Outside my second-story bedroom window, at which I now sit, confined to my wheelchair, and where I have frequently sat nearly each day since the accident last summer that has left me paralyzed from my waist down; I look over the one hundred yards or so of thick sawgrass and scraggly palmettos that separate our rear property from the small lake which pretends to flood an area of space several acres in length and a third as much across.
Not much of a lake, really; not when you stop and think about it. Hardly a lake at all, more of a pond--at least that's what we'd have called it back home in Massachusetts where I grew up, and where I could still swim and skate, and climb trees and pick horse chestnuts--and where I was still able to feel it when I had to take a piss, and not be tethered to this plastic tube that ever-so-efficiently keeps my bladder drained. And ever so frustratingly devoid of any semblance of feeling.
But things aren't so bad, I guess. There are lots of other people--even kids my own age--who have it much worse than me. At least I still have my mind. I'm able to think and reason. I am still able to read and watch TV...and understand what's happening. And believe me, I do a lot of both, especially the reading part. Over forty books since last August.
But sometimes, like now, I become bored with reading, and just want to sit idly and stare out my window. It's winter now. The palmettos are not nearly so green and full, and the tall blades of twitchgrass have finally succumbed to the recent cold snap, looking more like defeated stalks of late summer wheat begging for mercy on an autumnal Kansas field than the usual sturdy, vigilant sentinels that defiantly guard my view of the lake. And though I have never myself been able to defeat them, I am grateful that Nature Herself has, for once, deigned it fitting and proper to assume the responsibility for one of Her own fuck-ups, and remove--at least in part--the offending agents of Her own creation from my view. I can see beautifully now...every exquisitely contoured feature of the pond, every blue drop of its clear water, and each and every creature who dwells within! But that is as it should be. For Chasco Lake is my lake! I created it, and I have the God-given right to watch over it and re-design it whensoever I wish. I am its creator, its sole benefactor, its only admirer. I am its...
But wait! Who is that who trespasses on my property? I have never seen him before. He is not one of the other teenage boys who, like myself, live in this neighborhood, and whom I long to befriend. He is not from around here. I'd know him if he were. And what is he doing? Why is he looking around so suspiciously, so covertly? He is standing on the far side of the lake, bare-chested and barefooted, wearing only a pair of cut-off levis. He has long, cascading waves of dark brown hair that flow freely about his shoulders, obsidian eyes that pierce through, effortlessly, the rock-solid cobalt surface of my lake, like all-knowing lasers penetrating the flesh, revealing for all to see the malignancies which lie beneath; and a muscular physique which, before last August, would rival my very own. What is he doing here?
It is broad daylight, early afternoon; but yet he walks confidently, without alarm, indifferent to all who might see him. Clearly, he is intent with a specific purpose, for now he is examining the john boat, which is moored to the cypress home-built dock, constructed by the Taylor family only a few short weeks ago. He carries with him a fishing rod equipped with a saltwater reel. Lake Chasco is not seawater. It is refreshed with, and only by, the purity of rainwater. But even if this were not so, there is no fishing allowed in this reservoir of dreams. I should know. I painted and constructed and posted the "NO FISHING" sign myself, only weeks ago. He steps into the boat and cuts it free from the cypress dock with a long blade which he secretly conceals next to his slender waist. The boat begins to drift slowly away from the dock, the whisper soft winter breeze helping it to smoothly glide across my lake's unblemished, virgin surface.
After executing several carefully proportioned paddles with an oar, the boy alights in the exact epicenter of my lake. He back-paddles several times and brings the boat to a precision stop. He then looks toward my window, but I know he cannot see me. Unconvinced by the unexpected intrusion of his own reality, he smiles at me tauntingly, displaying in all its fullness an intoxicating male pulchritude of unparalleled rival. With rod poised in hand he casts his heavy line to the shore beneath my window. The lure catches steadfastly to a clump of dried twitchgrass, and affixes itself sturdily to its tenacious roots. He then turns in the opposite direction and repeats his prowess. Again the hook makes its mark, landing firmly within the protective custody of the guardian plants. Twice more he repeats this action, each time with unerring success. In a matter of moments this beautiful youth has managed to anchor both himself and the boat in the middle of my private world. Like a giant beguiling spider sitting in the middle of its web waiting for an unwary insect to recklessly happen by, the boy threatens and torments my mind. He is invulnerable. So firmly entrenched in his position is he that neither storm nor calm, flood nor draught; or for that matter, any force existent within the known universe can erase him from my thoughts. He stands now, facing directly towards me. Slowly and methodically with carefully choreographed dexterity, he removes his scanty jeans. He wears nothing beneath. His finely articulated, sculptured body faces me full front. The bronzeness of his lean body, interrupted only briefly by the barely perceptible paleness of his loins, glistens unobtainably beyond my range of motion. I pick up the binoculars that sit on my nightstand. I know I do not need them; I can see the boy perfectly. Painfully clear. But yet I put the lens to my eyes and stare.
Through my imaginary telescope I survey every inch of this newly formed island's geography. Within seconds, as if time no longer held any meaning, I have indelibly committed to memory each and every soft, tawny hair follicle which grows upon his landscape; every aroma of every gland that secretes its testosterone-laden essence upon his psychically furnished being. He is mine to adore in the brightness of the sun or the umber of the moonlight. He will not disappear and vaporize like smoke as does the rest of man-made reality. He is here forever. Whether I will it or not. For he is a creation, for better or worse, of my own mind.
The phone rings. It is my mother. She asks me how I am feeling, if I want or need anything. I tell her no, there's nothing she can do but go away. She does not understand. She tries to question me, but I resist. I hang up the phone and once again look through my binoculars. The young man, whom I have already named 'Totolochee', which means chicken in the Seminole language, fondles his genitals, causing his perfectly wrought penis to rise to full attention. But his efforts for self-gratification, like mine, are fruitless. No matter with how much diligence and speed he tries, he cannot bring himself to the comfort of release. Like me, he is limited by the affects of another, stronger will than his own. But yet he still cannot share my abysmal frustration! He does not feel the anonymity of indifference, he does not experience the scorn of rejection; for he has at least one faithful admirer. Me.
He is young and healthy...
...I am no longer free to be so--once again I have been robbed of happiness; but this time not because of Nature, but because of the unnatural limitations of my own partially paralyzed body and the hypercreativity of my over-active, frustrated, adolescent mind. Again the nemesis twitchgrass thwarts my peace, frustrates me, burdens me.
But this time by its sparseness, not its abundance--as usual. I can see all too clearly now the happiness and contentment that I am destined never to realize.
But I thank God I still have an imagination...and in that, I still have hope.