshly laundered tops. It was a pale yellow affair with puffy sleeves. Fashioning a belt from one of her scarves, I finished the look with black leather pumps. I longed for accessories and was into her jewelry box when I heard the call.

“John Patrick! Front and center!”, my dad demanded.

I tottered off to my awaiting parents planning my defense, “The eggplant had jumped off the plate” or maybe “Viceroy was to blame”. But as I came click-clacking into view, my parents expression went from anger to horror. My brother Will laughed hysterically. “Sissy fat head!!, Sissy fat head!!” he hooted.

I immediately felt for my cheek bones.

“Take off those clothes, young man!!," my father said with disgust. "And don't let me catch you dressed like that again! What the Jesus-Mary-Son of God!…We’re a respectable family!” he yelled, slamming down his glass of scotch.

Will hooted again.

“And enough out of you” turning towards Will with a conspiratorial smile on his face.

It wasn't the first time and would not be the last. I suppose they thought I would grow out of it. I was hoping to grow into it; the pumps were still a bit roomy. My mother, at a loss for words, led me back to her bedroom and reclaimed her clothes. I started to cry knowing it was wrong while feeling so right. “Don't be a ninny” she said, fighting back tears.

Watching her put away the black pumps, I noticed a leather belt with a huge shiny buckle that would have pulled the ensemble together nicely. Oddly enough, nothing was said about the eggplant which Viceroy had tracked throughout the dinning room like little purple islands against a sea of grey industrial carpet.

I spent that evening alone in my room ruminating about my dilemma. Herman's Hermits played softly on the record player. I realized that my desire to ‘dress up’ as I called it, was rarely rewarded with acceptance. It seemed that I had chosen the road less traveled, and my penchant for dolls and woman’s clothing was never going to be an acceptable lifestyle. The overwhelming reactions of fear and disgust were not lost on me. I felt a divide growing between me and my family. My paternal grandparents and my uncles and aunts were growing more distant. The entire Utah wing of the family, all Mormon and rarely visited, gave me ‘the cold shoulder’ amidst looks of suspicion and disgust. Having been caught countless times and discouraged from playing with Barbie Dolls and the like, I had become radicalized. I felt a desire to be true to myself despite the worlds disconcerting disapproval. Far from feeling like a black sheep, I felt like a black sheep in wolf''s clothing.

But performance was in my blood and I just couldn't resist a show now and then. At Thanksgiving dinner I arrived in a sunhat and gloves. At a Hills Bells meeting I slipped on earrings I had hidden in my pocket and donned my mothers pink sunglasses. After one of my more glamorous appearances, my brother Will proclaimed “We are going to sell you to the circus!!”

I envisioned my own horse drawn carnival wagon emblazoned with “JOHN-PATRICK WORLDS YOUNGEST CURIOSITY”. A colorful existence perhaps, surrounded by acrobats and elephants, Gypsies and tigers. But the thought of a long and dusty life on the road didn't appeal to me.

Indeed, my mothers father Elmer, had run off to join the circus as a youth. He became a ‘Barker’ singing and dancing at the Circus entrance. Later in life he became a professional singer and met Grammy while she was traveling, playing saxophone in an all woman's marching band. Mom would often say I was the spitting image of Elmer who had died when she was just a child. I had seen only a few photos of Elmer and the one that stuck in my mind was of him in a clown suit. Same old clown in brand new drag, I thought.

I longed for the days when Grammy would appease me, dressing me up in themed outfits from the depths of her cedar trunk. Mom had been a child actress and Grammy had kept all of her costumes in that trunk. Dressed in Chinoiserie, black wig and a fan, I was a China Doll, or in a white ruffled dress, hand painted wooden platform wedgies and castanets, I was a Saucy Señorita. During a walk on the beach Grammy had dressed me in seaweed and proclaimed I was a siren. Gramps would often take a photograph under Grammy’s direction. “You’ve gone too far this time Lois” he would say.

“Just you hush George and take the photo” Grammy would snap.

It was a gift of acceptance I had felt nowhere else. An unconditional love that only we shared. “You are going to be such a lady’s man” Grammy often said as we snuggled together watching countless hours of Liberace and Lawrence Welk. Occasionally she would sing along or accompany them on piano or saxophone. But I was older now and those trips to Grammy’s and Gramps were few and far between. I now felt somehow cast adrift, a lone sailor in a sea of my own making.

In an effort to quell the rift I was creating, I went underground. I would hide my budding cross-dressing career, my love of dolls and everything “girly”. I would focus on my love of art. I drew futuristic cars and floor plans for modern houses, robots and spaceships. But often I couldn’t help myself and would let loose and draw evening gowns and, God forbid, my favorite, Women’s shoes. These more subversive compositions I kept hidden under my bed.

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About the Creator

John McFaul

I dont think of myself as a writer. I can barely spell. But I found this contest to be fun, so here goes.

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