Jack Tripper, Charlie Brown, the Paper Rose and me, pt. 3

by Eric Franklin Crow

(Warning: This one's much more graphic, not in terms of profanity or explicit material, per se, but is rather me pulling back the curtain on one of the most harrowing periods of time in my life.)

Job Corps was my first experience away from home. I had the choice to stay at home after high school and get a job, but I wanted to try and get some kind of post-secondary education under my belt. I'd heard of Job Corps Centers of America (the organization the President has proposed deep cuts and center closures to recently) through my high school counselor and upon checking it out, it sounded promising. It was a live-in trade school where I could get my GED and learn a trade (they had at least two dozen to choose from) and get clothing and interview prep. I chose the office skills path, because it gave me a chance to strengthen the skills I'd already learned from business and office classes in high school. It was dormitory style, of course, with about an 80/20 gender breakdown, and about 10 different dorms, and you could work your way up to a better dorm if you played by the rules. Room and board were covered, and each student got an allowance every other week and increased over time. I went to the Center at Imperial Beach, and it had all basic amenities, with many students bringing their own electronics (radios, teevees video games, etc).

While I was at Job Corps, I roomed with two young men that became secret crushes. First was Ezra, another big Prince fan like me, who became good friends with me, even rooming with me for a time in the dorm I started out in, and then the best dorm on campus. I ended up being placed there ahead of schedule because of incidents involving other boys in the dorms. Showers were communal, which gave me a chance to see more of what I liked, but this was purely for admiration, not to see if I measured up. To explain, I'd been reading in certain library books about average size for men, and I heard boys talk about themselves in this regard enough that it made wonder. By time I turned 14, my curiosity got the better of me, and I took a tape measure into the bathroom one day--to my relief, I had nothing to worry about. Also, between ages 13-16, I shot up from 5'2 to 5'9, got a hairy chest and and started shaving my face. I think that afternoon in the bathroom saved my life.

Anyway, conditions in the dorm room were alright and I could settle down and feel free; that is, until a few completely unabashed moments caught everyone's attention. I was quite the talk of the dorm for my bad blooper reel reality show impression of Janet Jackson, dancing to "Pleasure Principle." There's also nothing quite like having a whole auditorium laugh at you while singing along to the most unexpected and ethereal song any of them had ever heard. That was me to the Julian Lennon song, "Space," just standing there, swaying, singing and looking off into space. I was later told got high marks for originality--the exact words were "trust me, nobody else would have thought to do what you did." I decided to take it as a compliment (I wasn't about to let people tell me I wasn't good.) 

Suffice to say, these things started got me a lot of unwanted attention, which culminated with an incident one Sunday evening. We were all in the community living room watching teevee, and from out of nowhere someone came up from behind and hit me in the face with a big handful of shaving cream. That was the last straw, not just for me but for the dorm monitor, who immediately pulled everybody out for a dressing down. I was told you had to be at Job Corps for at least six months before getting the best dorm; I went there in two, though I'd have rather it been because I earned it, and not because the staff feared for my safety. It is what it is, and I got moved there. Nobody much cared how I got there, they welcomed me in and made me one of the boys. 

Back to Ezra. Here was this 6'4, 240 lb hunk of brawn, curly black hair (remember, my favorite) and deep brown eyes. We got along well, but I never get a chance to tell him I liked him that way. He was very heterosexual, and he liked to talk about the women he had been with in graphic details. He also told me that he had a friend who tried to make a pass at him; he said he almost put this friend in the hospital. It had to end at "friendship." 

Three months later, Ezra left Job Corps and in his place came Mike, another muscle boy with blonde hair and blue eyes, who stayed in the room the rest of the time I was there. Mike would have been my first bad boy if he went that way (and I think he was the prototype for what drew me to my first partner, more on that later), and though he was known to butch it up, puff out his peacock feathers and all that, he would also throw out some curve balls that would make me wonder. Like how he saw me snoring one night with my mouth wide open and he was about to come put his dick in my mouth to shut me up. If it was past 9 pm in the room, all he wore was tighty whites and if I had to take care of business before sleep, a picture of him in my mind was usually all it took. 

