Free The Art Of The Heart by Dan Skinner Page B

that I’d just lost. And it slammed me as hard as a fist. I doubled over with that assault and cried until my eyes were dry, my face was gritty.
    The despair consumed me. I couldn’t bring myself to look at him anymore during the last few weeks of the school year. On the last day, I packed up my belongings from the locker and strolled past him with my head down. I walked out the door feeling like my life had ended.
    That would have been the end of that tale if the summer hadn’t turned everything upside down on me again. I’d already forgotten all the nameless, faceless people of my class, and I’d pushed Greg as far out of my mind as I could. Our family couldn’t afford to take a vacation, so I had to amuse myself by myself as best I could.
    We lived in the upper story of a two story brick flat in Saint Louis. Twelve feet of front yard with houses pressed in tight to each other. The backyards were larger lots that ended with an alleyway lined with trashcans, carports, and one-car garages.
    Luckily, that summer, I discovered a hobby that comforted me. My dad gave me an old push-mower and some clippers, and put me in charge of taking care of the apartment’s yards. On first glance, it seemed like something that would be outside of my personality. But before long, it became something that brought peace to my thoughts. I learned techniques of mowing the lawn that made it look like a carpet: mowing it, first one way, then the other in tight, even rows. I trimmed the edges so they were all perfectly square; meticulously pulled every weed and cleaned the cracks in the walkway. I watered it regularly, and before long, we had the best lawn on the block. For five dollars, I did the same thing for neighbors and it wasn’t long before I had worked my way into a self-employed summer job that pulled in thirty dollars or more a week. And I loved doing it. I liked being alone.
    In my free time, I’d grab my red Schwinn and ride through the neighborhood. I usually ended up at Marquette Park. It was a nice big park with lots of trees and bike paths, and it had the one community pool within ten miles. I’d go there and sit beneath the trees and watch the jocks toss a football to each other. I’d watch them run, then I’d sit near the fence at the pool and watch them parade around in their swim trunks. I was fascinated by men. To see just one specimen that looked like a Greek god was worth a whole day of watching. I wished that I looked like them. I acknowledged my own average appearance. There’d be no one waiting on the sidelines to see me stride poolside in a pair of trunks. Not with my skinny legs, knobby knees, small chest, and boney arms. But my curiosity expanded every day. Particularly when the new lifeguard took a chair at the pool. I figured he was about my age; maybe a year older. He was tall and walked like some sleek animal on long legs. He was broad shouldered, perfectly sculpted. He had natural platinum hair that was long like most of the guys imitating the British rock groups of that time. He wore short, red trunks that seemed strained against his rounded butt. But I couldn’t take my eyes off how he absolutely filled the front of those trunks. In fact, none of the girls at the pool missed it either. They all gathered in giggling clumps around him. He was just that spectacular. I’d find myself sitting on the bench watching him and wondering what it would be like to see him slip out of those trunks and move with his gazelle grace into a shower. My consciousness of what appealed to me about guys also made me aware of my own deficiencies. One afternoon, after bathing, I stared at myself in the mirror as though I was taking inventory of the parts I would need to be like them; the one’s I liked. I needed them all. And they couldn’t be bought and added on.
    I began doing all the things I didn’t care for. Jogging, push-ups, squats. A whole exercise regimen. I wasn’t about to take off my shirt and expose myself to