Date: Sun, 11 May 2003 19:33:40 -0700 (PDT)
From: Phoenixboy <phoenixboy000@yahoo.com>
Subject: Martin Reinholt - Chapter One

MARTIN REINHOLT

By Phoenixboy


CHAPTER ONE

Martin Reinholt was the most unique boy I had ever met.

I worked for an after school and summer program for middle school students,
a kind of glorified baby-sitting service to keep kids on the cusp of
adolescence out of trouble.  It was great for single parents or for
families where both parents worked and didn't get home until around six
o'clock.  In other words, most families with children this age could take
advantage of it.

In the real world, I was attempting to be a writer, which means that I
ended up being employed by a series of office jobs that sapped my creative
juices so I could make ends meet while attempting to produce the next Great
American Novel.  I succeeded in producing three to four chapters of about a
dozen unfinished novels.  Frustrated and feeling like my life was heading
nowhere fast, I quit my job.  Oh, how I would miss staring at the faded
blue-gray padded walls of my ten-by-twelve cubicle!  I just had to get out
of that fluorescent-lit, khaki-pants and button-down shirt environment, or
I would find myself snapping and ending up on the eleven o'clock news with
my coat pulled over my head as the police led me away from a bloody crime
scene.

Well, I suppose I'm being dramatic, but I did feel the onset of depression.
I was a thirty-one year old college graduate working menial jobs for the
sake of pursuing my art, which, as they, say was going nowhere fast.  While
I have had a handful of girlfriends in my life, women just weren't on my
top priority.  Deep inside, I considered myself a romantic at heart.  The
only problem was, I could not find the right person with whom I could share
those romantic aspirations.

Having saved up some money in the bank, considering I was a single guy
holding down a fairly well-paying job, I was not in any hurry to find
replacement employment.  I spent several weeks sitting around my apartment,
unshaven, often in my boxers, staring at my computer screen hoping that my
new-found time would inspire some creative thought.  No such luck.  All I
found was a huge emptiness that had previously been filled by the mundane
routine of office work.  Now my life was a big nothingness.

I found myself wandering down to the local park quite often.  Being a
voracious reader, I spent hours immersed in other people's writing rather
than creating my own.  But there is great joy in lying on soft grass
underneath the shade of an oak tree while losing yourself in the words of a
great author.

In the park, there was a fantastic bike trail.  I spent hours riding up and
down the narrow stretch of pavement.  In the mornings, the trail was free
of people other than the occasional jogger or fellow biker.  Around three
o'clock the children began to pour in, most of them going to the Youth
Activities Center.  Every now and then I would strike up a conversation
with a few of them, but I restrained from doing this frequently, as it felt
a bit like I was some creepy park dweller preying on innocent kids.

One morning curiosity got the best of me and I stopped into the activities
building just to see what all the fuss was about.  I have always had good
luck with timing, and this was no exception.  I ran into a red-haired,
fortyish woman and inquired as to why all the kids come there in the
afternoons.  She introduced herself as Barb Gordon, at which I had to
stifle a laugh, since that was also the name of Batgirl's alter ego.  I was
sure she got enough jokes about that coincidence, though about a year later
when I mentioned it to her, she claimed that she had never heard that.
Apparently, she was not a follower of comic books.

Barb proceeded to tell me about the after school program for kids, which
became the summer program once school concluded at the end of May.  As it
happened, she was just putting up a notice about needing a new Youth
Activities Coordinator to work under her.  The last one had gotten a real
job as a teacher.  She half jokingly asked if I was interested.  I
confessed that I had never worked with children before and was a little
intimidated by the thought of it.  What would I do to keep those mongrels
entertained between three and six o'clock every day?  She said that it
really wasn't that difficult, and suggested that I hang around with her
that afternoon and watch how things were done.  Considering I had nothing
better to do, I took her up on that offer.

The rest, so the saying goes, is history.  It didn't seem to be that
difficult of a job, though the pay was nothing to write home about.
However, I did write home about it to tell my parents that I was no longer
moping around my apartment feeling sorry for myself but was actually
contributing something to the community.  I actually felt good about my
decision.  The funny thing was, I found that I was actually good dealing
with children.  I guess since I never really felt like I had ever grown up,
despite the unbelievable fact that I was now in my thirties, I did not have
that condescending attitude that some people get toward kids.  I was one of
them, as far as I was concerned.

I was naturally drawn to the boys, since I had been one at one time and I
understood their mentality.  Plus, in the back of my mind, I always had a
special affection for boys.  I never allowed that fondness to develop more
than appreciating the beauty that many young boys have about them.  Not
having the opportunity to be around boys during most of my adult years, I
had not given it much thought.  But now, surrounded by a hundred or so
eleven to fourteen year olds, a strong pleasure swelled up inside me just
to be in their presence.  There wasn't anything sexual about this, just a
pureness of the joy of youth that recharged my soul.

