Aberdeen, August, 1981, September 18, 2021, Truffle Magazine
When I was 11 years old, on a particular August day, the temperature reached 105 degrees in Aberdeen (actually Cosmopolis, but close enough) WA. UNHEARD of (until recent times). My mother told me to go out and play. I remember standing under the cloths line in our backyard, feeling as though I was going to faint.
So, all of that is real. The thing that makes fiction is what ensues from those facts. By which I mean, I give you the mostly fictional Aberdeen, August, 1981, published by the great people at Truffle Magazine, out to the world on September 18, 2021. You may read the story below or by going to the original publication HERE.
Aberdeen, August, 1981
by
J. Edward Kruft
I recognize him at once, from my older sister’s collection, coming through the gate in white tails and a straw hat and tennis shoes and, of course, enormous glasses that take up half of his chubby face.
“Hello, Elton,” I say.
“Will,” he nods, and I beam, for I have only just recently decided I am no longer Billy. Nobody takes this seriously, least of which my St. Mary’s classmates from since kindergarten.
He lay down under the clothesline and I follow.
“Christ,” he says, “it’s hot as fuck.”
“Africa hot,” I say.
He laughs harder than expected.
“Will,” he is serious now. “I want to ask you a question and I want you to really, really think about your answer. Yes?”
“Yes.”
“Are you…happy?”
“Yes.”
“You haven’t thought long enough. Go on.”
I lay staring into the cloudless sky; a drop of sweat rolls into my eye and stings. I know my answer is going to remain the same, even though, it occurs to me, I don’t know why I will say yes, but only that I feel I must. Still, I give him the consideration he asks for.
When I answer again, he sighs. “Well then, good on you.”
I take his hand and we lay silent for a time.
“My father says you’re homosexual.”
“Does he? Is that the word he uses? Homo-sexual?”
“No.”
“Yes, well, I suppose he’s right. A three-dollar bill, as they say.”
“Why?”
“Many reasons. Although, I suspect among them, is that sex is brutal, and I cannot imagine brutalizing a woman.”
“Yeah,” is all I can muster. “Elton,” I say after a time, “are you happy?”
“Miserable, actually.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Not your fault. I’m afraid I’ve brought it on myself. Have you heard my latest? Utterly DREADFUL. Hardly remember making it. It’s a bloody disco tribute. All sorts of pigeons cooing in the background. Can you imagine such dreck?”
As he speaks, I go further inside. Am I happy? What does that mean, even? How would my mother answer the question? She would answer as I had: rotely. I am not-quite twelve. Is it even allowed to not be happy when you’re not-quite twelve?
“Christ, it’s hot as fuck,” he repeats.
My free hand brushes some buttercups and I pick one and roll onto my side and hold it under his chin. “You like butter,” I say, shifting the buttercup to the underside of my own chin.
“Oh, you are an odd one, aren’t you?”
“Tell me. Do I like butter?”
“How should I know?”
“Is it yellow? If my chin’s yellow, then it means I like butter. Look!”
Elton sits up and pulls down his enormous glasses to look over the top of them and then lies back down. “Yes. You like butter.”
I giggle and wriggle. “Fooled you! I really don’t like butter.”
“Impossible. Everyone likes butter. Don’t be a liar now. Good God, is it really supposed to be this hot?”
“It’s 105 degrees,” I say and explain that that is unheard of on this side of Washington state, the side that is wet and gray and hovers almost exclusively around 59 degrees. Seventy if the sun is out, which is August. “I asked my mom if the world is ending; if the nuclear plant in Satsop has exploded or something else terrible.”
“And?”
“She told me to go outside and get some vitamin D.”
“Ah, well, my mum’s a bit of a twat, too.”
“Before you got here, I thought I was going to faint. I’m glad we laid down.”
Elton turns his head and smiles, showing me his gap. “Me, too.”
A moment passes: “Do you know what my father says about me? He says it enough that I have it memorized. He says: if you were a flower, no one would be a bit surprised.
Up on his elbow now, his face close to mine: “You know what, Will? Take what your father says as a great big motherfucking compliment.” He smiles again and I am sorry for my braces, sorry that I’ll have no chance of having such a beautiful gap in my teeth. “Tell me. What kind of flower will you be, then?”
I think, my eyes squinted from the brightness. “A sunflower,” I declare.
On his back again: “Good. Let’s sing.”
Elton:
I don’t want to talk
Will:
About things we’ve gone through
Elton and Will:
Though it’s hurting me, now it’s history….
“Billy!”
Billy:
The winner takes it all….!
As I hold the final note I see my mother, hovering above me like some bird of prey, the blue kerchief covering her hair, a layer of sweat on her forehead.
“I said come inside! Your father will be home soon. I don’t want him coming home to you serenading yourself under the clothesline. Billy! Do you hear me?”
I can’t help myself. I am still smiling. I can’t seem to stop, even as I turn my head to look at my hand, still clutching the withering buttercup, my smile won’t go away.
“Your mum thinks you’re daft,” he whispers.
“Yeah,” I say.
BIO (as it appeared in the original publication)