American Ghost Roses

An American Tale of Sex and Death

9 An฀American฀Tale฀of฀Sex฀and฀Death Before฀I’d฀felt฀the฀promised฀kiss฀of฀either— pink฀tongue฀of฀one,฀feathered฀breath฀of฀the฀other— I฀knew฀their฀kinship฀among฀lords฀of฀life and฀fealty฀I’d฀pay฀from฀pocket฀or฀heart, or฀both.฀Stoic฀Catholic฀teacher-priests had฀ceded฀the฀subject฀to฀shocked฀locker room฀gossip,฀so฀imagine฀my฀wonder, child฀of฀the฀fat฀book,฀when฀I฀blundered฀on Romeo฀and฀Juliet฀in฀the฀library Carnegie’s฀steel฀monopoly฀gifted my฀Hoosier฀town.฀Oh฀how฀the฀bard’s฀language spilled฀like฀sunlight฀through฀the฀oft-zitted฀dome shrouding฀my฀green฀teenage฀brain,฀a฀verbal hubbub฀above฀the฀flesh฀and฀brash฀sword฀play. ฀ ฀ ฀ ฀  Our฀play฀at฀home฀featured฀yardstick-duels, my฀sister฀trilling,฀“Avaunt,฀arrant฀knave” until฀I฀thwacked฀her฀knuckles฀and฀she฀cried. Sent฀to฀my฀room,฀I฀bled฀Mercutio’s last฀gasp฀into฀red฀carpet,฀perfecting the฀raised฀head’s฀fall.฀By฀luck,฀Zeffirelli’s classic฀movie฀remake฀graced฀the฀downtown Paramount’s฀sagging฀screen.฀It฀cost฀a฀week’s lunch฀money,฀glad฀fasting,฀so฀friends฀and฀I might฀treat฀a฀sweet฀trio฀of฀girls฀beneath the฀balcony’s฀stiff฀lip.฀I’d฀love฀to฀say our฀hand-holding,฀like฀any฀gateway฀drug, 10 led฀to฀higher฀pleasures,฀but฀mine฀was฀greased with฀popcorn฀slurb฀and฀hers฀was฀wet฀with฀sweat. ฀ ฀ ฀ ฀  Don’t฀sweat฀the฀truth:฀It฀wasn’t฀my฀heart’s฀first nor฀last฀diffident฀failure,฀and฀this฀time I฀looked฀up฀when฀Olivia฀Hussey’s olive฀chest฀splashed฀on฀screen,฀each฀breast฀maybe four฀feet฀across฀and฀deeply฀cleaved.฀Though฀I’d seen฀others฀flashed฀in฀sticky฀magazines flooring฀the฀burned-out฀basement฀where฀bad฀boys sniffed฀glue,฀and฀though฀since฀I’ve฀held฀love’s฀ample gifts,฀none฀was฀as฀monstrously฀glorious as฀these฀Shakespeare฀conjured฀in฀serif฀type. Who฀was฀Capulet฀and฀who฀Montague I฀don’t฀remember,฀nor฀the฀actor’s฀name who฀played฀Romeo฀in฀stitched฀elastic tights,฀that฀too-prissy฀narcissistic฀fool. ฀ ฀ ฀ ฀  We฀three฀fools฀of฀brushed฀velour฀mourned฀those฀breasts amidst฀the฀climax’s฀sad฀collapse.฀Moping and฀hushed,฀we฀walked฀our฀brick฀streets฀home,฀the฀girls safely฀station-wagoned฀off฀by฀mommy. That฀not฀one฀of฀us฀boys฀had฀touched฀any sweatered฀breast฀meant฀not฀a฀lick.฀Confusion fueled฀our฀hormonal฀musings,฀April฀’68, a฀few฀ticks฀late฀for฀the฀Summer฀of฀Love we’d฀read฀about฀soundly฀after฀the฀fact. A฀crowd฀frothed฀around฀the฀YMCA, someone฀with฀a฀yellow฀bullhorn฀lathered the฀night฀faces฀that฀dipped฀and฀rose฀like฀waves of฀inland฀seas.฀When฀we฀turned฀on฀Lincoln, the฀bullhorn’s฀feedback฀asked,฀Hey,฀what’s฀the฀time? 11 ฀ ฀ ฀ ฀  The฀time’s฀answer:฀One฀fist฀smashed฀my฀glasses, another฀my฀white฀cheek.฀Each฀swing฀brought฀its own฀brass-knuckled฀reply:฀“Time฀for฀Dr.฀King,” “Time฀for฀our฀Miss฀Rosa,”฀“My฀time,฀mo-fo”— each฀quick฀punch฀a฀blunt,฀punctuated฀grunt. I฀rope-a-doped฀as฀would฀Ali฀in฀his Thrilla฀in฀Manila,฀till฀each฀had฀done with฀me฀what฀he฀would.฀The฀yellow฀bullhorn bellowed,฀What’s฀the฀time?฀The฀brothers฀answered, Black฀Power,฀Black฀Power,฀until฀I฀knew what฀it฀was฀to฀have฀none.฀In฀dewy฀grass, beneath฀a฀sappy฀maple,฀I฀looked฀in their฀eyes฀and฀they฀in฀mine.฀All฀right,฀we฀looked but฀didn’t—this,฀the฀day฀Martin฀got฀his. ฀ ฀ ฀ ฀  His฀was฀death,฀though฀I’d฀like฀to฀say฀I฀learned a฀fleshed฀lesson—one฀you฀carry฀folded in฀the฀pocket฀your฀wallet’s฀in,฀something to฀mull฀in฀traffic,฀awaiting฀the฀doc, or฀popping฀corn฀for฀the฀rented฀movie the฀kids฀can’t฀watch.฀You’re฀waiting฀to฀hear฀it, white฀America,฀so฀you฀can฀smirk฀your absolution.฀And฀yes,฀you’re฀waiting฀too, black฀America,฀so฀you฀can฀shake฀your฀head, I฀don’t฀get฀it.฀When฀the฀twenty฀finished with฀me,฀they฀chanted฀down฀Lincoln’s฀rubble. One฀man,฀eyeing฀my฀near-sighted฀fumble and฀plea,฀picked฀up฀my฀too฀thick฀black-rimmed฀specs and฀placed฀them฀gently฀on฀my฀swollen฀face. ฀ ฀ ฀ ฀  12 “Face฀it,฀you฀at฀the฀wrong฀place฀at฀the฀wrong time,฀brother.”฀He฀said฀brother.฀Through฀cracked฀lens, we฀might’ve฀been—his฀face฀pieced฀together as฀Picasso฀knew฀before฀the฀first฀war, before฀the฀second,฀before฀Jeanie฀Creek tended฀my฀lumps,฀she฀pregnant฀by฀a฀black guy฀her฀parents฀wouldn’t฀let฀her฀marry. Her฀radio฀spun฀the฀web฀we...