Chapter 4
While Sara heads off to the 11 o’clock service, Sterling tinkers with the Cannondale, which can be mothballed after his new car arrives. Billy pulls up in his BMW X5, a car in which Sterling no longer feels embarrassed to be seen in, that is, as long as he’s allowed to drive, which is the deal he’s struck with Billy. Sterling refuses to be seen being chauffeured around by slow-poke Billy; he’ll do the chauffeuring for the two of them, suggesting he himself is the owner of this outrageously priced boy toy.
Sterling’s telling his parents that he was going to Billy’s home was a little white lie. Less of a lie, perhaps, than his own parents’ not telling him that they had asked Billy to get Sterling out of the house so they could prepare for the surprise party. Billy is very upbeat as he gets out and moves around to the shotgun seat.
“Today’s the day, Sterl. I just know it.”
“Don’t get your hopes up. It’s just a date.”
They drive off, Sterling reflecting on how difficult it had been to nudge his friend to go out on this “date.” Dating is so much work, Billy often whines. After all, it is Sterling who had done all that work. It is Sterling who has made the arrangements. He, himself, had found the gay dating website, located some potential candidates in the Triangle and started a correspondence with the one who Billy is going to meet. It is Sterling who convinced Billy that meeting privately would be better than meeting in a restaurant or a bar, where Billy’s NC-via-PRC license saying he is 22 could only prove embarrassing when found out and scissored in front of him and his date. Without a night’s sleep the boy could only pass for 15.
Most everyone exaggerates when they display themselves with on-line dating services, so Sterling had airbrushed a zit, given Billy a few more years, and made him a sophomore at UNC, majoring in graphic arts with an interest in ballet and opera (Sterling is nothing if not a strict adherent of the law of stereotypes.) He wrote a splendid “who am I?” essay. After Sterling had already spent more than sufficient time, Billy in true form introduced a major obstruction concerning the posting of photos. Everyone on the site posts photos (still or video); it is obligatory – cartoons and other graphics prohibited. Some offer headshots but most give a body photo that indicates size and shape. Some potentials are seen dancing, some are playing sports. Sterling thought he recognized a macho lacrosse player he knew, but he wasn’t certain. Most also provide revealing photos, anything from a bare chest, often oiled, to a dripping Speedo shot, to a statuesque nude à la David, to a tight shot of the private parts, to a shot of the private parts in agitation, to a barebacking or masturbation video. Nipple piercing, penis rings, you name it, there’s little left off this site, which by its own admission conducts due diligence to keep out minors, requiring all viewers and participants to avow by mouse-click two sequential pledges: first, that the viewer is at least 18 years old and, second, that he is willing to be exposed to scenes of male nudity and sexual situations. It’s a pretty safe bet that websites requiring viewers to be major are the very ones that minors most likely frequent. This, however, did not concern Sterling or Billy who, both being over sixteen, are deemed legal adults in the state of North Carolina. As Sterling frequently argued: adult bookstores and the like had no legal right to exclude 16-17 year olds; but while this blatant age discrimination is permitted on Carolina soil, cyberspace is permissively non-discriminatory.
Sterling had found one young man in the region who was twenty-five and very attractive, according to Billy’s tastes. Sterling said he didn’t know what “attractive” in men meant; his only comment was that the young man didn’t seem to have much muscular definition. Neither does Billy. What convinced both Billy and Sterling that this guy was dating material was his serious statement, how although he was an inexperienced twink, a “newbie” on the site, he was really looking for romance. But he wasn’t afraid of the sex. He enjoyed tender sex – preference: “bottom” – he said. It was as if the statement were written by Billy himself; Sterling clicked Billy’s preference as “top” to ensure maximum compatibility. In fact, after reading this guy’s statement Sterling had to slightly alter his – that is, Billy’s – so as not to look plagiarized.
They had argued for some time about what photo Billy should upload. He had this year’s yearbook photo with a cute smile, but he needed something that better revealed himself. In the privacy of his – Sterling’s – own bedroom (Billy being scared to death to have a photo shoot in the Duke mansion) Sterling with supreme effort managed to get Billy to be photographed in a pair of Speedos. When Billy was removing the Speedos to get back into his preppy togs (nudity in front of his friend posed no problem, they had a prepubescent history), Sterling had snapped a full nude, with a stooped Billy slightly turned away like a Greek discus thrower. Billy was incensed that Sterling had captured him in naked ones and zeros and demanded the shot be deleted from the Canon on the spot. “Erased, no big deal,” Sterling had said when he showed Billy the blank viewing screen. Erasure is a state of art; too good a photo to toss out, thought Sterling. Naked photos of men are little different from those of women in that the sexes share the three targets that appeal to voyeurs: boobs/pecs, butt and bush, the last of which leads most to the imagination, and is thus the most titillating. And fortunately the photographed boy was showing enough bush maybe to arouse some interest in the viewer, almost certainly encouraging prospects to zoom in for a better look. Sterling decided it was just not worth the hassle to argue with Billy over the merits of the photo. And he wasn’t about to tell him he had uploaded it. Since Billy never accessed the website himself, there was no harm done. All was done for his own good; Sterling could be thanked later.
