Alter Boys (16 page)

Georgie had never seen pink underwear before.   

Ms. Hymen
’
s legs were a smooth creamy tan, that angled in from the floor, up the sides of the chair, ducked under the canopy created by her taut dress, and ended in magical little world of pink. 

He felt he could crawl into that warm soft cave and lay his head against the pink pillow that puffed out slightly in the middle and then tapered off up and under to places unknown. 

“And the second tiger said:  Little black Sambo, give me your jacket and I won’t eat you up!” 

Beyond the pink fabric there was another deeper cave.  Georgie could vaguely see the darkness behind the pink and he ached to know what might lie beyond.  He spent the entire story time staring directly ahead, imagining things that he could never understand.  He envisioned miss Hymen letting him touch the pretty pink patch, removing her underwear and letting him see the cave within the cave, allowing him to feel the silkiness of her legs and the mysterious place where they connected. 

“But little black Sambo ate 72 pancakes.  The most pancakes of all.” 

The book cover closed on the final illustration, and the legs came back together like theatrical stage curtains.

The show was over.  But definitely not forgotten.

Miss
Hymen
gauged that she had matched about a dozen of the new names and faces (or reasonably so).  That would be put to the test when they were sitting elsewhere.  She had tried to identify the boy sitting directly in front of her, but each time she scanned him (unlike the upraised expressions of his classmates following the pictorial adventures of Sambo) his eyes were fixed straight forward.  So she had been denied a good look at his face and besides, his lanyard had flipped over concealing his name. 

He was one of the quite ones, which was good, but for taking inventory part of the toughest of the bunch.

The rest of the morning passed unremarkably.  There was coloring to be performed with waxy Crayola
’
s that had seen better days 4 or 5 years ago.  The few good colors were eagerly snatched up by the first in line, the rest had to settle on stubby blacks, browns and totally unsatisfying whites. There was a session listening to nursery rhymes played on a 78 RPM phonograph, and then came an odd practice known as rest time; each student laying on the linoleum floor with nothing more than a thin towel between them and the hard cold surface. 

As the day ended Ms. Hymen trilled (knowing that many parents were just outside the door and within earshot) “Children we have had a
wonderful
first day and I can’t wait to see you all again tomorrow.”

Tomorrow?  This was news to Georgie. 

He left the room with the other children and easily found mommy.  She was off by herself from the other parents aggressively extracting a greasy nugget from her nasal cavity.  From a distance you could almost have confused her flailed
fingers and twisting hand as a wave.  Ms.
Hymen
began to raise an obligatory hand in return, then recognizing the act, turned quickly away as if tending to another matter.  “Oh my God, how disgusting!” she breathed.

She may not have been able to recognize the little boy, but the mother she could never forget.

3

They left the building and he trailed mommy wordlessly to the car.  A less than routine driver, mommy was already in deep conversation with St. Christopher, the patron saint of travelers, about their journey home.   “Saint Christopher lead me safely…if the brakes fail…blessed saint of the journey…the shifter is shaped like an “H”…Jesus on a donkey, gas in the tank.”

Once they were rolling though, the drive became stone-dead silent.  Mommy had to focus all of her attention on navigating the car and its riders the fourteen blocks from school to home.  Finally in the drive, engine off, she sent up prayers of thanks more fitting for those who crossed the Dead Sea out of
Egypt
than for a three minute errand on blacktop.  Georgie didn’t stay to listen though.  TV was waiting.

Kindergarten had put a big dent into
Georgie's
TV viewing.  He was lamenting what he had missed as he settled himself back in front of the tube.  It wasn’t all that bad though, there had been the pink underwear and that made up for something.  He thought about that warm cave of pink again and again as the noon “N,” “E,” “W,” “S” became the afternoon soaps.  Eventually he began to feel at ease that perhaps the worlds of television and kindergarten could co-exist.

It took mommy a good two hours of pacing, fretting and praying to overcome the daunting adventure of first taking the kid to school and then having to pick him up later.  When she believed that she had prayed enough to express an acceptable amount of gratitude for two safe journeys, she turned on her son.

From the kitchen doorway:  “I had to drive
twice
today because of you… and thank Saint Christopher…and then tomorrow I…” she visibly shuttered at the realization, “Again!  And every day!...show mercy on me God…I hope that you…did you read?!...and they laughed at you!”

No, Georgie did not read and no they did not laugh at him.  But his mother needed something.  Something from him to justify the trial she endured and would continue to endure.  With all sincerity he gave her the one fact that to him embodied all of the first day of kindergarten.

“She has pink underwear.”

Mommy went silent.  The tidy bowl man gratefully filled the dead air.  Then in a voice commingled with mortification and amusement:  “You looked up a little girls dress!...I see
London
, I see Saint Francis of
Assisi
…dirty Georgie
Porgie
girl!”

