Iron Youth

f my dick was this size," Fitz says, slapping the pork tenderloin in his hand, "I'd be making porno movies."

Blake swings away from the meat case, rotating on the heels of his Doc Martens. His long hair whips over his shoulders. "Wouldst thou?" he asks in a mock Shakespeare.

"Aye," Fitz says, "but I could ne'er wear shorts." He flips the tenderloin into the air, lets it fall into the meat case.

Blake runs his hand over the tattered silk screen image on his T-shirt and studies the floor's tile pattern. "Tis true. But no one would question the leek in your pocket!"

A woman in her late fifties wearing thick make up that makes her look jaundice stares at Blake, trying to figure out if he is a boy or a girl, what with all that straight blond hair streaming down his back. Blake looks at Fitz and on cue, they kiss on the lips. The woman lets go of her carriage and it rolls away and bumps into an elderly man who has few colorful adjectives for her. A fracas ensues and Fitz jumps in trying to break it up, saying "Folks, we're all adults here." but upon seeing Fitz, the woman takes her carriage and hurries away.

Blake smiles. Fitz is the consummate crank. Strange places and strange faces lift Fitz above his conscience: he doesn't know these people, who cares? Since grade-school Fitz has been a performer, a sideshow freak, playing the harmonica with his nose or mooning in the movie theater, anything for a laugh. And he gets plenty of laughs. Especially from Blake. Which is a big reason why Blake looks forward to these annual trips. Fitz brings a sense of adventure with him, a daring that coaxes out Blake's wild side.

Blake needs to do this. Beyond the laughs and the unknown that lure him on the road each August, it felt good to travel. The summer brings a stillness that slows life, makes it crawl through the humidity of July, where action is scarce and time abundant. Blake has endless hours of nothing in the summer. Come August he is frayed and needs to get out of Vermont and go - anywhere. He wants action, he wants to light out for the borderland, Daddy-O! Traveling is basic, elemental; it tears up your ruts. When you're on the road and everyday life is two hundred miles away and you have no idea where to eat or to sleep, or who'll you'll drink with and who'll you fuck then you're living, baby. On the road Blake felt the fire.

Blake and Fitz left Vermont a week ago on their annual trip to Wherever. This year is slightly different: the trip started with a specific destination. They came down to Massachusetts for the Lollapalooza festival at Great Woods. They had tickets for Friday's show, hopped the fence on Saturday, then hit Boston on Sunday, planning to hang out for a day, staying six instead. During the day they hit the tourist traps, the Aquarium, Museum of Science, at night they slam danced in the Kenmore Square clubs, in the early morning they drove Blake's Dodge Caravan out to the suburbs, found empty parking lots to pull in and sleep.

They stop at Guthrie's more for the name than anything else. Fitz is a huge Arlo Guthrie fan, knows "Alice's Restaurant" in it's entirety, sings it all the time. Any store that bears Arlo's surname had to be cool.

"For the grill?"

Fitz holds an eye roast. "It's on sale. Dollar ninety-nine a pound, pretty good deal. Janine cooked one of these once. She didn't want to, you know how she hates red meat, I had to talk her into it. She did it in the grill, y'know, with corn on the cob and a big plate of greens. She tried the roast and I caught her liking it, 'though she'll never admit. Man, she can cook."

Blake nods. Fitz's girlfriend is a killer cook. She made the best stir-fry dinner that night Blake made love to her.

To help pay for college, Fitz joined the Reserves. When he was away at boot camp, Blake and Janine hung out, watched movies, shot pool down in Janine's basement, talked over coffee on the lawn at St. Michaels, got stoned. Blake found Janine, with her fine brown hair and wired-rimmed glasses, awkwardly stunning. Although she was involved with Fitz, involved with him for four years, Blake couldn't help but wonder how she felt about him. That night in Blake's room, well into their fourth bowl of hash, when they attacked each other like lovers in a bad Harlequin Romance, he got his answer.