Sterling was convinced that it was the photo that did the trick. Billy had 184 hits on his photo in just the first three days. He couldn’t keep up with all the male mail squeezing into his inbox. There was “fellatio Fred” who didn’t need to explain himself; truckers and traveling salesmen wanted to swing through North Carolina just for “a night of hot sex,” university professors who wanted discretion from their wives, a she-male who acknowledged that s/he wanted some S&M with this “well hung” twink (obviously s/he had blown up someone’s photo, if not Billy’s, and devoured every last pixel), and a lot of bears. One didn’t know the forest was so full of bears, all wanting to romance Billy, the adorable twink. Sterling ordered Billy to ignore the mails; they reeked of predation. He would go out on this date and that was step one. Well, step two if the adult bookstore fiasco had counted as the first.
As they drive toward the rendezvous site, which is set out of town, in the rural expanse that climbs toward the mountains, Billy is getting nervously excited about the thrills that lay before him this crisp, Sunday mid-day. To keep Billy’s mind off the approaching main event, they have engaged in the usual chit-chat. Billy asks him how Sara is and whether her moving into his parent’s poses a problem. Sterling replies simply, “No, same ol’, same ol’.”
Billy does not find that a very satisfying answer, so Sterling embellishes:
“We’re all happy she’s moved in. She’s a great cook. No surprises really. It’s nice having her there.”
Then, his friend turns very serious:
“You know, Sterl, you two are made for each other,” he says. “I hope you don’t do something characteristically idiotic and ruin a good thing. And, by the way, I want to tell you how much I appreciate you coming here with me. I know it’s not your cup of tea, but for you to support me, really, it makes me almost want to cry.”
Tears are something that Sterling absolutely wants to avoid. Harvey – Harvey is Billy’s intended target in this endeavor – says, according to Billy, “this is a very exclusive club, that he’s put our name on the guest list. Just bring ID. I told him I was almost 21 but he says 18 is OK. You know, Sterl, all of us appreciate what you did with the Chinese IDs. At a hundred and a quarter, cheap at twice the price. Are you taking more orders?” he
asks.
“About that, Billy, there’s a little snag. Last night my dad found my Chinese permit. He read me the riot act: “North Carolina General Statutes, Criminal Sec.14, subsection 100, possession or manufacture of certain fraudulent forms of identification. A Class 1 misdemeanor…,” he says before being cut off.
“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” Billy counters. Sterling continues, sincerely:
“On pain of the strap, I had to promise to get out of the business. I’ll give you all the particulars. The Chinese don’t care who they deal with. Money is money to them,” he adds, trying to bring a humorous side to the conversation.
For Billy it is beginning to sink in. “Wait a second,” he says. “You mean you don’t have your license with you? Your dad took it.”
“Sure I have it. I wouldn’t drive your Beemer without a license,” he continues, imitating his father’s clipped voice, “That’s the law, son.”
“Hey, if you don’t have the fake ID, they won’t let you in the club,” Billy says, realizing he is approaching white water without a paddle.
“No problem. I’ll wait outside. I brought the Dell,” Sterling confirms.
“But you promised to go in with me. I don’t want to do this by myself. You promised, Sterl,” he whines.
“Hey, bro, I wish I could. I had no way of knowing dad would find and confiscate my ID. It’s not like I volunteered: ‘Here dad. I’ve been a bad boy. Take my fuckin’ fake ID, just don’t whip me.’ Better than anyone, you know that my folks mostly don’t care what I do. But on the few occasions when they catch me, they go viral. I’d never seen him so mad. I thought he’d use the strap, for sure.”
“Sterling, you shouldn’t let him beat you. I’m sure that’s against the law,” Billy offers, having been successfully manipulated away from the main thread of thought.
“Not in Carolina. Are you sure they won’t let me in? We can try.”
“Harv said ‘absolutely’ bring ID.”
“It’s not a problem, I promise you, Billy. Anyway, three’s a crowd on a date, you know that. Especially, if you want to fuck.”
Billy is offended.
“Sorry. You know what I mean.”
Billy sulks. Sterling realizes that his friend’s options have just narrowed considerably: either he must (1) throw away this once-in-a-lifetime opportunity or (2) enter the future without a chaperone/bodyguard/moral supporter and, yes he realizes, crutch: Milhouse without Bart, the Scarecrow without Dorothy, Barney without Fred.
A sensual female voice announces they are approaching their destination in 500 feet. Sterling had earlier changed the GPS voice from the lisping Roberto to the sensuous Monique. They arrive at a parking lot accommodating a couple of dozen vehicles, running the gamut from chic to hillbilly. The lot is up against a chain-link fence posted with a few instructional signs: “no trespassing” “no hunting,” “private property,” “beware of Rottweiler,” and “police must show warrants” kindly providing an ACLU hotline number. A person-sized gate is cut into the fence, below a closed-circuit TV camera.
