B a l a n c e

by Cole Parker

See that picture? (foot of the page) It scares me, looking at it. Yet it represents how I live my life. How I feel the need to live it.

The reason it evokes fear? That should be apparent. Look to both sides of those two boys. What do you see? Nothing's there. If the boy on the right slips, he might be able to save himself; he's on the inside rail. The boy on the left? Save himself? Not so much. He's already closer to the edge. Note that he's aware of that. He's holding onto the other boy. The boy on the right seems more nonchalant. Just his body language suggests that. His hand is open; he feels no need to hold on to anything.

The boy on the left looks like he needs to be holding the other boy's wrist. His body language is much different. It looks like the steps he's taking are being carefully thought out. Carefully made.

I can empathize with the boy on the left. He could be me. He isn't. I'd never be where he is. I wonder why he's there. He doesn't appear to be enjoying himself. But then, that's me transferring my thoughts onto him. Maybe he's a happy-go-lucky, fearless teenager like so many are. So many teen boys feel indestructible. Or maybe just not imaginative enough to realize their peril. But the kid on the right? I doubt he's aware of how close he is to death.

I see that in the picture. I also see the need for balance in that picture. What if there's a misstep? What if a footstep falters?

No. I don't want to go there. I don't even like looking at the picture. I am imaginative. That picture gives me goosebumps and the need to quickly look away. I don't, because I do notice that boy on the left, and I see something else, too. I know where that picture was taken. I've been there. I've walked on those rails.

I'll get to that. First, I need to address something a bit more mundane that I get from the picture: balance.

I need balance in my life. I find life too precarious without that. I need to explain.

Parents

My dad is stern and narrow-minded; my mom is a fruitcake. Balancing how I behave with them is necessary if I want any kind of life at all. I try to keep who I am entirely hidden from them, to placate my dad, to grease my way around my mom. They both want different things from me. I'm a much different person at home with them than outside the house.

Like yesterday. That's a perfect example. I needed new pants. I'm 13 and I've started growing. How you dress at my age is important. Sets you apart if you're too different. What I'd like to do would be to get mom's credit card or even cash—does anyone actually use cash when buying clothes any longer now that they're so expensive?—and go to the mall by my lonesome, but no, Mom has to go with me. I don't mind if it's just a ride there and back, but she wants to shop with me! I protest just a little because Dad's in the room, and whenever we're in the same place, his eye is on me. How I speak to my mom is critical if he's in earshot.

"Don't you dare talk back to your mother, Martin!" If I've heard that once, I've heard it a thousand times, sometimes reinforced by a slap to the back of my head that sets my ears ringing.

That's just what I try to avoid when asking my mom if I could go by myself. I mean, doesn't she have some club or meeting or exorcism to attend? But no, she says we—she and I—can go this afternoon. And I don't talk back. All I do is say I can do the shopping by myself. But that nicety is beyond my father's grasp. He takes every opportunity to correct me, even when there's nothing to correct. He expects more perfection from me than I can provide. More than any boy my age could provide.

"Sorry, sir," I say, ready to duck if he decides I am being too mouthy. Even though I have nothing to apologize for, I'd lived with the man all my life, and I have a good shot at taming his shrew with my preemptive apology. I do know how best to deal with him.

Will I ever get the fortitude to stand up for myself with him? School is still out on that touchy question. I do know today is not that day.

I do have a temper, but displaying it with him is a nonstarter. Maybe in a few years? At 13, I'm too small to challenge him physically. But the fact is, every year I get bigger and stronger, and in that same year he gets older. There'll come a time . . .

Anyway, I go to the mall with Mom. I get something I want—new clothes—but not in the manner I want: being alone and picking out things exactly to my taste. See? Balance.

Driving to the mall, she says she wants to shop at Target. I prefer Aeropostale, Hollister, Abercrombie, places like that. I get her to at least let me browse at Aeropostale, and by being conniving, I get two pairs of jeans there. I know how to work my mom. But it does take some skilled maneuvering.

"I want to try these on, Mom."

"They're pretty expensive, Martin. I don't know . . ."

"These are what the kids at school are wearing. Dressing like they do is important. I'll get teased or snubbed or who knows what if I'm caught wearing Target pants."

"Oh, that can't be. Not everyone can afford these."

"The guys and girls in my crowd do. Look: I'll try them on; you can at least see what they look like."

She starts into the dressing room with me! I stop and turned to face her. "I can change in here, then come out and model them for you."

She doesn't like that. "You've got underpants on, don't you? Even if you don't, so what? I'm your mother!"

"Mothers don't see their teenage sons naked! Mom!"

"Sure they do. I was talking to your friend Andrew's mom yesterday. She said she was in the bathroom when Andrew was showering and he came out and she handed him his towel. She said he wasn't embarrassed at all, didn't try to cover up, either. She said that was not unusual, that she sees him naked every now and then. It's very natural. She said he's getting pretty big down there, like his father."

"Mom!"

"What? Martin, moms know what men and boys look like naked!"

