I just want you all to know up front I really hate my English literature teacher Mr. Bowen. He's this squat little man with bad posture and thick horn rimmed glasses. He's going bald and has this ridiculous come over like no one can tell he's a bald and a bean. His clothes always have this just got out of bed look like he doesn't know that the iron was invented like a million years ago, and he's been wearing the same shirt for I don't know how long but it's been every day since I got here. And to top it all off he gives us the most boring shit to read then stands up in front of the class like this is going to be "the most rewarding reading experience of our fucking young lives." He actually said that shit. Well, maybe not the fuck part but it was implied. I mean if you looked hard enough you could see the man get a hard on about this stuff. A good book and his right hand are probably his only company. (If I were still hustling I wouldn't give him the time of day unless I was fuckin' starving or something, and then only if we kept the lights off and put blankets over the windows.)
Anyway, he says words aren't two dimensional when written by someone who understands how to use them. He says that words, language can take on a life of their own when written by someone who sees them not as ways to describe a thing or place, but rather sees them as the only means of expression left to them in a world limited by what is considered moral, or right. Words don't just define, they illuminate. They strike a cord of recognition. They can become universal even the oldest prose if written by a mind that comprehends the workings of the human heart can still touch the soul and ring true, if you're willing to listen.
So I'm sitting there half listening to this bullshit. I'm checking the clock watching as it slowly ticks the seconds away as this man rambles on about the beauty of language, and all I'm really thinking about is the new video game Michael bought me for my birthday last week and how I can advance to the next level when I raise my head a little to see that Mr. Bowen is handing out these copies because we didn't get our books yet. What a crappy school.
Anyway he gives me the hand out and smiles this really cheesy greasy smile. You know the kind that lecherous old men give young nubile things they're tying to get in the pants of. I know that look all too well and I have to say even after all the years I spent on the street it still creeps me out.
I look down and see what he's given me, not really because I'm interested but more so because he's starting to make my skin crawl the way he's smiling at me with his yellow teeth, like either he doesn't brush all the often or he smokes way too much. And I see he's given me something he's titled "Selected Sonnets from the Portuguese" by Elizabeth Barrett Browning.
So I'm flipping through them not really caring or anything, more trying to get the image of Mr. Bowen naked out of my mind. Whenever I see an old guys scoping me out I automatically see them in some sleazy motel room naked trying to get it up for me, while I'd doing my best not to vomit. Fuck I should have been an actor the way I used to pull it off.
He says to read over them tonight when we get home and we'll discuss them tomorrow in class. It's not that I hate poetry, but come on I've got better things to do with my life then sit down and read what some old dead guys or women have to say about the state of love or what have you.
I mean really who gives a shit about what some old dead broad has to say about love. Love comes at the end of the night when you've finally gotten a chance to take a shower and wash off the bad breath, sweaty hand prints, cheap cologne, and cum off your body. Love is being able to afford a motel room for the night when it's really cold outside and you have a real bed with real food for a change. That's love...
We've just finished eating and me and Ben are clearing off the table while Michael washes the dishes. When I'm done I flop down on the couch Ben goes into the bedroom to get some papers and comes back and sits at the table. Michael is on the computer working on a story line for Rage.
So I've put it off as long as I possibly could. I finally take out the stupid hand out and start flipping through. They're all boring and fuck until I get to one that just stuck me.
I thank all who have loved me in their hearts,
With thanks and love from mine. Deep thanks to all
Who paused a little near the prison-wall
To hear my music in its louder parts
Ere they went onward, each one to the mart's
Or temple's occupation, beyond call.
But thou, who, in my voice's sink and fall
When the sob took it, thy divinest Art's
Own instrument didst drop down at thy foot
To hearken what I said between my tears,...
Instruct me how to thank thee! Oh, to shoot
My soul's full meaning into future years,
That they should lend it utterance, and salute
Love that endure, from Life that disappears!Elizabeth Barrett Browning
I read that thing like five or six times. And I couldn't for the life of me understand why it touched me so much until I looked up and watched how my fathers are with each other. I've never seen anything like it before. I actually didn't think it existed.
Michael getting up walking over to Ben touching him on his shoulder bending slightly to whisper in his ear, asking him if he wanted anything. Ben looking up into Michael's eyes kissing him on the chin and asking for some herbal tea. His arm wrapped loosely around Michael's waist. Him patting Michael in the ass as he walks away and goes into the kitchen to make the tea for Ben. Michael calls out to me asking if I want anything, I say no. But I go on watching them you know in that kind of nondescript way so that they don't know that I'm watching them.
Michael comes out of the kitchen passes by Ben as he's about to head back over to the computer and Ben reaches out grabbing Michael pulling him down on his lap and kisses him so sweetly on the mouth it could break you're fucking heart.
Michael runs his fingers through Ben's hair, Ben traces the line of Michael's jaw with this thumb before cupping the side of his face. And they sit there for awhile oblivious to everything else around them as they hold an entire whispered conversation with each other. And it's not like they're doing it for my benefit or anything. I can completely see them doing the same thing whether I'm here or not. They hold hands, Ben kisses Michael several more times only stopping for the whistle of the tea pot.
Michael gets up and goes into the kitchen to make the tea, Ben's eyes follow him so intently so absent mindedly like he can't help himself. Like it's his natural reaction to just watch in awe, smiling like a complete fucking idiot.
Michael comes back with the tea kisses Ben on top of the head, Ben grabs him again around the waist and reaches up and kisses him deeply, making that moaning sound he does some times. Like Michael's the best damn thing he's ever tasted, then he mouths thank you.
When I think back on how they are together, even in the bad times. I realize that while they're not perfect people, they're perfect for each other. Because unlike anyone I've ever seen, they appreciate the small shit.
Like time has to stand still for the small stuff, because there isn't enough time.
How do you thank someone for loving you? What words could you use to make it clear so that they know how much it's meant to you just having them around?
I went back and re-read that sonnet again and realized there are words to thank someone for taking the time, for making the time, for being there. There are words out there that speak to the level of appreciation I see when I actually take the time to watch how my fathers interact with one another. Not that I sit around doing that goofy shit all the time. But I used to wonder why them and not someone else. Why did I trust them when there were others who've been nice to me.
And now I know. I watched them together. And realized it was coming from a different place with them. They weren't out to change me, or make me into someone I'm not. They weren't even out to save me. They just wanted to give me a chance at a life. A real life. Where I could be a snot nosed, smart mouthed kid and still have a safe place to come home to at night.
So maybe Bowen had a point. Maybe. Even a nasty little toad can be right once in a while.