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Stand By Me 6
Settle in the front room children, warm up the radio and pass out the Necco Wafers, it's time for "Aunt Roxy's Not So Closeted Clark"!
The tent was crowded and full, brightly lit by strings of light bulbs hung like vines from the poles and cross beams in the tent and every folding chair on the sawdust floor held someone and people lined the sides of the tent and filled the aisle. Folks moved back and forth between the seats, chatting and catching up on news from other towns, squealing and laughing kids ran in and out among the grown-ups, and babies cried and mom’s patted and bounced them—Clark took it all in, average normal everyday things—he wanted to pull it over his head like a blanket, roll up in it and disappear.
Everywhere the ladies looked their best, sporting Sunday hats and dresses and pumps cleaned and buffed to an impressive sheen. It was wonderful to come together like this and praise the Lord, wasn’t it, yes indeed, and didn’t that dress make Mae look fat? And what in the world possessed Nancy to do that to her hair? Praise God, let’s hope Alma didn’t bring another one of her atrocious jello salads. Who’s at the church setting up tables, not Harold and them, oh Lord pray there’s chicken left….
Clark caught all the bits of gossip that floated through the air and felt a little better knowing that his world was still the same, even if he wasn’t.
His dad and mom were laughing together about something—Dad looked handsome in his starched white shirt and new hat. He could tell Mom thought so too. They smiled at each other and Clark felt a little jolt. They loved each other so much—was there any chance he’d have that some day? Or would the Devil keep that from him too...and speak of the devil, clark sighed.
Whitney strutted into the tent, he moved down the aisle and called out to him, “Hey, Clark,” and stood looking down at him, his lips curled in a strange smile. Clark looked up from his spot on the ground next to his folk’s chairs, found himself looking directly into Whitney’s crotch and blushed.
“Whitney!” his dad said, smiling, “How’s everything, son? Ready for the season? You looked darn good last year, I figure you’ll be taking us to the championship this year?”
Whitney ducked his head, “Yes sir, I’m sure gonna try,” he said and looked the very picture of a humble ‘aw-shucks’ kind of guy. Clark watched the performance open mouthed---could his dad be falling for that guff? Whitney should be in drama club instead of football, the—the ham!
His dad nodded, satisfied, and invited him to sit with them.
“I can’t sir,” his eyes eating up Clark the whole time, and how could his dad not notice? “My parents are waiting for me. Maybe I can talk to you later, Clark?”
Clark focused his attention on the stage. “Maybe”
Whitney nodded slightly and walked away, and Clark felt a twist of disappointment he smothered quickly. He watched his hands twisting the pamphlet they’d been handed in his fingers. He caught his dad’s eye, and his dad gave him a warm smile.
“So—you and Whitney are getting friendly? That’s good, he’s a good boy,” his dad said.
“We—we’re friends, we’ve been friends,” he said. “Lana and him…and me…” he trailed off and at that instant the lights went out and he breathed a huge sigh of relief.
A choir marched out onto the low wooden stage, more of a platform than a stage really. They were lit by a couple of spotlights, the lights bounced around a bit as they were being adjusted, throwing the choir’s shadows dancing crazily against the canvas backdrop. They clapped and sang and stomped their feet and the planks of the stage thumped and excitement in the tent rose. Clark wanted to be as caught up as those around him and soon he was swaying and singing with the others, trying to let his spirit rise—he wanted to feel what the crowd was feeling, he wanted to feel that touch.
A man not the evangelist came out and preached and the crowd hummed and amen-ed with him, clapped their hands and stomped their feet but it was plain they were waiting—waiting for the main event.
The stage went black, and a hush blanketed the crowd, feet shuffled softly in the sawdust, a cough here and there broke the quiet. Minutes seemed to crawl by and just before the crowd got restive, a strong voice broke the silence and at that moment a hand dropped on Clark’s arm. He jumped a mile and his heart was pounding and suddenly Whitney dropped down to sit next to him. Next to him in the dark. He swallowed nervously.
The stage lights flared. There in the white light stood a…prophet. His white suit was blinding in the spot light, his wild mane of hair and beard called Moses to mind and he looked every inch one of the old time prophets, without a doubt.