"You discuss this?"

"Why not?"

Damn! I had no idea. But then, my mom is mentally on the loose side of normal, so maybe this is just her, not everyone. But, thinking of Andrew, I guess I shouldn't be surprised. Andrew's strange. I think he's an exhibitionist. I've seen him nude, too, and he's about the only one of my friends I've seen. Everyone else is modest. He isn't. By the way, no one's seen me, either. Just the way I want it.

She doesn't drop the subject as I thought she would. "Why shouldn't we talk about this? It's just body parts. I'd guess all you boys must be about the same at your age, Martin. What's to hide?"

"Mom! God!"

"Anyway, you must have your underwear on. We're wasting time, and as there're two pairs, it'd take even longer to come out and go back in, and there can't be that much to see anyway. Besides, I'm your mother!"

As though that makes a difference! To her, that's a salient point. I give her a look to see if she might have developed a sense of humor in the past minute, or if she might be being sarcastic or teasing, but she isn't the type to tease that way. She means it, means I don't have much to look at! That's even worse. But then I realize, here is another chance for balance. I give her something, she gives me something. Works like magic.

"Okay, okay, you have a point. But I don't like this, it makes me uncomfortable, and, well, how about this? Yeah, you come in, you watch me change, but then, I mean, if you like what you see—the pants, I mean, how they fit—we'll just buy these and skip Target all together. Talk about not wasting time! Deal?"

She agrees. I keep my back to her when stripping. As I don't fill my boxer briefs very full, she doesn't need proof that there isn't much to see. But it still works a charm: we get the pants. We avoid Target. Balance.

School

School really demands balance if one is to survive it unscathed. Many of us don't, especially the ones who don't achieve balance. There's a lot to negotiate in school: classes, teachers, lunch, gym, bullies, bus rides—and those are just some of the treacherous complexities one faces. I'll only mention one, or this will end up being as long as Moby's dick.

I'll take Mr. Margrave and his class, a twofer. He's terrible, picking on me just about every day. He doesn't like me, which is strange because I'm one of the quiet ones. But, well, that doesn't make a particle of difference to him. He exploits me. Yesterday is a good example.

"Martin, solve the third problem of the homework on the board." Not even a please. Just do it.

Why always me? That's rhetorical. I know why me. He calls on me about twice as often as anyone else. He knows I'll probably screw up the problem. That's why always me: because when I mess up, then he can call on others to discuss what I did wrong. It's embarrassing! I'm no math prodigy. I hate math. I'm good at some things, bad at others. Like everyone else. I hadn't thought about it before, but that's another example of balance.

I go to the board. I did the homework, so I have something to copy at least. I copy it, then move to go sit down. "No, stay here while we discuss this," Mr. Margrave says, pleasure ringing in his voice. That means I screwed it up. Again. As he expected I would. And he gets to enjoy my embarrassment as I'm shown to be a fool.

"All right, class, where did Martin make a mess-up of this? Hands please."

A bunch of hands go up. I look at the faces. Some are grinning. A couple of kids look embarrassed, maybe feeling some empathy for me. I look at one kid in particular. Jason.

Jason looks sad. I've seen him looking at me before. He seems to look at me a lot. I know that because I look at him a lot, too. He feels bad that I'm being embarrassed again.

Mr. Margrave is enjoying himself as errors in my work are displayed and discussed. I'm not paying much attention. I'm looking at Jason, and Jason is looking at me, and for once, neither of us drops his eyes.

Annoyance at Mr. Margrave for taking advantage of my ineptitude with math. Joy at clearing a hurdle with Jason.

Balance.

Friends

Friends are necessary in school. Without them, you're entirely alone facing the mob. With them, you have protection. There's protection in nature, too. It's called protective coloration. Another term for it is camouflage. If you're one of a group, focus is divided and avoided. You're camouflaged.

I like to be unnoticed. Especially in gym and at lunch. In both those, I have friends, and they provide lots of cover. I'm not much good in the various activities we have in gym, but if I'm surrounded by others, some good at things, some bad, I don't stand out at all.

We have to take showers afterwards, which is good as we'd stink up any classroom we're in otherwise. A lot of us wear our underwear; some of us don't bother. Andrew comes to mind. He is a little bigger than normal. Showers at school are how I know that. He doesn't know about me being maybe a bit smaller than average because I wear underwear, as do my other friends. I'm very happy about that.

You have to have a table to sit at in the cafeteria with friends. Some kids sit alone. We don't say it, but we think of them as losers. I tend to ignore them and concentrate on the kids I'm sitting with. Actually, I feel bad about those guys. And it's almost always guys. Girls somehow manage to fit in with other girls. I think it's more important to them.

I do glance at the losers occasionally just to see who they are and if there are any changes. That happens. Some guy will get thrown out of the group he was in or will leave it on his own for whatever reason. There can be many causes for that. But it's good to keep track of the social order in school so you know where kids stand, and so to make sure your protective coloration will be masking you effectively.