Janine regretted it as soon as it was over. Blake didn't care. He said all the right things to her, feigned concern and understanding, but he didn't care. It was just sex. He had fucked plenty of girls in his time and it was just sex. Fitz had fucked other girls and it was just sex. Blake tells himself it's sowing wild oats. He tells himself that this is his job at this point in his life. Janine said they had to forget it, bury it and leave it alone. Blake said okay. Two weeks later they did it again. They agreed to forget about that time, too.

Better to forget it anyway. Janine always said Fitz had Sicilian blood: he didn't get mad, he got even. Better to bury it. Cleaner that way.

The day before they hit the highway Janine showed up at Blake's house. It was the first time they'd been alone since they had sex. They hadn't seen much of each other since Fitz got home and never spent any time alone. A tension spawned grew between them like fungus. She tried to kid him, and he tried to laugh, but they knew they were acting.

She didn't look at Blake until they were alone in his room. "How long are you going for?" she asked as she sat down on his bed. She wore a tank top and her hair hung loose.

"Two weeks? I don't know, it's hard to say -"

"Blake you have to tell him."

He turned away, pretended to check his first aid kit. "I have to tell him?"

"Yes, you have to tell him. You have to tell him while you're gone. We're all friends, Blake and I want it to stay that way."

"And telling Fitz we screwed is going to help." In the mirror on the wall he saw the gold strands in Janine's hair catch the light.

"Telling him the truth will help. You know Fitz. He'll freak but he'll get over it. He has to know."

Blake shook his head. "He already knows. You realize that, don't you?"

"He has to hear it Blake," Janine said, leaning forward to touch Blake's forearm. "That's being decent. At least Fitz will see it that way."

"He's your boyfriend." He stepped to the side and her hand slid off his arm.

"He's your friend, that doesn't mean anything?"

"Oh, and he's really going to want to drive around the country with me after I tell him, Janine. Jesus."

Janine shut her mouth, her molars clicking. She sat Indian style and rubbed her big toe with her thumb.

"It's weird enough now. We have to get rid of this tension," she brushed her hair out of her face and let her words sink in. "We have to get rid of the tension between us. Between all of us. I can't fucking bare it."

Blake watched Janine as she talked. She wasn't wearing her glasses. Blake liked how those round, wire rims framed her brown eyes. He thought she looked prettier with them on. "What happened to burying it?" he said, zipping up his knapsack. "You know I don't have a problem with burying it. It's cool with me. Maybe it's just you who's tense."

"I'm not going to lose him, Blake. It's not going to happen. You talk to him while you're gone. I'll talk to him when you get back. You have to do it, Blake. You guys have know each other since kindergarten, you can't throw that away."

Blake knows she is right but doesn't see the point in spilling the beans. There are some secrets that can keep. Janinie's antsy because everything is close right now. Fitz is gone, we had sex, Fitz is home. Bing bang boom. That's what's freaking her. Blake knows that if he lets it lie time will turn their tryst into nothing. Ten years from now he and Janine will barely remember it. What's the sense of ruining the trip, of risking the friendship?

"We can't eat that whole thing in one meal," Blake says, his fingertips jitter across the soft stubble on his neck, "We don't have a refrigerator."

Fitz's squeezes the meat. "Damn," he says, tosses the roast and walks down the case.

Blake steps over to juice case and selects the cheapest orange juice. "Some tuna fish," he murmurs. He turns and stops dead. A girl, no more than eighteen, with short, auburn hair and a round, tired face cuts in front of him. She wears a gray T-shirt turned inside out and sweats cut off below the knees. She has her arms folded around the handle of her basket and takes quick, edgy steps.

"Dorian?" he calls. The girl stops as if she heard him, but doesn't look back. That couldn't be her, he thinks. His sister is costume mistress for the University of Maine's Summer Theater, she is a hundred miles away. The girl looks at hand soaps and Blake studies her profile. His shoulders relax. It isn't his sister. But God does she look like Dorian.