I spent a few months working the after school program, but then the dreaded
day came when the summer program kicked in.  It was one thing to coordinate
activities for three hours, another thing entirely to map out a whole day
of entertainment for easily bored, often hyperactive young people.  Things
weren't as bad as I expected.  I oversaw one group of about thirty kids and
had a couple high school students as my assistants.  They tried to group
the kids based on age and grade, and the kids had to be entering sixth
grade to participate in the program.  Barb decided that since I was new to
the Center, it would be good to let me take the incoming sixth graders who
were not familiar with the staff or the program.  I could pretty much
create my own agenda and go with it.  I was now well-attuned with how
things ran, at least after school, so with a little guidance I organized
what I thought was a good set of activities for the summer.  Surprisingly,
I did a good job of it.

I expected to spend the first week getting to know the kids, but
truthfully, after you spend several hours with them, you get to know them
pretty well.  At that age, children aren't too quick to hide their
personalities, unlike adults, who can lock away their true selves from
outsiders for months or years.  One boy who immediately made himself known
to me was Martin Reinholt.

Martin was small for his age, having a very slight frame, yet he had a
flowing mane of brown-blonde hair that made his head look twice the size it
should have been for his body.  The resemblance to Jimmy Neutron was
remarkable.  His lack of stature was made up for by the loudness of his
voice.  He could be heard from across the gymnasium when he was using his
normal speaking volume.  Not only that, but he also had this conglomeration
of a North Carolina southern accent mixed with a hip hop yo-yo-yo thing
that made me want to laugh every time he opened his mouth.  I kept
expecting him to say, "You go girl, y'all."

If I ever needed anyone to take a leadership position, Martin was there
with his hand waving in the air.  He would volunteer happily for anything,
though he copped an attitude if someone tried to force him to do something
he didn't want to do.  "I ain't gonna do that," seemed to be his motto.
"No way, no how."  For instance, I wanted to take the kids on a hike one
day.  There were nature trails on the far side of the park, and I thought
it would be good to get the kids to stretch their legs in the fresh air.
"Now why would I want to walk around out there for no reason?" he asked me
with his hands on his hips and his big hair swaying from side to side.

"Because it's fun," I offered.

"Nuh-uh!"

Okay, another tactic.  "I'd like you to learn a little about nature, and
this is a good way to do it."

"I don't need to know about nature.  I'm a city boy."

"Everyone is going and I can't leave anyone behind."

"I could stay with another group."

I was becoming exasperated but wanted to avoid an argument.  I had only one
other angle before simply putting my foot down whether he liked it or not.
"Look, Martin, I really want you to come along.  I like being with you and
I'd hate for you to miss out on something that you might find you enjoy.
It's only for an hour, so it won't kill you.  If you don't like it, I'll
make it up to you later, okay?"

He relented, and actually did enjoy himself.  I noticed that he stuck
closely to me on the hike.  I don't know if it was because he didn't enjoy
the nature, or if it was because I said that I liked him.  However, after
that, he seemed to respond to me pretty well, especially when I
complimented him or showed him approval.

The other kids had mixed feelings toward him.  Most of them thought he was
somewhat goofy, though he got along with them all right.  Some of the boys
teased him about his hair, but mostly they just shrugged off his
eccentricities.  Martin tended to congregate more with the girls than the
boys, and I hate to say this but his personality fit in more with girls,
too.  While most of the boys were into either hard rock or rap, he liked
pop and dance music.  Britney Spears, Christina Aguilera, and a number of
boy bands were at the top of his list.  He also had a more stylish way of
dressing than the usual oversized T-shirt and baggy pants that most of the
boys preferred.  Among the girls, a distinctly feminine quality emerged
that was generally absent when he hung around with the boys.

I didn't seriously think that Martin was gay.  For one thing, I didn't
believe that a prepubescent boy of eleven would have a sexual orientation
one way or other.  I had heard him talking about being raised in a family
consisting of all females other than himself, so I thought that perhaps he
just didn't have male role models to pattern himself after, which could
explain some of his more girlish attributes.  Another thing, I noticed that
his personality tended to change depending on the crowd around him.  While
always very energetic, he became slightly more macho around the guys; he
tried to act more mature when near the older kids, with whom he often tried
to hang around; and with the girls he allowed himself to be...well, one of
them.  The funny thing was, the times I was able to talk to him with no one
else around, he seemed to be a perfectly normal boy.  I think this is when
his real personality emerged.  He was not trying to impress anyone, perhaps
because he didn't need to impress me to receive my approval.

