By B. Root
I rip off the plastic and open the box. It is my fifteenth birthday. Mother has been struggling ever since her second divorce from my sister’s father, and the hospital isn’t paying her enough to cover much more than rent and groceries for the three of us. But it is my fifteenth birthday, and somehow mother has scraped together enough money to buy me the new BlackBerry Pearl, my first smartphone. While I am excited about all the features that seem so foreign to me at that moment, I am mostly excited for the Internet access. I hold down the power button, and as it turns on, I scroll the rollerball and pretend to type a text on the keyboard. I kiss mother on the cheek and thank her for my present. Don’t be spendin’ all your time on that damn thing now, she yells after me, laughing as I run down the hallway to my bedroom.
I lay down on my unmade bed and scroll to the email app. I log in to my Yahoo account and begin sifting through the emails: “RE: Chaser looking for bear/cub,” “RE: interested in a young skinny boy from tyler?” I scroll past a few emails at the top before finding what I’m looking for: “RE: chaser looking for birthday sex.” His reply, at 7:16 this morning, says, “u still on for today?” I type, “yes…are you available around noon?” As I wait for a response, I scroll through our previous messages. My original post read, “young, skinny guy looking to have some birthday fun with a bear or chub next saturday.” He replied, “Hey, saw ur ad on CL love younger guys im a big guy 5 10 280 49 interested? u have a pic? stats? disease free?” Attached was a nude webcam photo, blurry and faceless. I had emailed back, “yes, i am interested and disease free. i’m 5’9”. 150 lbs. 6” cut. from Tyler. can’t host. where are you at?” and attached a picture of my face. He wrote that he was in Athens—about an hour away—and that he couldn’t host either, but still wanted to meet. He would come to me. “perfect,” I wrote. My phone dings to notify me of a new email. “im good for noon. where are we meeting?” Mother knocks on my door to let me know breakfast is ready. I’ll be right out! I quickly email back to tell him to meet me at a grocery store about half a mile away from my house, and I ask what car he drives.
It is my fifteenth birthday. Mother has made me chocolate chip muffins and scrambled eggs with cheddar cheese for breakfast—my favorite. We sit in the living room as we eat. I’m alone on the couch, while my sister and mother sit on the rocking chairs across the room. Mother asks what I want to do today. I tell her that I’ve already made plans to hang out with some friends from school. My phone dings again: “blue ford f150 c u soon.” What? I look up from my phone. Mother has been talking to me, but I didn’t hear what she was saying. I said don’t stay gone too long ‘cause I’m makin’ you a cake tonight. My sister is too absorbed in the Saturday morning cartoons to even know what’s going on. I get up to clear my plate, and tell her I won’t be out late. I take off my pjs, change into some tennis shoes, Wranglers, and my favorite salmon hoodie, and I walk out the door.
He is waiting for me when I get to the grocery store. His truck is the only one parked in the far corner of the lot. I knock on the passenger side door. He unlocks it, and I get in without him looking at me. He puts the truck in reverse and starts backing out before I even have my seatbelt on. It’s not until we pull out of the parking lot and onto the highway that he finally says something to me. I’m Dave, his eyes glued to the road. I’m Braden. Nice to meet you. We don’t shake hands. His truck is pretty dirty inside. The floor mats are covered in dust and grease-stained towels. There are loose sockets rolling around from—I assume—the toolset that is only partially shoved underneath my seat, and there’s a wrench head sticking out between the seat cushions. So, it’s your birthday? he asks about a mile down the highway. Yes, I’m turning eighteen. I pull the wrench out to put it with the toolset. Put that back. I pause momentarily then shove it back between the seat cushions exactly how it was, wrench head up. Well, happy birthday.
We pull off the highway onto a secluded side street. He parks the car and turns off the engine. Let’s see what you got. He instructs me to take off my pants, and I do as I’m told. He turns toward me, but doesn’t look me in the eye. Can I touch it? I nod. He leans over and starts stroking me with his dry, calloused hands. He is very old. Maybe even older than what he’s told me. He has hard wrinkles on his forehead and around his eyes. Aviator glasses sit on the end of his wide nose. He’s bald and his goatee is solid white, like my grandfather’s. Can I kiss it? I tell him he can. As he goes down, I see his back hair peaking out from the collar of his t-shirt. I lay the seat back and pull my hoodie up to my chest. I watch him for a moment before laying my head on the rest and closing my eyes. He stays fully clothed the whole time. Never tells me to touch him, never asks for anything in return.
It is my fifteenth birthday. Mother is in the kitchen cleaning when I walk in the door. You’re home earlier than I thought you’d be, she says as I sit down at the kitchen table. She stands over the sink cleaning the dishes. Yeah, I guess I just wasn’t feeling it, I look down at the floor. She immediately turns off the water and walks over to me to ask if everything is okay. Her hair is tied up in a messy bun, she’s wearing no makeup, and she still has on her robe from this morning. Mother has never looked more beautiful to me than she does at this very moment. Yeah, I’m okay now, I say as I begin to tear up. She wraps her arms around me, and I lay my head on her shoulder. Want me to make you something to eat? A peanut butter and jelly? She softly places her hand on the back of my head and holds me close. Yeah, I whisper. I do.
