Carnal Love and Death

Between The Garages

My childhood friend Larry tried to kill me and his sister tried to seduce me. I think the seduction, if you want to call it that, (I know I do), happened before the attempt on my life; so there could be a little cause and effect going on here.  I don’t think my friend Larry really meant to kill me, but he sure came close; of course it came close with his sister too.

There were far too many distractions along the way and I seldom got to school on time.  My route took me through and past numerous orchards and vineyards, as we were located in the Niagara Fruit Belt. There were pear, plum, apple, peach, and apricot delicacies to choose from en route. It was like going to school via the Garden of Eden without the snakes, but with most of the temptations.

One temptation we could never ignore was a construction site.  Because we lived on the rural-urban fringe of the city there were many such sites and several on my route to school, which made it almost impossible to attend school with any regularity. The fact that I failed grade one had a lot to do with my early morning visits to construction sites. It was only an ironic twist of fate that I ended up as a teacher and not a construction worker.

There was always something sublimely complying about the deep dank hole in the ground that formed the foundation of a new house, or the fresh smell of cut lumber, or the irresistible framing which served as a jungle gym to my youthful enthusiasm.  For some reason, maybe because we were stupid kids, we never figured out why contractors and new home owners did not appreciate us playing at their building sites. Despite the fact that we seldom did major damage, we were chased by the usual suspects of construction workers, their bosses, their dogs, and/or the future home owner out to protect their investment.

We were young, fit, fast and flexible and we seldom got caught.  Often in hot pursuit, we would head out across the orchard, backing on to the construction area, as if on cue we would split into several directions to throw off our pursuers.  Eventually, we would jump any fence, hedge or other intervening barriers to make good our escape.  As kids we always had the advantage when running through vineyards.  With each new line of parallel vines, without losing speed, we would drop and roll to the next row of vines until our pursuers, even dogs, gave up. We would then infiltrate the neighbourhood on the other side of the orchard.  After a suitable length of time, using every clandestine means at our disposal, short of disguise, we would slowly and one at a time infiltrate into our own neighbourhood until the heat was off, leaving the construction workers, their bosses, their dogs and/or the future owners wandering aimlessly in the wrong neighbourhood looking for us, with no leads. 

I spent lots of time at Deserei’s house because I was good buddies with her younger brother Larry and they were our next door neighbours. Deserei would often invite me downstairs into their unfinished rec room, sit next to me, really close on an over stuffed, soft couch while showing me pictures from the Eaton’s and Sears catalogues.  She would often lean into my body, while whispering in my ear, “What do you  like?”

She was totally into fashion and I wasn’t yet familiar with the concept. Deserei would ask me to pick, from a given page, the best looking outfit, pair of shoes, or model.  The difficult part was somehow justifying my catalogue selections to Deserei as my choices were often random and I had no set of criteria to guide me. Deserei could keep going with the catalogue game for hours. She had stamina which I greatly admired. I humoured her because I was excited just being in the same room with her sharing a couch. There was something vaguely tactile that attracted me to her and she smelled really good.  I would find every opportunity to lean into her, easily facilitated by the softness of the couch, in order to get a better look at the page under scrutiny, pretending to study every detail when I was just trying to be as close to her as possible.  This was heaven, or something very close.  In fact later in life I was to discover that it actually was heaven.

With the help of  Richard, my big brother, Larry, and a few miscellaneous friends, we excelled at building underground forts. I believe it was a niche market and apparently we had cornered it. My father had helped us with two tree forts in our backyard, one in a plum tree and the other in a willow tree. He had also built us a playhouse of epic proportions, complete with moveable glass windows, and furniture. We had to share this with our sisters and their friends; so it lost some of the luster for us, therefore, the quest to go underground.

We chose our fort location with precision, usually close to existing construction sites to reduce the cost of materials and transportation. Our basic design was a huge pit or trough-like hole and by using unwanted valueless lumber from the nearest residential construction site we fabricated a lattice or framework of 2 X 4’s and 2 X 6’s, depending on availability. This sturdy and heavy framework was covered with whatever plywood the contractors happen to be using at the time. We preferred three quarter inch for its durability, if nothing else, we were all about quality.

Once the plywood was situated we would joyously fling shovelfuls of previously excavated dirt over the entire project. The soil was covered with sod and within two weeks the whole thing was overgrown with weeds and was therefore perfectly camouflaged with the existing environment. Naturally, being attentive to detail and cognizant of the need to breathe while underground, we inserted eaves troughing and pieces of downspouts along the edges of the roof, penetrating into the cavern below.  A second smaller trench, covered with branches served as an entranceway. The floor was modeled after soddies from the prairies and other Depression era homes with dirt floors. Ours were covered in generous layers of the venerable St Catharines Standard, allowing us to keep up with the news while staying relatively dry and cozy. 

Our fort had three rooms; we called them chambers, as this was actually part of a secret lair project from where we hoped to achieve world wide dominance, or at least hide from our parents when we were called in from play. Each chamber was joined to the next by a tunnel about three feet in length. Along the earthen walls we dug shallow enclaves to situate candles. We discovered that by the time we got to the third chamber (here after referred to as the inner sanctum) the candles would barely burn.  Apparently, and no one told us this at the time, candles need oxygen to burn. 

After one lazy summer afternoon of scrutinizing the Eaton’s catalogue shoe section, in later life I was to discover that to a woman a shoe is not a shoe.  A shoe, in all its discomfort and impractical design and numerous short comings, is actually a piece of art. 