He raised his arms, looked skyward and called out to the heavens--called out to the crowd, and the crowd roared back. He preached, he danced, he shouted and he whispered, he wrung the crowd out and made them cry, made them laugh. He played them like an instrument and every body there was a chord he strummed. The wooden platform transformed into a grand stage, the tent was a fabulously appointed hall, and the shaky white lights lit the way to truth….
Clark snuck a look at Whitney and Whitney looked back and—grinned, rolled his eyes. Clark was stunned. Whit thought it was…funny. Clark chewed on his thumb and tried to be discreet about studying Whitney. He was different, he wasn’t afraid, he did things with Lana…and him, he laughed in church and-- he was different.
Hush fell again and the lights dimmed. The preacher introduced his son.
He was tall, not quite as tall as Clark but tall and thin. He had thick wavy red hair swept back from his forehead and Clark was fascinated. His mom was the only redhead he knew—it amazed him someone else could sport that wonderful, beautiful color.
Alexander J. Luthor, Reverend Lionel Luthor’s son, walked across the stage, still and straight, arms down at his sides and he got straight to it, began to speak in a low, personal tone, as though he were speaking to each person individually, in complete contrast to his father. Clark had to lean forward and concentrate to hear him but he found himself wanting to hear every word.
Quiet he was but the crowd was mesmerized, as was Clark, until Whitney snuck his hand onto his knee. Heat flared y through him as hot and quick as a brushfire and Clark bit his tongue. He shook his head and the hand slid up his thigh and squeezed quickly before dropping off when he shifted. He glared and Whitney just smiled a tiny amused smile and stared straight ahead. Clark sat still as a stone, but his heart hammered in his chest and he was torn between wanting to grab Whitney and kiss him and wanting to kick him so far he’d land in the next county.
Whitney! How can you *think* about that in a place like this? And what happened to Lana? And how did I forget her so quick? He felt sick and cold and hot at the same time. The rest of the service passed in a blur and Clark gladly left for home after.
He spent the rest of the evening reading the bible—reading the verses set out in the pamphlet—and looking at the picture of Alexander on the cover. He looked so self-assured. Clark bet he never had days like his, he never worried he was going to hell—he knew where he was going when God called him home. Clark sighed and tried not to think how handsome he was, how hypnotizing his voice was….
stay tuned!
The tent was crowded and full, brightly lit by strings of light bulbs hung like vines from the poles and cross beams in the tent and every folding chair on the sawdust floor held someone and people lined the sides of the tent and filled the aisle. Folks moved back and forth between the seats, chatting and catching up on news from other towns, squealing and laughing kids ran in and out among the grown-ups, and babies cried and mom’s patted and bounced them—Clark took it all in, average normal everyday things—he wanted to pull it over his head like a blanket, roll up in it and disappear.
Everywhere the ladies looked their best, sporting Sunday hats and dresses and pumps cleaned and buffed to an impressive sheen. It was wonderful to come together like this and praise the Lord, wasn’t it, yes indeed, and didn’t that dress make Mae look fat? And what in the world possessed Nancy to do that to her hair? Praise God, let’s hope Alma didn’t bring another one of her atrocious jello salads. Who’s at the church setting up tables, not Harold and them, oh Lord pray there’s chicken left….
Clark caught all the bits of gossip that floated through the air and felt a little better knowing that his world was still the same, even if he wasn’t.
His dad and mom were laughing together about something—Dad looked handsome in his starched white shirt and new hat. He could tell Mom thought so too. They smiled at each other and Clark felt a little jolt. They loved each other so much—was there any chance he’d have that some day? Or would the Devil keep that from him too...and speak of the devil, clark sighed.
Whitney strutted into the tent, he moved down the aisle and called out to him, “Hey, Clark,” and stood looking down at him, his lips curled in a strange smile. Clark looked up from his spot on the ground next to his folk’s chairs, found himself looking directly into Whitney’s crotch and blushed.
“Whitney!” his dad said, smiling, “How’s everything, son? Ready for the season? You looked darn good last year, I figure you’ll be taking us to the championship this year?”
Whitney ducked his head, “Yes sir, I’m sure gonna try,” he said and looked the very picture of a humble ‘aw-shucks’ kind of guy. Clark watched the performance open mouthed---could his dad be falling for that guff? Whitney should be in drama club instead of football, the—the ham!
His dad nodded, satisfied, and invited him to sit with them.