Martin's intelligence was evident almost from the moment I met him.  He was
a smart boy, though he tried to put on airs of one more worldly than he
really was.  I often shook my head at things he said when he was trying to
impress the other kids.  "Oh, you don't know what you're talking about," he
would say, before proceeding to explain to them whatever it was they didn't
know.  Quite often, he also had no idea what he was talking about, though
every now and then he did.  It was no surprise to find out that he was
going to be placed in the gifted classes when school resumed in August.

The more I found out about this kid, the more intrigued I was by him.  He
had taken acting lessons, and had even done a few modeling jobs for local
department store fliers.  Secretly, I wondered if he had ever appeared in
ads for boys underwear.  I quickly suppressed that thought.  He had done a
couple school plays in elementary school, but those had not tested his
acting abilities because they were for little kids.  He was looking forward
to doing a real middle school play where he could actually perform.

Additionally, he was taking voice and dance lessons.  He was signed up for
Chorus in the fall, and by the time he was in seventh grade, he was going
to all-state competitions for solo performances.  Martin was very talented,
and was not afraid to develop those abilities.  I hated to admit that
thoughts crossed my mind that associated creativity with homosexuality, and
I pushed them away as soon as they appeared.  That was not only unfair to
creative people, it was buying into a stereotype, and as a rule I
discounted all stereotypes as foolishness.  Not to mention that as I
writer, I prided myself on being a creative person as well.

Despite the somewhat feminine attributes and the creative side to him,
Martin was not a sissy or a coward.  He was the first to stand up for
himself, even to bigger boys if a disagreement occurred.  His mouth made up
for his stature, and often kids would back down.  He could talk circles
around them, and I'm sure that made the others feel like morons.  I also
found out that he was a brown belt in karate and had competed in nationals.
This kid was amazing.

What blew my mind the most was something I found out this one day I lost
track of him.  Granted, it's hard to lose Martin Reinholt, even in a crowd,
but he just up and disappeared.  No one knew where he had wandered off to,
and I was beginning to be very worried.  I scoured the Activities Center,
only to find him outside around the back of the building.  He was sitting
on the ground with his legs crossed, arms held out in front of him, finger
tips pressed together.  I said his name and he looked up at me.

"What are you doing?" I asked.

"Meditating."

"Oh."

"I usually meditate once a day.  Felt like doing it now."

"Okay.  Just come back inside when you're done.  But let me know the next
time.  I got a little worried about you because you disappeared."

"I just thought you might think it was weird or something."

"No, it's cool.  I've just never seen anyone your age meditate before.  I
think it's great that you do it."

He beamed at me, then closed his eyes and resumed his meditation.  I went
back inside, amazed yet again at this little kid who was so full of
surprises.

The summer flew by, and Martin grew very close to me.  Of all of the kids
in my group, he carved out a special place in my heart.  I looked forward
to seeing him every day, even if he could be a pain in the rear at times.
He could be bossy, not only with the other kids, but with me as well.  I
would give him one of my patented irritated looks and he'd rolls his eyes
up at me with a sardonic grin and relent, knowing he went too far yet also
knowing that I was easy to play.

I didn't know much about his home life, other than his parents were
divorced and he lived with his mom, his aunt, and his sister.  His dad was
in the military based somewhere out of state.  I got the distinct
impression that he did not care much for his dad.  One day he made a
comment about having to go to counseling that afternoon.  I didn't want to
be nosy, but I asked if it was family counseling.  I wanted to be aware if
there was a serious problem that we could be facing with this kid.  He said
that it was, so I didn't press further.  I figured if he wanted to talk
more about it, he would in his own time.  I told him that if he ever needed
to talk to someone about anything, that he could come to me.  He said
thanks, but I didn't get the impression that he really thought that I meant
it.  I did mean it.

One day my group was heading outside to play a game of capture the flag and
Martin was at his usual place at my side.  We were chatting about this and
that.  Somewhere along the way, a joke was made regarding someone who was
gay.  I don't even remember what it was, since it was just in passing.
Sometimes I'll make a slightly off-colored reference that will go right
over those children's heads just for my own amusement, but quite often
Martin would catch them.  This was one of those cases, and he laughed and
my slightly naughty humor.

"I know this kid whose mother is a lesbian," he announced.

"Really?"  I wondered where this was going to lead, if it was going to be a
joke or reality.

"Yeah.  He lives with his mom and her girlfriend."

"Wow.  What does he think about it?"

"He's okay with it," Martin said.  There seemed to be some undercurrent in
his voice that I didn't understand.  There was something there, but I
didn't quite know what it was communicating.  The first thing that came to
mind was that old cliché that I saw on a hundred sitcoms where someone
talks about a "friend" but is actually referring to himself.  Could Martin
have been meaning that his own mother was a lesbian, and that her lover
lives in his household, too?  I had not met any of his family members at
that time, since I was usually busy during checkout, and he darted out as
soon as his name was called for dismissal.