He was also like the big brother I never had, and tried to talk to me about how to handle some of the boys I was having trouble with on campus. He was fond of telling me how shut them up by calling them out for being fake lovers with him in front of all the guys friends. I didn't take his word for it, though, because I wouldn't have had the guts or the upper body strength to fend them off in a fight. I'd lost about 40 pounds, but I wasn't doing any strength training to make up for it, so the end result was a healthy but scrawny me. Besides, one of the hard, fast rules for Job Corps was that physical altercation of any kind was grounds for immediate expulsion. After I came back from holiday to pick up my post-graduation stipend and pack my bags, I decided to put any rumors in his mind to rest. I had a picture that a girl in high school had given me, and I pretended that we were getting married. Mike slapped my back and shook my hand, congragulating me, saying “I was beginning to wonder about you,” I don't know if they noticed that I didn't have an engagement ring on, but the deception worked. 

Imperial Beach Job Corps was basically an extension of high school for a lot of the residents, both in terms of continuing education and high school mentality (clicques and such), but I found pockets of place to fit in. I developed a friendship with, Maurice, the other biggest Prince fan on campus. I'd heard who he was into and that he was one of the coolest people to get to know in the dorm, and so I walked right up to him one day with designs to become his friend. He laughed a "go away, little boy" laugh at me, before I proceeded to make the claim that I knew every single one of Prince's albums. When I got as far back as Prince (the second, self-titled album), he was impressed. We became fast friends, and we spent many an afternoon after classes playing Gin Rummy and listening to Prince. 

I consider Maurice to be my first gay friend, only neither of us talked about it in those terms. I don't think we talked about it at all. We were just friends. I don't know how he would have taken it if I'd brought it up, but the way he talked and acted would have had anybody's gaydar on point. (Yes, it takes one to know one and I think gaydar is a thing--most of the time). Sadly, post-Job Corps, I didn't get to continue my friendship with him. I saw him out one Friday night at the Brass Rail years later, and we chatted only briefly. I made the mistake of saying, “I had a feeling I would run into you here,” which rubbed him the wrong way. “What'choo mean, run into me?” He asked, and I had to qualify that in a hurry. In typical fashion, he said, "Well it's alright, I'll see you later, I got things to do." I never saw him again.

After I left Job Corps, I had a falling out with my parent and decided to leave home again. I had no other place to go except where my sister was staying—with my cousins Susan and David in Northern California, Oakley to be precise. Oakley is about as far away from San Francisco as you could get and still say claim residence in the Bay Area. My Aunt Sharon and Uncle Rick moved up to Northern California in 1983. My family almost followed suit the following year, but Dad's drinking, coupled with the intrusive way the family wanted him to live his life caused a rift between him and his sister, Donna. It was a shame, too, because I was really starting to like it there in the three short weeks we were there. Before I knew it, we were back in San Diego, and I picked up where I left off at Hoover High. I didn't see my Sister again until I flew up to SFO. 

They came to get me from SFO the night I arrived, and after that, the closest I ever got to San Francisco was Concord (by sheer coincidence, I would live there 2 decades later, only with a much different family). Later that night in the dining room, she laid my deception bare. "I don't know who you think you were trying to fool with this 'coming to visit' nonsense, but I know what's up with you. Yes, you can stay, but you'd better pull your weight around here." After she laid out the rules, she said something to the effect of, "God knows what would have happened if you'd have had to come out here by yourself. You would have been easy pickings with those degenerates in San Francisco. (Ahhh, those lovely degenerates.) See, SFO is about 30 minutes away from San Francisco, but in her mind, the airport was right around the corner from the infamous (still to this day) Tenderloin.

I settled in to life with Susan and David and the family, and was allowed to sleep in the camper in their back yard. My main job between jobs was there was to help with the sloped yard they were trying to get ready for growing grass and plants. As I mentioned in pt. 2, I had a crush on her nephew, Tony, and during those visits to Livermore, I wrote about my feelings in a diary. In graphic detail. One night, Susan called me in from the trailer, and to my shock, she had my diaries in her hands. I was scared to death. She called me out, but it was more for who the stories were about, not what they were about. After she was finished, she asked bluntly, “Are you gay?” I was still too stunned and scared and feigned confusion for my own sake. "S-s-usan, I d-d-don't kn-n-ow." She extended an olive branch to me...of sorts..."don't worry. Your secret is safe with me. But if you ever lay a hand on Tony, I'll come after you myself, and you won't like it." I'd felt the back of her hand on my face for something that happened between her son, Liam, and me, so I knew she meant business. Don't think this was the end of it, though, because about three weeks later, she took it upon herself to try and convert me. Herself. Sexually. Well into an act that was taking place, we were broken up by the sound of David waking up and wondering about the noise in the living room. If he'd seen what was going on, he would've killed me.