So when I look around when taking my tray to my table, I'm shocked to see Jason sitting alone. So shocked I stop and almost cause the girl behind me to collide with me.

"Sorry," I say, and she glares at me as she goes by.

I have a decision to make. Give up my camouflage or stay protected and lose a chance for some real happiness.

I choose happiness and go sit with Jason.

The Train Tracks

So why does that picture give me the heebie-jeebies? Why do I know where it was taken? Because I was there. Because I walked on those rails.

I was younger than I am now. I was nine. And I had a friend, Eric. Eric liked challenges; I didn't. But I wasn't as cautious then as I am now. Maybe I am now because of those railroad tracks.

We were exploring, just us two, and we came upon that bridge over the wide valley below with a large river running through it. The valley was at least a quarter-mile wide. The tracks appeared to run on over that valley for a mile, standing where we were looking at them.

"I dare you to walk across," Eric said.

"You do it. I'm sure not going to," I said. Meaning every word.

"You're chicken," he said, the way he usually challenged me. Sometimes it worked. Not this time.

"Cluck, cluck," I said. "No way. You do it if you're so brave."

He turned away from me and studied the tracks, the bridge, the valley, the river. "Okay," he said.

"You'll have to walk back over it again," I said. "No other way to get home."

"No problem," he retorted, and started walking.

It scared me to death, seeing him walking away. At least he wasn't walking on the rails. He was walking down the middle of the tracks on the wooden ties. He got about a hundred yards out, then stopped and turned back to look at me and grinned. Then he turned back and stepped onto one rail, balancing on it, and began creeping forward.

"Stop that," I yelled. He kept going. Another few steps. And then he lost his balance. He fell, and not into the middle of the tracks. He fell so his top half was hanging over the edge, only his knees up against the raised, studded, outside-boarder rail keeping him from going completely over.

"HELP! HELP!" He was terrified! I was too. And then I heard a train whistle. It was a long way off, but it was coming from the other side of the valley.

Eric looked like he was going to fall; he appeared so unstable that he could go over any second as I watched. No way could he survive a train rushing past him. He was dead if I didn't do something. It felt like we'd both be dead if I did.

I was frozen, just looking at him. But he screamed again, and my feet started walking. Walking toward and then onto the bridge. Right in the middle where, while it didn't feel safe, it was safer than anywhere near those rails.

I heard the whistle again. It was louder now. Still far away, but louder. I had to hurry. Jogging felt awfully dangerous, but so was waiting to be hit by a train. I jogged.

I got to where Eric lay, mostly hanging, and then wondered what I could do. I wasn't strong. How was I supposed to pull him back to safety? To do so, I had to get closer, which meant getting down and putting my knees on the rail closest to me. Then leaning over.

As scared as I'd ever been, I put my knees on the rail and felt it vibrating. The train was coming, and the rail was anticipating that.

I reached out and by leaning farther, I could just reach Eric's back. He wasn't wearing a belt. Neither of us were. We wore jeans that fit our slim bodies.

If I pulled on his jeans, would I just pull them off? Make him even more likely to go over the edge?

I had no time to think. I just had to do the best I could. I grabbed the top edge of his jeans and pulled.

Nothing happened. I wasn't strong enough!

The whistle blew again, much louder this time, and now I could hear the train.

"Eric," I called. "I'm going to pull on your pants again. Try to wiggle back when I do. Now."

I pulled, and Eric pulled his body up and back as much as he could, and I could feel him moving toward me. I pulled harder, then as hard as I could with both hands on his pants now, and up he came. His hands reached the boarder rail, and he pushed himself up higher using that, and then my pulling was much more effective, and he came back onto the bridge.

He wanted to lay there, but I yanked his arm, yelling, "The train's here. Come on." I tugged him to his feet, and we both started running down the middle of the bridge between the tracks. The train was on the tressle now, and we had a hundred yards to go!

I was running full tilt now. Jogging wasn't an option. Getting hit in the back by that train was all I could think of. Eric was behind me. He was always faster than I was, but not then. I'd never run that fast in my life. We beat the train across the bridge. Not by a lot, but we didn't need a lot. Just beating it was all we needed.

We didn't talk. We simply lay in the grass and breathed as the train rushed by.

When we'd recovered, I saw Eric was crying. I moved over to him and got him to sit up, then put my arm around him.

"I was sure I was dead," he stuttered.

"I thought I was, too," I agreed, "but we made it."

"You saved me."

"I had to."

We were both quiet then. Thinking about what might have been.

Aftermath

I think, afterwards, that was the beginning of my being quieter. I became more reticent, more just into myself. But that was also when I started to realize I was different from other boys, and that probably played a part in that, too. It made sense to me to keep that very private. I saw what happened at school to boys who were identified as gay, and I wanted no part of that. If keeping my secret meant not being as outgoing as I had been, well, perhaps that was the balance I needed to accept.

But I'm with Jason now. Sitting with him at lunch made all the difference. I haven't told my parents. My dad would never understand, never approve. So I don't tell him.

I have Jason; I avoid my dad.