Billy approaches, presses the intercom. Sterling sees that when Billy is asked, he’s not sure what name to offer. Should he give the name that his date, Harvey, knows? This is his nom de chat, i.e., the name he goes by in internet chat rooms and in internet space he wishes to use a pseudonym. His nom de chat: Dutchess William (DutchSWm, if the eight-character limit is imposed), which he thinks is pretty clever, although the original idea was Sterling’s, whose nom de chat is cleverer still: Floatin’£ (if symbols are allowed, otherwise PoundS).
A male voice of authority demands: “ID to the camera.” Billy holds up the ID as close to the camera lens as he can reach. The camera refocuses for a better view. Pause. Finally a buzzer opens the first gate, which empties into a space where there is another gate, like the entry into a prison. The first gate must be closed before the next gate will be buzzed open. Billy is buzzed through again. He looks back at Sterling, standing by the car, appearing, if not especially feeling, somewhat sad and guilty, but not regretting that he himself will not be venturing god knows where. Sterling checks his phone; there’s a signal. He phones Billy.
“Put me on panic. If there’s any problem, any problem at all, I’ll take care of it,” he says, meaning he’ll call 911 for help once Billy presses the panic button and alerts him of danger.
“I’m OK. I gotta lose my cherry somewhere,” the boy says, resigned to his fate.
Beyond the fence lays a long walk that leads to what appears to be a rural retreat of some sort, a cross between a complex of hunting lodges or a compound for a religious cult. There is not much activity given all the vehicles. Although it’s a fine late spring day, obviously the participants are not into outdoor activities. Then a door opens and a group of middle-aged men, in toga-shaped white towels, heads from the main lodge to an out building, whose chimney emits smoke. This must be a sauna or steam room, Sterling figures. Billy’s arrival stops the men dead in their tracks. They abruptly change course to head back to the building they had just exited and which Billy now enters. Sterling watches this with a bit of trepidation, but what can he do? Billy’s made his bed, now he has to sleep in it. Of course, it was Sterling who has provided all the bedding and has been encouraging his friend for some years to rumple the sheets, so to speak, and it seems also that it’s Sterling who always has to remake the bed every time Billy fouls it up. Now, however, he’s here on one side of the fence – why so much security, he wonders; it’s 2009, no one, even in Carolina, cares what homosexuals do among themselves – and Billy’s over there, about to do or have done to him whatever it is that Sterling is not supposed to care about.
He opens up the Dell for some automotive surfing: he’s narrowed down his choice of vehicles. He has a lot of friends whose parents are not pro-choice when it comes to cars and children, and the teenagers get stuck, inevitably, with a Honda Civic, an embarrassment on four wheels, for sure. Actually, the choice is really what car to get for his mother and he will get the hand-me-down. That’s OK, for when he wants to borrow hers, he can. So the choice for mother is at the moment between a 2.0 Kia Soul, with its boxy elegance and lowest-common-denominator appeal, and the Mitsubishi Lancer in the DE or SE models, with their modest 2-liter engines. Going the latter route, Sterling would then suggest that the salesman move up a few models into the Lancer Ralliart or Evolution, turbocharged and high-performance bitches. There’s some risk mother might select the DE/ES but Sterling is confident he can remuster his sufficient power of persuasion (some might call it nagging persistence) for her to see the wisdom in adding some power under the hood. So many decisions, so little time. He continues surfing.
Guilt is not an emotion that Sterling is on frequent terms with. So the first hour passes. No Billy yet; no concern on Sterling’s part. Car surfing has run its course and the young man now engages with his iPod. What would the world have been like before the mp3 player? Sterling prefers the iPod because he is heavily into Apple esthetics, but truth be told just about any mp3 brand would do. The importance is the technology, which is only slightly older than the boy himself. And of course it is German, and what’s not to like about the Germans? That’s a rhetorical question; his grandfolks hate the Germans but that’s because their own grandfolks had been murdered by them. Sterling prefers not to live in the past, like the Japanese. The Japanese with their Sony male line – Walkman, Pressman, Watchman, Scoopman, Discman, and Talkman – had become so convinced they had the world (at least its male technology-enthused half) by their balls that the conglomerate had fallen asleep on its laurels. Overconfidence and its cousin arrogance are killers, Sterling reasons. The lapse by the Japanese had let the Germans establish the world standard for audio compression, making music files smaller with little or no loss of sound quality. Mp3 is part of MPEG, an acronym for Motion Pictures Expert Group, a family of standards for displaying video and audio. Sterling is in lov
e with the whole compressed family. He shares a birth year with the MPEG-1 standard, for video compression with low bandwidth. He is an elder brother to MPEG-2, the high bandwidth audio and video compression for DVDs. And MPEG-3 is now taking over his body, providing digitally something akin to what he had shared with Sara last night. He loved these one and zero processors as much as he could love any sibling or, indeed, any lover. Yes, wheel and fire were both necessary discoveries and the internal-combustion engine or the latex condom are inventions without which his life would be difficult to live; but quite frankly Sterling would rather be deprived of them all than to have his phones wrenched from his ears. Digital encoding process, as enshrined in US Patent 5579430, that’s the globe’s real ball buster.