Georgie had not looked up a little girls dress.  Had not even thought about it; until now.  But it was not a bad idea.  There must be lots of pink underwear.  But this was his first time and that made it special, plus this was an adult, an adult authority figure.  Someone who could give him love, acknowledgement, affirmation, and most important, had willingly shared it with him.  Not just a brief glance, but a long satisfying view.

He clarified his statement.

“The teacher.  The teacher has pink underwear.”          

“The teacher!”  Shrieking.  “And just how do you know that Georgie
Porgie
girl?...shall not covet thy
neighbor’s
wife…did you crawl under her like a dog?” 

Georgie was starting to think that it had been a bad idea to share his new found interest.  What had felt so good to him when it was his and his alone now felt tainted and wrong when shared. 
But he was in too deep.
 
“During the story.  When she’s sitting.  I can see it.”

Mommy considered her next move and thought it to be brilliant.  “I’m gonna tell your teacher that you saw her underwear…
sackcloth and ashes…her
pink
underwear” she punctuated.  It had a two prong effect.  The boy would never dare speak of it again and he would be ashamed for being the dirty Georgie
Porgie
that he was.

Georgie squirmed uncomfortably.  And at this, mommy was delighted.  “I’m going to call your teacher right now!”  She beamed.  “I’m going to tell her…over the fields and everywhere…that Georgie
Porgie
girl saw her pink underwear!”  She turned back to the kitchen and marched to the phone with faux intent.

Guilt-induced horror rocked his body.  Pleadingly, the words ‘no…please, don’t’ formed in his mind but could not find their way to his lips.   

He tried to mute his anxiety by turning back to the non-judgmental television.  Part of one ear he kept tuned toward the kitchen; awaiting the pending rattle of the handset, the swoosh-clickity clack of the rotary dial and the one-sided conversation that would incriminate him.

No such call was placed.  But the potential that it could be placed was more unbearable than if it had been done and over with. 

Ms. Hymen
’
s pink underwear had been such a wonderful discovery, but just like teaching himself to read or wanting to be a priest--  (
don’t go there!
)  Just like everything else that made him feel good, there were consequences.  The vast black void inside him that begged for recognition, for any small morsel of ‘feel good,’ rumbled savagely in protest. 

Things that he craved for fulfillment were always wrong.  It was so much easier just to hate. 

Deep in his mind the already damaged thin membrane that separated ‘hate’ and ‘fulfillment’ became dangerously porous.  New pathways bridged the lobes and synaptic impulses excitedly shot the gap.  Desperate, long overdue messengers seeking love, acceptance and fulfillment found eager receptors in hate, jealousy and envy.  Another tear in the wall; this one separating the characteristics of gender.  Testosterone and estrogen carriers collided like Keystone Kops.  Pink underwear, penises, girls are better than boys, if only I had a girl, you’re nothing like John
-
John, you’re just a Georgie
Porgie
---

Girl.

It suddenly made sense.  He was supposed to be a girl.  A Georgie Porgie Girl. 

Chapter 3

1

Kindergarten breezed along for Georgie.  Lacking social skills, unlike his classmates, his intellectual learning progressed without distraction.  He sat quietly, absorbing the lessons delivered by Ms. Hymen while observing her feminine mannerisms.  He learned to jockey for prime seating (and viewing) during story time and soon discovered that his teacher sported more colors than a coveted 16 pack of Crayola’s.   He liked the soft blues and yellows but continued to hold the original pink in highest esteem.  Occasionally Ms. Hymen wore ordinary white panties with heavier seams and a bulky center.  The shape just wasn’t right.  It was as if she had stuffed an envelope into her panties; an envelope that was waiting to capture any buried treasure that threaten to fall from her hidden cave.       

Georgie felt no shame in staring up Ms. Hymen
’
s works.  But he never again admitted to mommy that he was doing so.    “Did you see her underwear today…the lord sees all, knows all…I’m going to call her.”  Mommy had grilled him daily for a couple of weeks and then tired as the boy stared at the television and denied her the satisfaction of any alarmed reaction.

“Children, I have something for you to take home today.”  Momentary curiosity from the class.  “I want you to take these to your parents.”  A fistful of fresh mimeographed pages were displayed.

Yet another paper, it was a common occurrence.  Curiosity ebbed and the class returned to lethargic play.   

“Halloween is coming and you’ll all get to wear costumes and bring treats.  So please take a paper today and give it to your parents.  You don’t want to be the only one here without a costume.  Class dismissed.  I’ll see you tomorrow.”  This paper, unlike others before it, was eagerly grabbed up by the youngsters.  Georgie sensed that it held some level of importance.