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It is a gypsy’s life, itinerant, drifting from farm to farm, state to state, following the picking season like a carelessly drawn map.The migrant workers’ stories, when I can bridge the language barrier, are fascinating. Theirs is a hard life, grounded in insecurity and often cruelty. So not much different to my own. There is a kind of freedom and hope in their lives I can’t help envying. Perhaps with a change in landscape, their situation would improve. At any rate, within weeks, the people around them, theirlandscapewould change; mine never does.
Every year since I turned fourteen, I’ve joined in the fruit picking. Near the end of each summer, which is when picking season starts, hope would be conceived within me. By the end of picking season, which coincides with the start of midterms, hope, nurtured, prayed for, would be stillborn, brown, crumbled, trampled underfoot, and left to blow in the fall winds as carelessly as the falling leaves.
This year felt different, though—I could feel it from the beginning. And I was sure this year would be different; the child, hope, would be carried to term this time and grow and thrive.
Usually, the same workers return year after year, and you begin to recognize them. Sometimes, though, there are new faces. This year, one of the new workers, a guy a little older than I named Juan, really stands out. He’s good-looking and broad-shouldered with an easy manner and a tumult of dark hair. He picks more fruit than anyone. I like watching him as his muscles shift beneath his bronze skin with his quick, efficient movements.
I was standing near the converted school bus that sells cuchifritos, a variety of Puerto Rican foods that are usually pork based and fried. The bus is only open during picking season and is quite popular with the migrant workers. They serve blood sausage, fried potato balls stuffed with meat, fried pork skin, andplantains. They sell juices that seem exotic to me: passionfruit, pineapple, coconut.
I was lingering near the bus this afternoon, waiting for the line to thin so I could discreetly examine the offerings at the shabby newsstand next to the bus, which was also only open during picking season and which sold Spanish language newspapers and magazines andPlayboyand a magazine calledBlueboy, in whose pages last summer I’d seen my first naked man. In the picture, he was wearing a polo shirt with horizontal stripes, chest hair peeking out of the shirt’s unbuttoned collar and…nothing else. I’d been mesmerized but too frightened to buy it and too scared to steal it. Ever since, I’ve wondered if that is what Rio looks like under his clothes; I wonder if I’ll ever find out.
Suddenly addressing me, without turning around, Juan said, “Take a picture. It’ll last longer.”
“Excuse me?” I said, stepping back. Had he seen me edging towards the magazine rack?
He turned around. “I said take a picture—it’ll last longer.”
“Huh?” I said, staring at him. I’d never been this close to him before. He was even handsomer than he looked at a distance.
“You’re always staring at me—”
“I—I—I’m not—” I was lying, and we both knew it. This close, I thought he might be handsomer than Rio.
He looked around, lowered his voice. “I know what you are, what you want.”
“I—”
“See the thing is, I don’t mind.” He watched me closely then said, “Follow me.” He led me deep into the orchard where all the fruit had already been picked. Leaning against a tree, he unbuckled his jeans and pushed them to his knees; to my shock, he wore no underwear. “C’mon,” he said roughly. “Have at it before someone comes along.”
I dropped to my knees as if I knew what I was doing.
In the act, in his touch, there had been tenderness, an occasional caress. After he tucked himself away and zipped up his pants, I stood and asked, “Can I kiss you?”
He looked startled, then displeased, then offered me his mouth. After a few tentative pecks, his lips parted, and his tongue began to explore my mouth. He relaxed and, sucking on my tongue, lapped up the taste of himself. I barely registered the narcissism of those first kisses. When we broke apart, he shoved me away from him so hard I stumbled and almost fell. Tears sprang to my eyes.
“Don’t,” he growled, “come near me again. You hear me? If you do, I’ll break your neck. In fact, don’t even look at me.” He turned and walked away.
As hurt and confused as I was by his sudden change in mood, kissing him had solved the riddle of me, finally. With that single kiss, I learned definitively who I am and what I want. The question now is, what do I do with this knowledge?
Saturday, September 13, 1975, Locust Hollow—As I’ve continued on with picking, I’ve been doing my best to stay as far away from Juan as possible, partly because the whole thing was kind of humiliating and also because I’m tired of getting hit. So, I was surprised when I was leaving my shift today and spottedhim smoking a cigarette at the orchard entrance. I turned to head back into the thicket of trees to wait until he left.
“Hey! Wait up,” he called.
I froze. When he reached me, he reached out and squeezed my shoulder. I flinched. He withdrew his hand. “Hey, man. Sorry about the other day. I didn’t mean what I said. I never did anything with a guy before. I just freaked out a little. It kind of scared me how much I liked what we did.” When I said nothing, he continued, “C’mon. Let me make it up to you?”
“How?” I asked.
“Let’s go back to our spot and I’ll let you suck me off again. I’ll even let you kiss me if you want.” He grinned. This time, when it was over,hekissedmeand caressed my neck.
Saturday, October 11, 1975, Locust Hollow—I turned sixteen today. My grandfather didn’t remember my birthday was today. Or maybe he felt it wasn’t worth mentioning. After he found religion, after my parents died, he’s come to believe that unless you are Jesus Christ, you shouldn’t expect a fuss on your birthday. In all fairness, I don’t know when his birthday is, either.
In Springfield, with Grampy Eddie, my birthday meant visits to the zoo and the toy department at Woolworth’s and once a trip to the circus. But as he liked to point out, Grampy Eddie was a fan of “the grand gesture.” This meant two dozen yellows roses for Mommy on Mother’s Day and the tallest, fattest Christmas tree in Springfield each year, under which he’d place stacks of gaily wrapped gifts of every description.
I’ve pretty much resigned myself to the notion that my birthday is just another day, no more worthy of recognition than any other Tuesday or Wednesday. So, I was surprised when at the end of picking, as it was growing dark, Juan wished me happy birthday. Grasping my wrist, he pulled me back into the orchard. Stopping, he pulled us to the ground against a tree. When I looked at him quizzically, he said, “A lot of girls want me. You’re a cute guy. I bet a lot of girls want you, too. But you only want me.” He actually sounded proud. “I think that’s so hot. Being with you makes me feel more like a man because girls want you, but I’m such a man,youwantme.”
I was confused by what he was saying. For one thing, I couldn’t imagine any girls being interested in me. I certainly wasn’t interested in them. But he was right—I did want him. When I reached for his belt, he pushed me back against the tree.
“Relax,” he said. “I’m leaving the day after tomorrow, and today is your birthday. Let me do it.”