Sterling listens to all sorts of music. Rather than describing his tastes as eclectic, it would be more accurate to label them non-discriminatory. Unlike most people he doesn’t pay much attention to the music; it’s the words that he follows. He doesn’t even listen to symphonic pieces, unless they have a chorus. Music for him is just words’ vehicle. This way of listening is not exactly of Sterling’s own choosing. It’s how his extraordinary brain works. He was born with a disorder in music processing. He’s known about this disorder, which falls under the rubric amusia, from an early age, about the same time he realized that the rest of the world, unlike himself, was not able to read or hear something once and then never forget it. No wonder he thought teachers fools. Right from kindergarten he couldn’t believe that the teachers would drill him on information he’d already been given. “You only have to tell me once,” he would say, to no avail, being forced to repeat knowledge over and over (He has never forgiven the multiplication tables for wasting hours of his life). It took him a while to figure out that the rest of humanity cannot instantly memorize everything it comes across. Obviously, his brain works differently. All this was subsequently confirmed in the second grade when he submitted to a hodgepodge of tests and scans with several neurosurgeons and academic physicians. They found out what they found out, and when more tests were needed, he said simply, “No thank you.” He wasn’t sick; no more tests. Very true, good memory and inability to carry a tune are hardly life’s biggest restraints. Yet the technicians in lab coats absolutely needed to know scientifically how this boy’s extraordinary brain functioned, in order to advance science, in order to publish in peer reviews, and for some in order to get tenure on the boy’s coattails. The boffins made it sound like the earth would stop rotating on its axis if the boy continued his obstinacy. They agreed to pay, first five hundred dollars, until they had depleted their NIH grant with an offer of five thousand dollars (the auditors would have had a field day over this!). His parents were certainly interested (“like finding money in the street”); what harm could possibly happen? But ownership rights to Sterling’s brain rested with the kid; they weren’t for sale. “Find some other mind to fuck with,” he told the white coats, startling the scientists (but not his parents) that he knew such a four-letter word. And it was clear best not to press the kid to find out if he knew what the word actually meant.
All zebras look alike except perhaps to other zebras. Humans, too, might seem fungible to an alien, but the more intelligent of our species know that we are all unique individuals. We have more or less the same wiring diagram for our brains. The devil is in the details. And the more science learns, the more we realize how differently wired we can be. It’s probably correct to say, therefore, that at the nanolevel, each of us is indeed unique. Why do some of us like okra and others don’t? Why do some of us feel a certain pain when others wouldn’t? We know so little about how our electrical impulses control our thoughts, actions or emotions; still we develop a template that’s taught in textbooks, and updated to correct the myths we have been perpetrating after they are found out to be wrong. It is clear that Sterling’s brain would not work well as a text-book illustration. And we don’t know why because “the selfish little snot” (one of the scientist’s phrase) won’t share it with us. No one knows exactly how different “brain Sterling” is, not without a lot more tests as well as advances in knowledge, theory and imaging. Sterling made it quite clear at an early age, however, that he does not care to be “brain-fucked,” a term when used in front of other scientists later earned the boy three straps across the back of the legs.
As he listens to the “She’s Crafty” track of the Beasties Boys’ Licensed to Ill, which he subsequently knows by heart, he lets his mind wander to his birthday. Like the Queen of England he has two birthdays: the actual date and the date it is celebrated. Sterling was a Caesarian, due on the Saturday of Memorial Day weekend. His doctor, however, had a golf date for Saturday – at an exclusive country club he was trying to join. Since birth was to be Caesarian, he had scheduled delivery for the Friday, May 29th. Sterling was dutifully cut out and spent his first two days on earth umbilicalled to machines. Thus, though his legal birth date is the 29th, he prefers to celebrate the earth-shaking event on the 31st, his intended day of independence, today’s date, which coincidentally is also a Sunday. Sterling now searches to see who was born or died on these days. His certified birthday produced JFK and Bob Hope, his intended birthday mostly actors and non-entities. More interesting is who died on May 29th. He comes across the Soviet composer Vissarion Shebalin who had died, ironically, on the last birthday John Kennedy ever celebrated. Sterling has always been fascinated with Shebalin, who had stroked out in his left hemisphere at age 57. He didn’t die then, however. He became speechless and deaf to the spoken word and he never again talked. But he could still compose; some say he did some of his best work in the four additional years he lived. Sterling sighs. The brain is really a gift; is he being selfish not to share his with the lab coats? This is definitely something to get Sara’s advice on.
