it. Toward the end a priest tells the story of a man who goes to the law. To get to the law he has to go through a door but there’s a guard in front of it—he’s not allowed in. He tries everything—he can’t get by. Even if he did, he’s told, he’d just find another door, and another guard, and another. So he waits. He waits for years. He grows old. Finally, dying, he calls the guard over and asks him why, if the law is supposed to be meant for everybody, he wasn’t allowed in. And the guard, watching the man’s eyes closing, leans over and yells: “Because this door was meant for you. I am now going to shut it.”
Kafka didn’t save me. He just told me I was drowning. This life, this love—was meant for you. I am now going to shut it.
Which was something.
A ND SO, YES, maybe I ran to other things, shallow things. Maybe I lacked coping skills. Maybe I was weak. I cared for people for no better reason than they seemed to care for me, acknowledge me. It didn’t seem so dangerous at the time.
In the spring of 1968, Ray and Frank and I had become friends. I couldn’t honestly say how it happened except that it happened. Frank was funny, confused, a Boy Scout with a temper. His parents had come from Poland. Big arms, thick neck, he had a smile like a little kid’s if the joke was dumb enough. He could do voices—Yosemite Sam and Nixon, Mr. Farber and Mr. Falvo and the Smothers Brothers—and the way he’d laugh, like he didn’t want to, like there was somebody inside of him laughing and he couldn’t keep him down, could make you laugh just watching him, and he’d pile it on till the two of you were bent over like drunks, holding your knees, then stop—and he’d get this look like somebody buttoning the top button of his shirt, and say he had to go.
The better you know somebody, the less you can say about them. I knew Frank. He liked Perry Como in 1968 and didn’t care who knew it. His pimples bothered him, and sometimes he’d come to school with Band-Aids over the bad ones. He could annoy the shit out of you—one of those Christian squares who get all red in the face and dig in over nothing—but he wasn’t mean. I think he had a hard time with things because he believed the world was a certain way—because he’d been told it was—and it wasn’t, and on bad days he’d drive that javelin like there was somebody standing on the other end of the field with a target on his chest. I never figured out who. I had some ideas.
I used to like to watch him, the five or six big, bouncy steps that started the run-up, the spear already cocked behind the head, then the slight turn to the right, the legs cross-stepping, faster now, the body beginning to lean back while still moving forward, bending like a bow, then snapping forward into the release, the body balancing, the eyes following the flight of the spear, off to its work—I thought it was beautiful.
So there was no one moment. We just became friends and because of that probably fucked with and fought with each other more than we had to. I figured out early on that girls and God were an issue; if I found him reading the Bible at lunch—he’d started helping out at church the fall of sophomore year, teaching Sunday school—I’d let him alone.
I T WAS A GOOD SPRING. I’d come home late now as the days grew longer, my head full of split times, my spikes in my bag. I’d learned the code: You didn’t showboat, you didn’t put daylight between yourself and the group. You could set the pace, no more, and hope coach would notice. In two weeks I was in the middle of my group; in three I was leading it. It meant nothing—the slowest guy in the next group could have run me down in his sleep—but the day I got the nod and joined the fourth I felt like I’d done something. Frank came over and slapped me on the back. Ray was sitting in the stands, watching.
It had taken us a few months. We’d started slowly, a few words, a nod in the hall, a joke or
Kafka didn’t save me. He just told me I was drowning. This life, this love—was meant for you. I am now going to shut it.
Which was something.
A ND SO, YES, maybe I ran to other things, shallow things. Maybe I lacked coping skills. Maybe I was weak. I cared for people for no better reason than they seemed to care for me, acknowledge me. It didn’t seem so dangerous at the time.
In the spring of 1968, Ray and Frank and I had become friends. I couldn’t honestly say how it happened except that it happened. Frank was funny, confused, a Boy Scout with a temper. His parents had come from Poland. Big arms, thick neck, he had a smile like a little kid’s if the joke was dumb enough. He could do voices—Yosemite Sam and Nixon, Mr. Farber and Mr. Falvo and the Smothers Brothers—and the way he’d laugh, like he didn’t want to, like there was somebody inside of him laughing and he couldn’t keep him down, could make you laugh just watching him, and he’d pile it on till the two of you were bent over like drunks, holding your knees, then stop—and he’d get this look like somebody buttoning the top button of his shirt, and say he had to go.
The better you know somebody, the less you can say about them. I knew Frank. He liked Perry Como in 1968 and didn’t care who knew it. His pimples bothered him, and sometimes he’d come to school with Band-Aids over the bad ones. He could annoy the shit out of you—one of those Christian squares who get all red in the face and dig in over nothing—but he wasn’t mean. I think he had a hard time with things because he believed the world was a certain way—because he’d been told it was—and it wasn’t, and on bad days he’d drive that javelin like there was somebody standing on the other end of the field with a target on his chest. I never figured out who. I had some ideas.
I used to like to watch him, the five or six big, bouncy steps that started the run-up, the spear already cocked behind the head, then the slight turn to the right, the legs cross-stepping, faster now, the body beginning to lean back while still moving forward, bending like a bow, then snapping forward into the release, the body balancing, the eyes following the flight of the spear, off to its work—I thought it was beautiful.
So there was no one moment. We just became friends and because of that probably fucked with and fought with each other more than we had to. I figured out early on that girls and God were an issue; if I found him reading the Bible at lunch—he’d started helping out at church the fall of sophomore year, teaching Sunday school—I’d let him alone.
I T WAS A GOOD SPRING. I’d come home late now as the days grew longer, my head full of split times, my spikes in my bag. I’d learned the code: You didn’t showboat, you didn’t put daylight between yourself and the group. You could set the pace, no more, and hope coach would notice. In two weeks I was in the middle of my group; in three I was leading it. It meant nothing—the slowest guy in the next group could have run me down in his sleep—but the day I got the nod and joined the fourth I felt like I’d done something. Frank came over and slapped me on the back. Ray was sitting in the stands, watching.
It had taken us a few months. We’d started slowly, a few words, a nod in the hall, a joke or
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