About a week later, I happened to be talking to Barb near the front door
when Martin's mother arrived to pick him up, so I took that opportunity to
meet her.  She was a somewhat masculine woman with a gruff voice, but she
was very pleasant.  She shook my hand with a strong grip.

"I've heard so much about you, Mr. James," she said.

"Please, call me Alan.  I don't do Mister very well."

"Martin talks about you all the time."  She had her arm around her son, who
surprised me by actually looking somewhat embarrassed.  I wouldn't have
expected him to react that way, especially to something so benign.

"Really?  Well, I wouldn't believe him.  I'm actually a nice guy."

She laughed with a deep rumble.  "He really looks up to you.  Thank you for
spending so much time with him."

"Aw, it's not any more than I do for the other kids here."  Now it was my
turn to be embarrassed.

We chatted for a few more minutes, me giving her a condensed version of my
life story.  She had already known that I was a writer, something Martin
apparently talked a lot about.  I didn't realize he was paying much
attention when I told him some of my story ideas.  It seems they sunk in,
and that gave me a cheap sort of pleasure.

The comment Martin had made the previous week about his friend's lesbian
mother echoed through my mind.  She certainly seemed to be the type, but it
would be wrong of me to make assumptions about someone I just met.  Some
women are just more masculine, just like some guys--Martin for example--are
a bit on the feminine side.  Yet I still had to wonder...

I have never been much of a touchy-feely kind of guy, and I usually give
people plenty of personal space.  I worked with this one woman who liked to
get about two inches from your face while talking to you.  I would always
back away from her, but she would move in until I was bumped up against a
wall.  That always made me feel very uncomfortable.  So I was a little
uncertain how to handle it when some of the kids would touch me.  Being the
primary adult overseeing them for six hours every day that summer, they
became comfortable with running around me, climbing on me, or just
generally clinging to me.  I got used to it, but it was still weird.
Eventually, I found myself able to tousle hair or even give a one-armed
hug.  I really didn't know where my boundaries were, so it was best to play
it safe.

The one exception was with Martin.  I enjoyed play fighting with him,
though sometimes he took it far too seriously and would get into one of his
karate stances.  I'd have to remind him that I was just fooling around.  I
guess his defense mechanism kicked in whenever he thought he was being
threatened.  When we were horse-playing, I would give no thought at picking
him up and turning him upside down, or dropping him to the ground and
tickling him.  Tickling didn't work often, but occasionally I'd hit a
sensitive spot in his ribs or under his knees.

Upon coming back from a nature walk, of which Martin grew tolerant, he
complained of having a rash.  He lifted up his shirt for me to reveal his
chest and back covered with small red welts.  He must have been allergic to
something he came across out there.  I took him into the back office, where
we had a first aid kit, and I dug out some antiseptic cream to apply to
him.  I told him to take off his shirt, then spread the white cream around
his skin with my fingers.  I started with his back, where he couldn't
reach.  He just stood there, as if he were enjoying it.

"Turn around," I said.

He faced me.  For a moment I lost my breath.  Standing before me was one of
the most beautiful creatures I had ever seen.  Yes, he was an eleven year
old boy, but Michaelagelo could not have sculpted a more perfect specimen
of the human species.  I think I may have stared at him a bit too long,
because I heard him giggle and I snapped out of it.  My hands trembled as I
applied the medicine to his smooth chest, between his tiny nipples, and
down to his inflamed belly.  I could feel my heartbeat in my throat.  My
eyes seemed to pound with my pulse.  What was happening to me?

Some of the welts were right at his waistline.  Martin pulled down the top
of his shorts a little so I could get access to the swellings.  Two
distinct lines formed the top of a V from his tummy heading down into his
crotch.  I drew in a long intake of air.  This was bad.  If someone were to
walk past the office at this moment, they could get the wrong impression.
It was innocent, I knew, and the boy needed to be tended to, but I just
couldn't bring myself to touch him in an area so close to something very
private.

I grinned at him and handed him the tube.  "I think you'd better do those
yourself."  He took the antiseptic and I stepped aside to allow him to tend
to himself while I tried to regain control of my body.

When his mother picked him up that day, I made sure to inform her of the
rash that popped up on him.  "He gets that sometimes," she said.  "There
must've been a plant he brushed up against that he was allergic to."  I
agreed with her, and also told her what treatment I gave him, and also that
I let him apply a certain amount to himself.  In no way did I want her to
think that I was inappropriately touching her son.  She did not have an
issue about it and thanked me for taking care of Martin.

The funny thing is, after that episode, I found it easier to touch him in
more personal ways, such as massaging his shoulders or wrapping my arm
around him in a friendly manner.  The natural barrier I have against all
people had torn down with him.  I rather liked it.

TO BE CONTINUED


Copyright Phoenixboy 2003

Please send any comments to phoenixboy000@yahoo.com