Our garage, built from scratch by my dad, and our neighbour’s garage were side by side with a narrow space between them. This space was an actual location we referred to as “between the garages,” for obvious reasons.  My dad stored lumber here from his various projects. We used the pile of lumber as a step to getting up on the roof. We liked doing this because we were kids and it was there, some adults have the same attitude about mountains.

Deserei suggested that we needed a break from the catalogues; my eyes were blood shot from the strain. She held my hand and led me “between the garages.” I should have known something was up because I didn’t think she had any desire whatsoever to get the panoramic view from the garage roof.  Did I mentioned for a young girl she was extremely voluptuous and could easily have appeared on a catalogue page herself, possible on the swim suit or lingerie pages, but what did I know because when she purred (and I swear I thought it was a cat), “I’ll let you see mine if I can see yours.” I thought she was referring to my Swiss Army knife with the multiple blades, can opener and what looked like a corkscrew.  I should have recognized one of the most famous of pick up lines for what it was.  I was naïve, curious and very eager.

Deserei was already taking her clothes off.  I vaguely recall that Deserei wore a pale blue pair of tight Capri pants. Her toe nails were painted in a deep purple and nicely contrasted with the Capri’s. Her sandals were of light brown leather the colour of her silky hair, which flowed long and straight to her shoulders. She was highly tanned with strong muscular definition along her calves. She wore a white peasant type blouse, hiding a delicate lacy bra which with great effort held back the formidable abundance of her splendid endowment.  Her cleavage was an inviting darkness full of shadow and wonder.  Around her long neck she wore a delicate gold chain caressing a heart shaped pendant. I did not know, nor would I ever, what lay inside the pendant.  My breath came in short spasmodic gasps.

I soon discovered to my boyhood amazement what was under her blouse and I was mesmerized by here proportions and magnificence.  There truly was a God and I was thankful for all of his creations.  My mind was frantically and desperately in over drive trying to absorb and assimilate every nuance and magnificent detail of the beauty radiating before me.  I was the proverbial deer blinded, yet attracted, by the rapidly oncoming transport truck with high beams blazing.  I froze  in those headlights and would have been content to die then and there.  Life was complete, this moment indelibly frozen in eternal time and space, as I stood before a now naked Deserei.  I raised my trembling hand toward the light and this magical moment was synchronized with the exact moment that Larry stumbled between the garages,  “Hey, what are you guys doing?”

Of course I will never know what could have happened next and I bear no malice towards Deserie’s idiot brother Larry for his interruption while I lusted after his sister, other than the standard wish that he would rot in the fourth level of purgatory until the end of time. 

The next day found me forlorn and alone in the inner sanctum of our fort, whiling away the time with some sort of carnal magazine with fold out pages.  The air was already quite stale this far into the fort; so when I had my first whiff of smoke I didn’t panic until my eyes were watering and began to burn, as massive billows of smoke from the smoldering newspapers wafted towards me.

The depth of the chamber was such that I couldn’t get enough leverage with my arms or my legs to push the roof off because with all that stolen lumber and dirt it weighed about 17 metric tons, nor could I move forward to the next chamber without crawling over burning newspaper.  I began to scream loud and long through one of the air tubes to the outside world.

I was only ten; so when my life flashed in front of me I had to rewind several times to pick out the skimpy detail, because there really wasn’t much content.  I did pause several times at the clip with Deserei between the garages, but even that couldn’t bring me much joy during such a crisis.

I don’t believe in miracles, but I do believe in my brother.  Even though we didn’t always get along and he frequently blackmailed me about not telling our mom about his smoking down by the canal, or about the cat incident and the ax, or about the broken cellar window, or his driving in a stolen car with an under aged driver while under the influence, or about the crossbow he made from a car spring that nearly decapitated his friend Victor.  I forgot all of that, as my brother literally tore the roof off of our fort and flung it to the side, like a superhero, while simultaneously grabbing me by the forearm and practically throwing me out of the pit of death. I was saved.  

Minutes later Richard had me smoke damaged but alive before my mother, still oddly clutching my fire damaged copy of the July 1960 copy of Playboy Magazine rescued along with me from the fort.  My dear sweet Mennonite mother took a long hard look at her prodigal son.  She probably didn’t know whether to slap me on the back of my head or give me a hug.  In quick succession she did both.

Honing in with our fine detective skills we narrowed down the incriminating web of evidence and concluded that Deserei’s brother, Larry, had indeed set the fire.  After coming clean with my brother about Deserei  and my out of body experience between the garages my brother concluded that the fire was likely designed to be an honour killing.

My brother and I, with a heightened sense of social justice, went over to Larry’s house where I hid behind a hydro pole.  Richard marched up to the Larry’s door without letting me in on his game plan.  A jubilant Larry came to the door.  He became progressively less jubilant as my brother explained to him that I was dead.  From the corner of the house I could only hear vestiges of sentences spoken by my brother, “Yes, burnt beyond recognition...His dying words... he identified his killer...certainly reform school for life Larry.”

I had a sense of the subtle nuances which were being played out and like Mark Twain, I knew that the rumours of my death had been greatly exaggerated, but definitely had the desired effect on Larry, who, as I could see from my vantage point, was in tears.

In one week I had experienced the delights of carnal knowledge, a near death experience, the loyalty of a brother who always had my back, the love of my mother and the long abiding dream of what could have been “between the garages.”