On stage, Dorian acts with a punk rock ethic: she says every line as if it is her last. Off stage, She lives loud and high, has lived that way since their father walked out of their life six years ago. Blake watched her, hovered under her like a net under a trapeze artist, waiting for her to fall. There is something about his sister's bravado he doesn't like: something that reminds him of himself.

Dorian hates when anyone interferes in her life. Blake understands this. He also knows her persona is all a facade. Deep down, Dorian is terrified by their parent's divorce and throws her grit in everyone's face to keep them away. He reads her defense, knows her fear. She plays a character, she's good at acting. Fitz knows it too, since Dorian is close with Fitz. She forged absent notes from Fitz's mother. On more than one occasion Blake came home from work to find his sister lying with Fitz in the hammock in their back yard. She plays characters and Blake often wondered what type of character she played with Fitz when they were alone.

Blake often wonders what would happen with Fitz and Dorian if Janine wasn't around. Dorian always said she'd "Fancy a tryst with Fitz, as long as Janine didn't have tizz." Fitz never lets on how he feels about that subject. Still, no telling what Fitz would do.

A thought enters Blake's mind: he can't remember the last time he saw Dorian and Fitz together. Last March, a week after getting out of the Army, Fitz drove out to see Dorian in "Wait Until Dark". Blake remembers that because he couldn't go, but Fitz was insistent on seeing the play so he went alone. Since then, now that Blake thought of it, Fitz hasn't mentioned Dorian or anything about that trip.

Blake closes his eyes, tries to get the image of Dorian and Fitz out of his head. His throat narrows and he has trouble breathing.

Blake walks over to Fitz at the meat case. Fitz stands with the tail of his sleeveless flannel shirt in his mouth and adjusts his pants. His stomach is lean and hard and his cut-off tuxedo pants droop revealing a solid white inch of underwear. A girl in a white meat coat and white paper hat walking toward Fitz tries hard not to look at him. This makes her all the more obvious and Fitz watches her pass, pulling out the waistband of his briefs and snapping them against his stomach. The girl doesn't flinch and disappears around the corner of the meat case.

Fitz cases every angle of the store, absently scratches the under part of his forearm, revealing his tattoo. The tattoo is two words in Gothic type: 'Iron Youth'. Iron Youth was what Mr. Cranmore, the Dean of Students at their high-school called them. "Oh, look," he'd say, after Blake and Fitz were marched into his office for starting a food fight or showering in the girl's locker room, "Here are the Iron Youth who'll lead us into the twenty first century." It was a term that came from All Quiet on the Western Front, Mr. Cranmore said, although Blake and Fitz never bothered reading the book. Fitz got the tattoo at boot camp. Last Christmas he wrapped plastic holly around his arm and took a picture of the tattoo, which he sent to Mr. Cranmore with the note: "The only thing that would make Rikers more comfy would be having you as a cell mate. Merry Christmas! Hugs and Kisses, Iron Youth Numero Uno."

"Can I help you boys with something?" Blake and Fitz turn and see a little man with a graying head of curly brown hair and beard, thumbs hinged on the pockets of his meat coat. The man eyes them suspiciously and Blake springs into action.

"Yes, you can. See, here's our problem," Blake skips down the meat case to the roast section. The man walks with him but watches Fitz who tags behind. "We have this little hibachi and we were looking for something to grill. My friend noticed you had a sale on eye-round roasts and thought about cooking one, but they're too big for one meal and we don't have any refrigeration or anything, y'know?"

The man stares at Blake for an uncomfortable moment. He reaches into the middle shelf of the meat case. "These are on sale too," he says holding a thick, London broil steak. "Cut it in half. It should be plenty for one meal." He hands the steak to Blake.

