rebellion:
open resistance to authority, especially organized armed resistance to an established government.
Driving the highway, I thought about how I had changed, and not for the better. Not that I was a total goody two-shoes before or anything. Like I said, I did my share of pranks, got drunk a few times, entered into a sexual relationship after promising my parents I’d wait until I was eighteen. I was far from perfect, but still, this was the first time I’d committed a felony.
I guess anyone who reads a lot knows that most people are capable of every kind of behavior given a certain set of circumstances. Like the boys in Lord of the Flies who become savages and murder Simon and Piggy. Or Raskolnikov in Crime and Punishment, who murders a pawnbroker and her half sister in order to help a poor family.
Ethics are slipperier than most people think. I had to remember that before I judged someone. My mom and dad weren’t religious. “Most of the bad stuff that goes on in the world happens in the name of God. You ever notice that?” Mom said, when I asked her why we didn’t go to church like other families I knew.
But she had a phrase that she used quite often: “There, but for the grace of God, go I.” She meant, don’t judge people. Their plight could be yours. Their bad luck.
As I got closer to D.C., the number of cop cars multiplied. It made me pretty nervous. Once, I even saw blue flashing lights behind me, but the cop sped past. I hoped the car’s owner was still at the picnic, scarfing down fried chicken or whatever else was left over after Alan’s table dive, rather than dropping someone off and returning to their car. I hoped the E-Zpass that would get me through tolls wouldn’t tell it was a stolen car.
I hit the radio. It was on an AM station. A baseball player was talking about winning the World Series. “Man,” he said. “I was the man. I mean, we were all the man that night.”
I flipped to FM and rolled down the window. America flew past me. I was on my way.
An old Al Green song came on that made me think of Mira. I am so in love with you. Whatever you want to do is all right with me.
For several nights after Mira asked me to make love with her, I couldn’t sleep. It was as if the possibility of that ever happening had been locked in a little closet, and now the door had popped open.
I paced my room, looking out the window like the sky would give an answer. I could practically feel our bodies next to each other. It was all I could think about.
But it wasn’t just sex. So many of the guys had sex with girls just to do it, but I didn’t want it to be that way. I felt like if I did that my first time, the experience would be empty forever. With Mira, I wanted it to be something special, almost sacred. To make us closer. And I knew that she would be my first, and maybe even my last. That’s how strongly I felt about her.
We had a couple of books on sex at our shop. They were actually written for gay women on how to please each other. I peeked at them when my parents were out, studied the illustrations of which parts of women’s bodies gave them pleasure. It sounds kind of stupid now, but that was my habit in life. You want to know about something, or how to do something? Get a book.
The next step was to buy condoms. Everyone knows me and my parents in town, so I didn’t go to the local pharmacy. Instead, I drove over the Mt. Hope Bridge to Portsmouth and went to CVS. I bought a bunch of other stuff—shaving cream and candy—to make the condoms less noticeable. Still, my hands were shaking as I placed the package on the checkout stand and watched it move toward the checker on the belt.
She was a middle-aged lady, with black hair and heavy makeup. She reminded me of Elvira, Mistress of the Dark, who hosted scary movies on TV. She rang it up without comment. Then, as I pulled out my wallet, she looked at me, narrowed her eyes, and said, “God, I need a cigarette.” That was it.
With every mile, I got more elated, more excited, even though I was starting to feel seriously lousy: my throat aching, my head throbbing.
But as I crossed from Delaware into New Jersey, my luck changed. The car started to sputter. I looked at the gas gauge. The needle was on empty, all the way at the end of the red light. I needed to get off the highway. There was no way I’d catch a ride on it; the cars were going too fast.
By the time I coasted down the off-ramp, the car had stalled completely. I managed to pull it onto the shoulder and hop out. I checked the car to see if there was anything that would help me. It was something I should have done in Idaho: taken what I needed, like a bottle of water, like my wallet.
There was nothing there. Just a flier that announced the picnic. It reminded me that at least I wasn’t hungry. I grabbed the sheet of paper and ran off the exit.
It took me about forty minutes to find the on-ramp. Then I pulled out the marker I’d taken from the taxidermy shed and pulled off the cap.
Write, I instructed myself. Words.
At home, I had about twenty journals. My dad gave us each a new journal every New Year’s Day. He wrote poems in his. Mom kept hers secret. I filled mine with stuff about my day: the wrestling scores, funny things Mira said, parties I went to, weird dreams, ideas for papers. Writing was as natural to me as reading or speaking.
Come on, I coaxed myself. It was like trying to remember the phone numbers. My mind wouldn’t cooperate with me.
Goddamn it, write! I demanded.
Words are power. It’s corny, I know, but my silence had taught me that much. You’re nothing if you can’t communicate.
My hand shook and wobbled like a little kid’s as I pressed the marker to the paper. Then I wrote, in big, dark block letters, the two words that meant more to me than anything at that moment: RHODE ISLAND.