Sterling loves music (read lyrics), but he doesn’t care particularly for musicians. There are in fact certain musicians he abhors, on a quite personal level, to wit the Trips who he has known since they tumbled out of their mother’s bloated belly, one after the other after the other, in the same hospital and on the very same day he, himself, graced humanity. Dissimilar from Sterling in most every way, the Trips, first, are not noted for their individuality. They indeed do their utmost to appear as one: same clothes, same hair styles, same annoying body language, facial gestures, stunted vocabulary, etc. Not even Sterling’s parents give them any name other than the collective name JCZ. Sterling doesn’t think even their own parents can tell them apart. There’s nothing to distinguish them; one personality (or lack thereof) in three bodies. Or, as Sterling once joked: “A species unto itself, called trianalsapiens, a simple creature with three anuses.” For that comment, the Trips jumped him, three-on-one, and the match ended more-or-less in a draw with everyone licking his wounds. It was not their first fistfight, nor the first for which Sterling received the strap. Being a boxer, his fist-fighting anyone was considered unfair and inappropriate, a strappable offence.
That the Trips were a highly successful boy band, a Christian alternative rock group, did not irritate Sterling one iota. He had not gone out of his way to hear their chirpings, but in Durham where they had a home-town following, it was hard to blot them out. It was the locally ordained Muzak, in elevators, busses, government corridors and mall washrooms, places he preferred not to frequent. Certainly, out of the three there was perhaps one he could like, but since he could not tell them apart, that was of no importance.
According to Sterling’s folks the Trips were adorable, clever and talented, adjectives that they rarely used proximate to his own name. Adorable? Three pieces of dung shaped in identical stars would be adorable, too. For ugly objects there is definitely safety in numbers. And the Trips, except when placed side-by-side, were neither cute nor attractive. They were scrawny with over-sized tow-heads with legs too short for their arms, giving them a Cro-Magnon look. If they had been cats, they would have been drown
ed. Talented? Just listen to their lyrics. Sterling could do better with his head in the toilet. Clever? It’s hardly clever to be monozygotic, a rarity that happens once in a half-million births. Cleverness suggests action on the clever person’s behalf, and in the Trips case the only thing clever was the first single fertilized egg which decided to split not once, but twice; thus a single zygote resulting in three pinpricks of identical genetic material. And no one has made more out of this anomaly than the Trips themselves. From birth they were everyone’s darlings, receiving everything from years’ supplies of free formula and diapers to bank accounts for college. They were placed front and center in the maternity nursery while Sterling was discarded to a far corner with the children of migrant workers. He had been born dark so the nurses threw him into his own lot, the Mexicans. In any other species the Trips would just be called a litter that commanded appropriate disrespect.
What galls Sterling most is that the Trips get away with all sorts of shit. When all his friends started experimenting with cigarettes around the age of ten, Sterling remained the lone holdout. He had promised his parents he would never indulge. His father’s mother died at age 55 from lung cancer. And to this day Sterling has never broken that promise. But once, the Trips were puffing away in Vegas during one of the Friday Nights, despite Sterling’s admonition that his father would blow a gasket if he found out. Sterling had confiscated the pack of cigarettes and just yanked away the current cigarette that the trio were sharing, when none other than his father walked through the door, catching his son in flagrante delicto, literally with a lit fag in his fingers and a pack of Marlboro in his free hand.
“Boys, will you excuse us?” the ol’ man had asked the triplets, while he took the strap and motioned Sterling toward the pommel horse. The Trips were not even out the door before there was a whap-whap-whap-whap across the bottom; out of the corner of his eye Sterling could see the Trips standing at the door, showing no emotion other than contentment at seeing Sterling get what they deserved.
And now they might show up at his party, which they would of course consider their own event since they did more or less share a birthday. And they would no doubt have the nerve to demand that Sterling give them some of his mother’s Costco stash so the cherry fairies could be jerk-offs in the single bedroom they had shared for all their lives. There was no way they were getting glow-in-the-darks. He might give them some Trojans, only after pricking them a few times with safety pins. Come on, you’re not that bad a person, Sterling chided himself. But he did dislike these three sacks of shit.
Another hour passes. Still no Billy. Several men have emerged and gone to their cars, ogling Sterling who pretends to be preoccupied with the laptop. He thought about asking if any of the departing men has seen his friend, making them fully aware of the fact that he is there as Billy’s supporter and chauffeur, not to pick up elderly men. He has also thought about going to the hidden voice and attempting to bluff his way in, with his real license, for Harvey has surely put his name on the guest list as per Billy’s instructions. But he figures he can wait just a bit longer. What if Billy is just having a good time and doesn’t want to be disturbed. They had not agreed on a time to meet up, for Sterling had figured that Billy would last for no more than ten minutes before the coward in him took over and he hightailed it back to the safe side of the fence. If he had known Billy would have had a longer stay, he would have imposed a two-hour limit, which would now be up. He is tired of waiting. Sterling knows that if something horrible happens to Billy that it is he who will never be forgiven. It was his big idea to bring Billy here, then not to accompany him, and thus leave him to the wolves or bears or whatever.