Blake weighs the steak in his hands. "Cool," he says. Fitz stands behind Blake, flapping the tail of his flannel shirt, looking around the store. Blake nudges Fitz and shows him the steak. "What do you think?" Fitz nods.

Blake faces the man. "Great. Thank you." He drops the steak into his basket, then heads off down the can food aisle, leaving the man with Fitz. Fitz curls at fat roast in his hands. He looks up to see the man in the white coat staring at him, then smiles, puts the roast back and cartwheels across the aisle. The man watches the two for a moment longer, then goes away.

Blake finds the tuna fish and Fitz scampers up behind him. For the moment they are alone. He looks at Fitz, eyebrows raised in question. Fitz grabs the corners of his flannel shirt, pulls back with a quick tug, revealing the outline of a package half stuffed down his pants.

"Two steaks." Fitz mouths.

Blake picks up three cans of tuna, checks the "dolphin safe" seal. He takes a quick glance down the aisle then stuffs the cans into the side pocket of his fatigues.

At the far end of the aisle, Blake spots the little man they met earlier. He is drunk and opinionated and Blake kept him talking while Fitz loaded his carriage with groceries. It was an old trick they did from the days they used to stock shelves at Shaw's. Blake taps Fitz's shoulder and thumbs a finger at the man.

"What didst thou fill yon prate's wagon with?"

"T'was nothing," Fitz says, putting his hands on his hips, looking like the thespian from hell. "Surely, only what he needed. Q-Tips, a few boxes of gauze bandages, shampoo and some Depend Undergarments."

Blake slaps his hands to his ch eeks in mock surprise. "Thou didn't."

Fitz bows sloppily. "I didst."

"Think you he will discover this?"

"Think I all the better if he does. Dids't thou not notice how tight his legs were clamped? His leek nearly leaked!"

Blake reaches up behind his head, pulls his hair into a ponytail then lets it drop. He watches Fitz bask in the glory of a prank well done. "Oh the places we've seen, Fitz. And the things we've done."

"Tis true enough." He grabs three can of minestrone soup, tosses them into Blake's basket. "Lunch tomorrow." A young mother and her toddler turn down the aisle and Fitz steps aside to let them pass. The toddler is dressed in an oversized jump suit of bright oranges, reds and yellows, and drags an empty basket behind him. He looks up at Fitz and gurgles a greeting. Fitz waves and watches the baby walk down the aisle, until his eyes met the figure coming toward them.

His expression changes, his face softens. "Dori-" Fitz cuts himself off.

Blake spins around to see that girl, his sister's doppelganger, coming down the aisle. He pretends to check the food in the basket, monitoring Fitz's moves. He notices how Fitz stares at her, watches his brow crinkle and his face grow dark. The girl carries her basket folded between her arms. As she comes closer she folds her arms tighter and brushes past. Blake's throat clenches.

Fitz licks his lips and new look takes over his face, a raw look, a look of an animal. Blake imagines it is the same look that came over his own face the night he slept with Janine. fitz turns to Blake. "Oh the places we've seen, Blake. And the things we've done." For what seemed like forever, Blake and Fitz watched each other. In the stillness of that moment, Blake understands. He knows how hard it is to talk about someone after screwing for the wrong reasons.

Blake's throat loosens. He looked at Fitz. Everything is even and nothing is left to say. He shakes his head, laughs in a strange way. How am I living my life? he thinks.

Fitz sniffs, wipes his nose. "Let's pay for this, old fellow," he says. Blake swings around and they walked down the aisle. He wants to hit Fitz, drop the basket and beat him with a can of tuna. He reaches over and puts his hand on the base of Fitz's neck, and gives a squeeze.

Through the checkout counter and out of the store they go heading back to road more traveled and less open. They are on the Mass Pike driving west. They'll take the road to Worcester, turn right, and ride north to Vermont. There is no more frontier to find -- only problems at home to face.

Read the review

Back to the archive

Return to.... SSC