Jed Wolf

Jim Brewer, the headmaster of Barlow, was an imposing figure despite his disability. Standing six-foot-five, he navigated the campus on crutches with a remarkable speed and agility that belied his condition, moving with a determined strength that reminded me of a sea lion. He could navigate the entire campus nearly silently except for the telltale clicking of his crutches. His massive Suburban materialized on the remotest woods roads, its engine sending us running in opposite directions until Herb finally agreed to stop following me.

Late spring had become brutally muggy on the Connecticut coast. I drank wine, mowed my parents’ lawn, had my learner’s permit, and was old enough to be left alone while my parents vacationed. Pleasantly stoned, I was listening to classical music by the pool when the phone rang. It was Jim Brewer.

“Is this Jed?” he asked in his Midwestern drawl that at once put me at ease and terrified me.

“My parents are away,” I said, assuming he wanted them, and my heart raced imagining why.

“You know your geese have made a mess of the picnic area by the pond,” he said. “None of the teachers can use it. You’re gonna’ have to get them out of there.”

“Sure, I’ll come and get them,” I said, though I didn’t know how, and within an hour I had my thumb out.

The empty emerald-green hillside was all mine, I thought, the smell of fresh cut hay restoring my senses. Hypnotized by the fresh air and bright July sky I rounded the final corner of the country road on foot. It would be magical without students around. The dogs would recognize me, but I had mixed feelings about running into teachers. Of course, I’d thought about Herb, and when the thought of him turned me on, I felt overwhelmingly perverted, imagining what he’d do. I’d felt less anxious since ending our clandestine trysts, and thought I might be feeling Aphrodite, so passing the sign that read Barlow, I took a deep breath and re-affirmed my commitment to keep my boundary.

I was swimming with Pygmalion and Galatea was sunning herself on the shore when I noticed someone approaching in white shorts. Of course it was Herb. I didn’t react when he waved making it clear my new leaf was still turned over when Brewer’s suburban lurched onto the dirt track that led to the pond.

“Hey Jim,” I said, emerging in an innocent pair of cut offs.

“Hey Jed,” he said while rolling down his window. “Herb. There’ve been some complaints about all the guano, and I hope you have a plan.”

“I do,” I said, although I really didn’t.

“Okay,” he said glancing at Herb, rolled up his window, turned around and drove off.

“I mean it Herb. Leave me alone,” I insisted, waving him away like a dog I was ordering to go home.

“Okay,” he said, doing a one-eighty, and headed back in the direction he’d come.

The sun was hot. I swam a little more, then wondering if my geese would try to follow, I headed toward a shady spruce grove to kill time before setting up my tent. I heard a twig snap and turned to see Herb on his knees.

I gave into him that weekend more than I ever had, in the corn, in the art barn, and in my tent.

Hitchhiking back to Connecticut, I realized how much I liked the open road. Back at home, Brewer called again.

“A miraculous thing happened,” he said. “Pygmalion and Galatea began flapping their wings, lifted off the pond like angels, then after circling a few times, cleared the spruce grove heading south. I think they were following you, Jed.”

Refusing to imagine what really happened, I decided to hitch to California.

My teeth were so worn and my nails so bitten, I couldn’t open the Snickers my mother gave me before I left. She’d watched me struggle to open similar packaging before and I hoped she hadn’t intended it. I gave her a perfunctory kiss, got in my father’s latest BMW and we headed towards I95.

Gunning his way through the Bronx, braking and lurching between lanes, “The least I could do is get you past the George Washington Bridge,” he said, more than once. 

Stuck in stand-still traffic, the unyielding bridge rivets and dreamlike far reaches of the Hudson River burnished themselves into my psyche. I imagined Hiawatha leaping from the Palisades, followed by her faithful bay stallion who couldn’t live without her. The horse’s frantic neighing echoed between grimy girders as Fort Lee’s reality thrust me back to earth.

Through New Jersey traffic, I welcomed the stallion’s return, watching him clear barriers onto I-80, grazing highway weeds, until moving then speeding along, the horsewhile nearly lost his footing among roadside debris as my father scanned between tires and exhaust pipes for somewhere to drop me off. 

“God damn it,” he screamed as I slumped, remembering the smirking woman who’d taken my license photo weeks before. 

“Smile,” she’d said, “With your teeth.” But I’d gone to great lengths to hide them, clenching my jaw and scowling to look more masculine. Though I looked demonic in my license photo and my father bought me a car, I was too scared to drive on highways.

“I’ll be fine. Anywhere along here is fine.” I wanted him to let me out before my eyes welled up or I lost my nerve. The white-knuckle intensity beyond the bridge made me release a quick sob for the innocent kid I’d been. Just past the Jersey Turnpike, I noticed a big wide shoulder and enough of a gap to veer off.

“Stop,” I yelled, causing him to nearly crash and when he did what I said like dog, I knew I had to get away from him. 

Idling among familiar road debris, with defeat in both our faces, we could taste asphyxiation and felt pressure from truckers laying on their horns. Before he sped away I said, “Don’t worry Dad,” instead of “Don’t let me go.”

“Where you going,” a Volvo driver asked, with a Bud between his legs. “California,” I said like in a movie. “How does Chicago sound?” “Great,” I said, tossing my pack in his backseat. After handing me a beer, the middle-aged man had his hand on my thigh by Parsippany. 

“Is this okay?” he asked in a familiar tone, but unlike Herb, when I said nothing, the guy returned his hand to the wheel.