There are still a good number of vehicles in the lot. One, in particular, catches Sterling’s eye. It is some model of old Mustang, sort of a collector’s piece; he recognizes it from lacrosse practice; the owner is a schoolmate, who he doesn’t know any better than the rest of his schoolmates. The kid’s name is Brandon Buffeau and he is called Buffy, not because he is a vampire killer but because he is buff. Very buff. Sterling, himself, has never noticed. He knows this tidbit not directly from his classmates but from some gossip blogs he occasionally monitors, mostly to see what is being said about him. With help from his friend Jeremiah he had hacked his way into a girls chat forum, rummaged through the archive and run across some juicy stuff on “the Buffer,” who, gossiping girls advised, you can see in the semi-buff when he changes jerseys at lacrosse practice. There are numerous pictures of shirtless Buffeau on the site and one of the doctored photos has someone else’s bottom attached so as to present the full Monty, Buffy edition. The girls, who in his grandparent’s time would have been called teeny boppers and among the rural poor folk would be still referred to as jailbait, have a large, collective crush on the Buffer, and fantasize about him in the buff, with several swearing they would lose their virginity to none other. This is information that the normal person may or may not choose to retain amidst all the facts and figures life confronts us with. Sterling, however, is not the normal person and retaining information is not a matter of choice. His memory is a Roach Motel: data can enter but never leave. Sterling, if forced to think about it, would find Buffeau’s buffness a bit exasperating because he, Sterling, considers his own torso to be no less buff, but nonetheless, he is not the target of girlish libido, for reasons he cannot actually fathom. Nevertheless, in Sterling’s brain the French-Canadian young man’s physique is no less important data than the names of the presidents or the list of state capitals or the 64 types of sexual acts of the Kama Sutra, diagrams for which he has most recently downloaded, two of which he had tried last night (one of which he has no recollection of). Roach Motel is non-discriminatory and allows all data entry. A great memory makes for great parlor tricks. If Sterling outlives Methuselah, he’ll never run out of parlor tricks. He has so much trivia packed into his head, he wonders why the circuit boards don’t overload.
Extraordinary memory comes with its downside, however. The first disadvantage is that everyone expects Sterling to have all the answers, facts and numbers, at his fingertips for all who want them. He is the go-to person for worthless information. If you can’t Google, you can always Sterling. This is a pretty heavy responsibility and he is constantly receiving texts from parties who want a dispute resolved, for example; the losing party usually blames Sterling. During exam periods he has had to turn off his phone entirely for he receives non-stop requests for answers needed at the very moment friends are sitting tests. Second, he can never forget anything. He knows that Buffeau’s buffness is going to be with him until the day he (Sterling) dies (it would certainly outlast the unfortunate Brandon if he meets with a premature departure). Information like this inevitably reappears after some time in the form of a comment out of Sterling’s mouth that would probably go better unsaid. One can’t count – Sterling can, it’s 528 – the number of times he has dug up some bit of trivia from the bowels of his mind and offered it as evidence to make a point. Rather than being appreciated by the parties who receive it, it has instead greatly upset or embarrassed them. Using people’s own words against them (134/528) almost never proves a good idea. Yet Sterling is not much aware of a third downside of a sterling memory. It served as a crutch. No more than Sterling himself serves as Billy’s crutch, information often serves as his own crutch. He doesn’t need to reason or think; he can remember someone else’s having done the job for him; he can cite or reference the work. This is one reason Sterling produces papers described as “brilliant” by his teachers and Harvard clients. He includes in his essays brilliant thinking provided mostly by others; as for critical and creative thinking, it sometimes appears, but most often he gets away with a sort of intellectual cut and paste. No one can match Sterling in cut and paste. All this means that Sterling goes through life with a brilliant reputation for being brilliant, wherefore his real brilliance often lies in his ability to convince oth
ers how brilliant he is by rattling off facts and figures, merely using his extraordinary memory.
Sterling doesn’t know why Buffeau’s car is in the lot, and he dreads what may happen if he runs into his classmate. Sure, perhaps he is just a waiter or gardener. Or the pool boy perhaps. First hand experience had taught Sterling that being a pool boy is a dangerous occupation to have if one wants to keep virginal. Why else would Buffeau be at a gay spa? He has a lady’s man reputation; he has a steady girlfriend and everyone knows they are having sex. Well, everyone thought that about him and Sara before it became true. Sterling’s bit of newly acquired knowledge on Buffeau is going to haunt him until either his curiosity somehow gets appeased or, in striving for a rational explanation, he does something stupid, like share the information with someone, no doubt making the Canuck’s life miserable and serving further proof that Sterling is a snobby jerk.