“I can’t sir,” his eyes eating up Clark the whole time, and how could his dad not notice? “My parents are waiting for me. Maybe I can talk to you later, Clark?”
Clark focused his attention on the stage. “Maybe”
Whitney nodded slightly and walked away, and Clark felt a twist of disappointment he smothered quickly. He watched his hands twisting the pamphlet they’d been handed in his fingers. He caught his dad’s eye, and his dad gave him a warm smile.
“So—you and Whitney are getting friendly? That’s good, he’s a good boy,” his dad said.
“We—we’re friends, we’ve been friends,” he said. “Lana and him…and me…” he trailed off and at that instant the lights went out and he breathed a huge sigh of relief.
A choir marched out onto the low wooden stage, more of a platform than a stage really. They were lit by a couple of spotlights, the lights bounced around a bit as they were being adjusted, throwing the choir’s shadows dancing crazily against the canvas backdrop. They clapped and sang and stomped their feet and the planks of the stage thumped and excitement in the tent rose. Clark wanted to be as caught up as those around him and soon he was swaying and singing with the others, trying to let his spirit rise—he wanted to feel what the crowd was feeling, he wanted to feel that touch.
A man not the evangelist came out and preached and the crowd hummed and amen-ed with him, clapped their hands and stomped their feet but it was plain they were waiting—waiting for the main event.
The stage went black, and a hush blanketed the crowd, feet shuffled softly in the sawdust, a cough here and there broke the quiet. Minutes seemed to crawl by and just before the crowd got restive, a strong voice broke the silence and at that moment a hand dropped on Clark’s arm. He jumped a mile and his heart was pounding and suddenly Whitney dropped down to sit next to him. Next to him in the dark. He swallowed nervously.
The stage lights flared. There in the white light stood a…prophet. His white suit was blinding in the spot light, his wild mane of hair and beard called Moses to mind and he looked every inch one of the old time prophets, without a doubt.
He raised his arms, looked skyward and called out to the heavens--called out to the crowd, and the crowd roared back. He preached, he danced, he shouted and he whispered, he wrung the crowd out and made them cry, made them laugh. He played them like an instrument and every body there was a chord he strummed. The wooden platform transformed into a grand stage, the tent was a fabulously appointed hall, and the shaky white lights lit the way to truth….
Clark snuck a look at Whitney and Whitney looked back and—grinned, rolled his eyes. Clark was stunned. Whit thought it was…funny. Clark chewed on his thumb and tried to be discreet about studying Whitney. He was different, he wasn’t afraid, he did things with Lana…and him, he laughed in church and-- he was different.
Hush fell again and the lights dimmed. The preacher introduced his son.
He was tall, not quite as tall as Clark but tall and thin. He had thick wavy red hair swept back from his forehead and Clark was fascinated. His mom was the only redhead he knew—it amazed him someone else could sport that wonderful, beautiful color.
Alexander J. Luthor, Reverend Lionel Luthor’s son, walked across the stage, still and straight, arms down at his sides and he got straight to it, began to speak in a low, personal tone, as though he were speaking to each person individually, in complete contrast to his father. Clark had to lean forward and concentrate to hear him but he found himself wanting to hear every word.
Quiet he was but the crowd was mesmerized, as was Clark, until Whitney snuck his hand onto his knee. Heat flared y through him as hot and quick as a brushfire and Clark bit his tongue. He shook his head and the hand slid up his thigh and squeezed quickly before dropping off when he shifted. He glared and Whitney just smiled a tiny amused smile and stared straight ahead. Clark sat still as a stone, but his heart hammered in his chest and he was torn between wanting to grab Whitney and kiss him and wanting to kick him so far he’d land in the next county.
Whitney! How can you *think* about that in a place like this? And what happened to Lana? And how did I forget her so quick? He felt sick and cold and hot at the same time. The rest of the service passed in a blur and Clark gladly left for home after.
He spent the rest of the evening reading the bible—reading the verses set out in the pamphlet—and looking at the picture of Alexander on the cover. He looked so self-assured. Clark bet he never had days like his, he never worried he was going to hell—he knew where he was going when God called him home. Clark sighed and tried not to think how handsome he was, how hypnotizing his voice was….
stay tuned!
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I can stand here all night you know.
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