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Moonlight's glow casts strange shadows on the dew-drenched grass and
against the red brick walls of the old high school, making everything appear
bigger, even strange. But when a shadow appeared to be walking toward us, we
prayed it was just an odd flicker of moon-bleached light. Our hands dropped to
our sides. We quickly, instinctually turned to go around the other side of
the building.
"Stop! Don't move, goddamnit!" yelled the former shadow now deputy sheriff.
"On your knees. Take off your shoes, now!" His voice was an
overpowering boom, as hard and raw as the morning dew was soft and peacefully. Resembling a canon, his gun was drawn not far from our face. Under the school's walkway lights, our hearts were an air raid pounding in our
ears as we tried to remember how to untie our shoes and stay on our knees at
the same time. Why couldn't we get our shoes off our feet?
The officer repeats the names again. "Student Council Vice President,
you don't say...uh... and members of the Honor Council." He again looks at me
disappointedly this time. "Does it matter which one? Ok, just a
moment."
We climbed the stairs leaving the school football field with our memories ringing
in our hearts, as he walks with me to the car and perhaps back to the
large graduation party at Rhonda's daddy's hay barn where we were before I
wanted to leave to be alone with Sam.
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"Take it," the deputy commands, "the principal wants to talk to you."
I stayed with him on the field still kissing, we stood up, removed our
shirts and belts, unzipping our jeans, pushing them around our ankles. And,
feeling like a convict planning an escape, I laid back on the chilly bleachers
while Sam slid in on top. Our grunts and moans harmonized and faded into the
nocturnal music of all the other night animals. Sam kissing my ear
softly said, "It'll be alright; nothing'll change. I promise."
Moonlight over the glimmering dew on the high school football field
warmed our bodies. Neither of us had ever seen the field like this before.
This night was as special as it was new. Sam and I were still seventeen with
bright futures and there was plenty of time.
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"Are you a student of this school?" says the deputy. "Yes, we both
are." I said. The deputy, picking up the receiver and while dialing glances
sternly, unbelievingly at me. "Good evening, Principal Christi, hate to bother
you and your family at this hour. This Deputy Clarke, Wake County Sheriff
Department, sir. As you know, we heard there might be some illegal
drinking on school grounds here tonight. And we've got a SAM PARKER and a TYRONE LORRIE here at the high school's office," he says reading our names off
our driver's license. "They say you know them and that they are students of
Henson Senior High School."
As my body quaked, Sam held me so tight I hoped he wouldn't let go till
it thundered. And I wished there was no such thing as thunder. Together
almost every day since junior high sealed our friendship. "I'll drive to
Chapel Hill to get you and we'll spend our weekends together like we did in
high school," Sam said as he pulled me closer,
"We found an empty beer can and a straw in a school bus," Deputy Clarke
told me accusingly. Which one of you brought the beer? "What beer? We were
just at a party not long ago where sliced oranges, limes, and lemons floated
along side ice cubes in a mixture of 190 proof Everclear and Kool-Aid,
called 'P.J'." There were four, seventeen-gallon, galvanized round
washtubs of it at Rhonda's hay barn gradation party. Beer? There was "P.J." -not a word passed from my lips.
"Oh, no!" Trembling I taking the phone trying hard not to drop it on my
toes. "How are you, Mr. Christi?" I say foolishly clenching my teeth.
The door opens; Sam walks in, followed by more grown men wearing Cub Scout gear and with a glance, confirmed that the joy we shared was safe for now.
©2006
We sat next to each other on one of the bleachers, at first holding
hands but before long, embracing, foreheads and lips touching, our lips
moist, whispering-like a mantra-the voice I hear with consoling words: "Chapel
Hill isn't far from Raleigh. We would still see each other in college."
More deputies show up. Sam and I are escorted barefoot to the school's
main office. I glanced at Sam. His otherwise flush cheekbones, which
normally look like a baboon's bottom shimmering in the sun, were now pasty,
school glue white. He was scared; I was dizzy with fear. God, I wanted to
console him with my arms, but I knew better. He'd probably faint if he took
another step. Once in the office, they separated us and for the first time I
understood that our love for each other might not be enough to save us
this time if they saw us on the bleachers. No one knew where we were.
"Mr. Lorrie," he says in a strong southern growl of a voice, " I don't
like gettin' phone calls from the sheriff at one o'clock in the a.m. the
night before graduation to hear that my honor roll students are running
around on campus playing hide the beer can. Do you hear me minor league baseball hats Where To Find Cheap Ugg, Mr. Lorrie?" Yes,
sir, I do. "But..." he cuts me off and say, "Put the deputy back on and I will
talk to you in the morning." I gave the phone to deputy. Mr. Christi talks;
the deputy listens, then I hear, "Yes, sir, I understand." He bids the
principal "Goodnight," hangs up the phone.
He walks closer and screams, "You boys really f*cked up my fishin'
weekend!" The deputy, overly pleased with his catch, moves to make way for the
sheriff, lowering his weapon. "What the f*ck ya'll doin' out here
anyhow?" Somehow I managed to say, "Nothing, just walking around, sir."
"What," he shouts, "is your name, boy?"
"Lorrie cheap fitted baseball hats, sir," I say breathlessly still on my knees, holding my shoes
in one hand, while looking up, amazed by the girth of belly.
"You must be," the sheriff storms back at me, "one of them lying, no
good, 'Lorrie,' ain't you now!"
"No, sir, I'm not lying."
The deputy watched us at the same time a police cruiser drove up and
stopped. Wearing a matching Cub Scout uniform and a hat festooned with
colorful fishing lures, the sheriff stepped out of the car. "Good work,
Deputy Chandler. I see they did not get away from you," he calls out
and leers at us. He looks more put out than angry.
On weekends we'd meet from time to time to see a movie so we could
safely hold hands. Fully dressed some nights I'd wait under the covers of my
bed, wet with fear, till Mama Celia, my grandmother, finished boiling water in the old kettle. I'd hear the hot water and the Ivory Soap splash in her white Ironstone washbowl; and, singing the hymn "I Come to the Garden Alone," I knew prayers, then sleep, would quickly follow for her. Sam would soon push his small, red car, lights off, into my grandmother's driveway for me. On Key Club field trips, sharing connecting rooms in the hotel, doors locked, we giggled,
laughed, and played together in the shower. Now things would be
different.