Over his short life Sterling had acquired the deserved reputation of being a bit of a snob, not going out of his way to meet new people. He knows that some of the gossiping girls think this; he knows they are not altogether wrong. When you keep so many secrets – in fact, unforgettable old facts rather than secrets per se – you are dangerous, and it is best to make yourself scarce. Sterling often tries to be scarce. Long ago he recognized his mouth to be his most uncontrollable organ. So that’s why he isn’t chums with Buffeau or his other classmates, that and the fact that this gifted kid is considered in line to be valedictorian, as is Sterling. He wonders if his mother has invited the Buffer to the birthday party. He isn’t among Billy’s Facebook friends, but he doesn’t put it past mother to ask the principal to invite the whole damn class. If that is the case there is no way Sterling can be able to restrain himself from mentioning the Mustang sighting to its owner or to another classmate. Another man is now leaving the lodge. Fortunately not Buffeau; it’s only Billy.
Sterling studies Billy as he leaves the lodge. Something is different about him. The youth walking down the path is not the timid soul who had entered a few hours earlier. The young man who approaches has a confidence to his stride, a bounce to his step. It is difficult for Sterling to imagine that he may have actually succeeded in getting Billy laid. This is a dramatic event, one surely to end the present type of relationship between the two boys, which of late has involved Sterling’s pimping for Billy, attempting to arrange dates and serving as protector/confessor when those dates turn sour. If this date has been disastrous, Billy is certainly concealing his disappointment. Sterling preoccupies himself with casing the Dell and placing it on the backseat. Billy strides over to the driver’s seat.
“I’ll drive,” he informs Sterling, extending a palm-up for the keys.
Sterling obliges and hands over the keys.
“Well, how was it?” he asks. “Don’t keep me in suspense. Was it what you wanted?”
“Same ol’, same ol’,” he replies.
Sterling stares at Billy, who pays him no heed, preoccupied as he is with pre-flight checks. He adjusts the car, which is done by activating pre-programmed settings, automatically switching from Sterling’s settings back to his own: the seat raises and moves forward and the mirrors adjust accordingly. He dumps Monique in favor of Roberto. He puts Haydn’s Lobkowitz quartets on the CD.
Billy looks over at Sterling who hasn’t taken his eyes from his friend, still assessing the afternoon’s changes. Billy retains a certain glow, his cheeks have reddened and he looks much less pale, almost like he’s been under a tanning lamp. Could it be that this “men’s spa” is just what its name implies and not some San Franciscan bathhouse, the image Sterling has conjured up in both of their minds? Billy has definitely had a haircut and shave and he is less perfumed than usual, more subtle. Obviously, he has had a make-over. Just how made over he got is the question that interests Sterling.
“Seat belt,” he says.
Sterling obeys, remedying his oversight.
“Your mother told me to get you back at four on the nose. So we have time to swing by Winchester, if you want.”
Winchester is one of the Duke estates that’s in the area. Once an antebellum tobacco plantation, it has now been converted to a more profitable and much more politically correct crop, corn, for the ethanol industry. With all the government subsidies it’s the most profitable crop the Dukes have grown for generations.
“Senior will be shooting trap, if you want to join him. And you can hit him up for some money. You might tell him I’m broke.”
Sterling needs to know about Billy’s recent experience; his friend is not providing details. He says:
“I wonder if you saw one of my classmates. He’s blond, very good physique. I saw his car in the parking lot.”
“I didn’t pay much attention,” Billy responds.
“Well, what did you do?”
“I told you ‘Same ol’, same ol’,” Billy responds.
“Cut the shit, Billy. What was this Harvey guy like? Did you’ll have sex?”
Billy slams on breaks and slides off the rural road onto to the gravel shoulder, unnerving Sterling a bit and causing Roberto to issue a warning about sudden braking and the need to pay attention to traffic flow. Roberto sounds perturbed; of all Sterling’s acquaintances Billy is certainly the slowest, most cautious, most boring kid behind the wheel. His car only breaks the law when Sterling is behind the wheel (Monique has been programmed to mind her own business). Clearly Billy is angry. He does something he does only when becomes livid. He grabs his blond curls and pulls them in desperation.
“Goddamn it. That is a rude question, U. You will not ask it again. It is none of your fucking business. Do you understand me?”
Sterling is taken aback. Firstly, it was he who set up Billy’s date. That makes him a legitimate stakeholder in the affair. He has the right to know. If for no other reason, he deserves to know, as a form of compensation for all the whining he’s had to tolerate from Billy for most of their lives. Second, Billy never, never uses the f-word and “goddamn” is also not part of his Southern lad’s vocabulary. For Sterling, in contrast, the f-word rolls off his tongue usually before he’s realized it’s left. It’s a full-time job for Sterling to keep those little fuckers corralled in his mouth for as long as he can. His parents have over time begun to tolerate an occasional profane outburst; they have known him long enough to accept his minor deficiencies as long as they remain at home and are followed by an immediate apology. Billy and Sterling have known each other for fifteen years and occasionally over this period they’ve been angry at each other, as loving siblings get angry at one another, but this is the first time Billy has ever been so assertive and certainly the first time he’s cussed at Sterling for behavior that is, well, only Sterlingesque. If Sterling had done something uncharacteristic he wouldn’t mind the criticism. Right now he himself is offended that he’s being blamed for being himself. Yet, in his shock of the barrage from Billy, he realizes this is one sleeping dog that is best left unpoked. Now, for one of the few times in his life, Sterling manifests a trait that accompanies maturity: knowing when to shut up.
