Michael Ford - Suicide Notes

It isn’t like I’ve never seen a guy with a hard-on before. Sometimes a guy in gym class will get one in the showers, and everyone points and makes fun of him and calls him a fag, but we all know it’s just what happens to guys. We can’t help it. It’s like that thing is just there and it does whatever it wants. It totally is out of our control.

And it’s not like I’ve never jacked off. I’m fifteen years old. Of course I do it. Any guy who says he doesn’t is lying. That would be like having the coolest video game ever and never playing it. No one’s that stupid.

But I’ve never seen someone else doing it. It’s one of those things you don’t really think about other people doing, probably because if you did, every time someone shook your hand you’d be thinking about what else it had been holding on to. You just don’t go there.

Only now I was there, live and in person. Not two feet away from me, Rankin was going at it like he was all alone in his bedroom with the door locked and the stereo on so no one would hear him. I could hear him getting more and more excited, and I knew what was going to happen. I could partly see his face. His eyes were closed, his mouth was sort of open, and he was breathing hard. Then he sort of grimaced, and I knew it was time to get out of there, while he was still riding high and probably wouldn’t notice if a train crashed through the wall of the bathroom.

I waited too long. I was about to turn and get out when he opened his eyes. He looked right at me. At first he just blinked a couple of times, like he thought maybe he was seeing things and needed to clear his head. Then he realized I was real, and he gave me this half smile and nodded, like we were just passing in the hallway. “Hey,” he said.

I nodded back. “Hey,” I said. Hey , like that. What an idiot. Rankin didn’t say anything else, so I turned and left.

I don’t know what I expected him to do. I don’t know what I would do if someone caught me spanking the monkey like that. Probably I’d drop dead. I know I wouldn’t just say, “Hey.”

And now I can’t get the image of Rankin out of my head. That’s the worst part. I keep picturing his hand going up and down and hearing that groaning. I feel like such a queer. I have to stop thinking about it.

Why did I have to go in there? Why did I have to see that? I can’t tell you how much I did not need to see that tonight. Or any night.

Maybe I shouldn’t make such a big deal out of it. It’s not like Rankin seems to care, so why should I? I should just try to forget it ever happened. That’s what I’ll do. I’ll go to bed and forget about it.

You know how Hindus believe that when you die you come back as something or someone else, and that if you screw up the life you have now you come back as something worse until you learn your lesson? Well, if that’s true, then I must have really pissed off God—or whoever—in my last life. Otherwise what happened today would never have happened. It’s even worse than what happened last night.

See, I’d done an okay job of forgetting what I’d seen Rankin doing in the shower. Even at breakfast, while he choked down his oatmeal, I could sort of pretend I’d just dreamed it. Then we had group. And that’s when Cat Poop announced that we were going to do some more pairing off. As soon as he said it, I felt my stomach knot up. I closed my eyes and waited to hear him say I could pair with Sadie or even Juliet.

But of course you know what happened. And it gets even worse, if that’s possible. The exercise we did involved picking questions out of a box. There were all of these strips of paper in there, and each one had a question on it. Things like “What are you most proud of in your life?” and “If you could change one thing about yourself, what would it be?”

We were supposed to pick a question and talk about it with our partner. I really, really hoped I got something easy, like “What is the meaning of life in three words or less?” What I actually got was “What’s the most embarrassing thing that’s ever happened to you?”

I know. I swear to God, that was the question. Sometimes I think there’s someone up there just sitting around thinking of ways to make me look like a complete moron. Seriously, I bet there’s an angel—or, more likely, a demon—assigned just to me. And every day it gets up and asks itself what it can do to ruin my life. Well, today it got an A plus.

So Rankin and I pair off. I’m still not really looking at him, just sort of around him. And of course all I can picture is that big hand of his going up and down, and then I’m staring at his crotch remembering what’s there , and eventually the only place I can look is at his face, and when I do I’m surprised to see that he doesn’t seem the least bit embarrassed.

Instead, he’s looking at the paper in his hand. He’s looking really hard, like he can’t quite figure out what it says, like it’s written in Japanese or something. He looks and looks and looks, and finally he looks at me and says, “What do you think about when you jerk off?”

I know you think I’m making this up, but I swear I’m not. That’s exactly what he said. I sat there staring at Rankin, sure I’d heard him wrong. Then this big grin spreads across his face, and he starts to laugh.

“Got you,” he said.

I wanted to hit him, I really did. I couldn’t believe he did that. He thought it was hysterical, though. He was grinning his big stupid jock grin from ear to ear and rocking back and forth with laughter.

“Would you shut up!” I said.

Rankin wiped his eyes and quieted down. “I’m sorry,” he said. “But you should see the look on your face.”

“What does it really say?” I asked him.

“Why?” he said. “Don’t you want to know the answer to the question I read?”

“Not really,” I told him.

“All right,” he said. He looked at the paper again and read the right question. “What’s the hardest thing you’ve ever done?”

He sighed. “I guess that would be telling my dad that I don’t want to play football anymore.”

“I thought you liked to play football.”

“I do. I just don’t want to play on the team anymore.”

“Why not?” I asked him.

Rankin shook his head. “I just don’t,” he said. “What’s your question say?”

“Just a minute,” I told him. “You can’t say you ‘just don’t want to.’ We’re supposed to talk about this crap. I want to know why you don’t want to be Mr. Big Football Player.”

Rankin put his head down. For a second I thought he was going to tackle me, but he just sat there. When he looked up, I could see he was trying really hard not to cry.

“Do you know what it’s like to have everyone expect you to be the best at something?” he said.

I shook my head. “That’s not a problem for me,” I told him. “I’m not good at anything. Nothing important, anyway.”

“I am,” Rankin said. “I’m good at throwing a ball and catching a ball and knocking people out of the way when they get between me and the ball. That’s what I’m good at.”

“So what’s the problem with that? Everybody loves jocks, right?” I admit I said it kind of sarcastically, because he sounded like such a bonehead and I was still mad at him about what he’d done before.

“Yeah,” Rankin said, snorting. “Everybody loves you. When you win. Then you’re the hero. But when you lose, you’re just the stupid meathead who couldn’t make the play.”

I was having a hard time feeling sorry for the guy. I know that sounds harsh. But I wasn’t ready to let him off the hook for being a jock in the first place. Everybody knows those guys get most of the breaks in school, and it seems to me that if all they have to worry about is playing a dumb game, then they have it pretty easy.