“I understand,” Sterling replies.
“And from now on I’m called William,” he adds.
The BMW heads off in silence except for Haydn accompanied by William’s on-key humming. Sterling is trying to figure out what’s just happened. The more he ponders, the more clueless he feels. William???
As for William, he meant exactly what he said: it’s none of Sterling’s business. He is not aware he used profanity. Sometimes we come to realizations, epiphanies even, without knowing how or why they happen. We blurt out something with no forethought and we realize only later, if ever, what we have said. These types of outbursts are like free associations, something which psychoanalysts make a living on. William’s outburst, deserved or not given his history with Sterling, was completely unplanned. Pulling off the highway was unplanned; fortunately for both of them no one was ta
ilgating. William acted without thought and without a glance even in the rear-view mirror. He was off the road in a heartbeat; William’s heart rhythm never budged; Sterling’s is still racing. In another place or another time, they could have easily been killed. At the best of times Billy is a pretty bad driver in Sterling’s book; and this latest maneuver almost added a final chapter.
William’s flare-up was a spontaneous combustion; it just happened, and now as he drives down the road, as calmly as ever, it’s like the explosion never happened. The incident is out of his mind. His full attention is given to the Haydn, which he is trying to memorize for a recital with his group, the Four Dukes. Memorization for William is work; he can do it, but it takes a lot of effort; he’s not like brainy Sterling, the Roach Motel. Except in this case it is William not Sterling who can memorize. He is fully aware of Sterling’s tin ear; he knows that his friend – yes, for they will always be friends – can have no appreciation of classical or any other music. He’s one of the few people who are aware of the extent of Sterling’s amusia. Billy considers it a shame, for his friend is missing one of the great pleasures in life, the joy of music. Of course, the Creator overcompensated Sterling for this loss, according to William, and that serves to lessen most of the regret, sadness or pity he feels about his friend’s illness. And, as far as William is concerned, amusia is an illness. He’s always admired Sterling, who he knows is more accomplished in almost every other aspect of life. At one point he even envied him for his many endowments – mental, physique, sporting, automotive, parent-manipulation, sexual – and wished he had been born Sterling rather than Billy, now William. Sterling is correct to be confused over the new William Duke Jr.; whatever transpired in the lodge cum spa cum gay retreat has transformed Billy into William. Sterling will have to accept this change, whatever it is.
“Pull.” As he shoots trap with William Sr., Sterling tries not to think about the old man’s son and tries to focus instead on hitting the clay pigeons. As competitive as Sterling usually is, he is not even keeping score, which he usually does mentally. That’s his default job, delegated by the old man who prefers to mutter to himself as he misses target after target and sends his grounds men to hunt for fallen targets in the hopes that some of the whole ones will turn up with a shot-sized hole, which by Duke Rules, counts as a hit. “Fuckin’ Jesus, anyone can break one of the goddamn fuckers, Sterling. You know how hard it is to hit one and NOT break it. I should get double points for that,” he has told Sterling on various occasions.
Sterling, without much focus, gets about half his shots to produce a charcoal cloud, to Senior’s perpetual fascination. This is so effortless for Sterling. If only his own son, who just announced that he’s now calling himself William, had such a good eye. Senior’s not all that worried that Junior – that’s what he’s always called this son, hating Billy in all its forms: Billy goat, silly Billy, Billy with a willy, etc. from his own childhood – will get his act together. Life has taught him that brilliant kids usually don’t make brilliant adults. He has always expected Junior, who is mediocre in most everything except music where he excels, to outstrip Sterling in the game of life. For years Senior has been expecting Sterling to land on his butt and not be able to get up, and he’s still expecting that. One of these days will he be proven right? In this regard Sterling has to date disappointed, which is to say he’s never much fallen on his butt. In fact he keeps excelling. Sterling is forever telling Senior which electronic devices will sell well, and Mr. Duke figures that he’s lost millions by not following the kid’s advice. He’s never wrong; he’s so plugged into young people’s tastes. It is not financial acumen, however, that will do Sterling in. It’s something else that Senior cannot exactly put his finger on. In any case Sterling’s failure won’t give Senior much satisfaction, of course; he likes Sterling a lot, he’s always been an amusing, bright, interesting, out-going child. He even funds Sterling’s boxing for the poor kids. But just as sure that he knows Junior will succeed, he knows in his gut that Sterling will fail. That gives him no pleasure.