I was kicked out the house two weeks later, for reasons not related to the incident in question, and was rescued by Uncle Rick and Aunt Sharon. I found out through a conversation I had with Aunt Sharon my first night there that Debbie betrayed my trust by spilling the beans about the diaries. I was mad about that, but I couldn't express my feelings to the grandmother of the boy who was my crush. She wasn't mad, but she took it upon herself to give me a good talking to about why liking other boys was not normal, using her own revulsion at being with another woman as a template. “I wouldn't wanna make love to another woman with a p*ssy,” was the statement that stuck with me most. See, the most striking thing about homophobia is its complete lack of sophistication, tact and even basic understanding. When verbalized, it sounds crude, rude and scary. Uncle Rick made her seem like a saint by comparison, and she would often have to tell him to knock it off when he would start in on me about finding a woman. After I left, I saw them once more, at cousin Jessica's wedding, and after that the only contact I had with Rick or Sharon for the next decade was during a call to them a couple years later. Fred put down the phone and called out to Donna, “Fairy Eric is on the phone.”

At any rate, I lived with them for a month before Fred shipped me off to the California Conservation Corps. He told me he thought that this was my best or possibly last chance of staying out of jail. He was probably right, given the circumstances of how I even came to live with them (my sexual orientation was not what got me kicked out). I applied, was interviewed and accepted and on a bus from Stockton to San Fernando in about a week's time. I called the number I was given, and in about 30 minutes, I was  collected by a Red Hat from the CCC and taken to Oat Mountain in nearby Chatsworth, where I would be stationed for the summer. I arrived at midnight, so I was given a room in an empty bunk and would be processed into the center. My bunk mates were coming from San Juan Capistrano Center and would be there after their basic training in a day or two. 

To go “down the mountain” at Oat Mountain meant a five-mile walk or bus trip on weekends. We were surrounded by gorgeous mountain woodlands, and it did wonders for our appetite. Our main work was clearing brush down to BMS (bare minimum soil), highway litter removal, horticulture and brush removal. My crew and I traveled all throughout the San Fernando Valley and parts east, as far as Lancaster. Some were trained to assist firefighters during brush fire season and we were also tasked with flyer distribution warning that the area would be sprayed with pestides to kill off the Mediterranean fruit gly. We did morning drills and had regular strength and team buidling exercises. It was common for us to all go on five-mile runs through the vast and rough terrain, and if you smoked (as many of us did), that was an extra hell on top of the the higher altitude (elevation 3,750 ft.) It was minimum wage with free room and board, and it was as close to military-style living as I would be able to get (I was turned down for military service because of my nerve tremors).

Living arrangements were about as sparse as at Job Corps—the same dorm style arrangement, but with bunk beds and lockers. Of the 75 or so people stationed at Oat Mountain, it was almost a total sausage party. I don't even think there were five women on premises. Most of the guys stationed there were very, very straight. There were two women I took an interest in. There was Sheila, a chill black woman who was into Pink Floyd and Super Mario Bros., and all the guys wanted to be around her; she was the dime piece at camp. There was also a Mexican woman, Rosa, that I would have started dating if I'd stayed long enough. As I wrote in a letter home to Mom & Dad, "She’s Mexican, but she speaks her mind. (Whatever that meant in my mind at the time.) "She may not be much for looks but her personality more than makes up for it. We talk alot.” Either one would have been light years above the kind of hen-pecker Sharon or Susan wanted to set me up with. 

There were also the boys I was drawn to at Oat Mountain; two, in particular. One revealed himself to me on a moonlit night, not for any attraction he felt towards me (though I had was quite fuckstruck for), but because he let on to me of his "secret" philosophy of "white power." But that's for another story, which I'll also be writing about later in the year.) I think the only reason I paid him any mind at all is because of my attraction to him. Chemistry makes people say, think and do really DUMB things. I think maybe he knew I liked him and used that to gain my confidence, though not through outward or obvious means. 

The other, Dennis, was someone I was getting to know and like, who didn't brag about the usual young, dumb things other boys his age did. Instead, he bragged about being able to make dynamite out of fertilizer and other things that today we would call survivalism. We'd gotten to know each other well in a short period of time, but everything changed the day I walked into his dorm room. There he was, naked, wirey and hung about halfway down his thigh. I felt my face grow red and apologized for bursting in on him. He wasn't worried about it. “You're not a fag, are you?” I denied it out of convenience, but the sight of him there in all his glory stayed with me for years after I left. And I have to say there were a couple times when we did overnights guarding the perimeter in an abandoned missile silo, where fetch could have happened if the circumstances were right (read: if I could have worked up the nerve). The point to this part of the story is that, being on my own for the first time in my life, I found myself exploring both sides of the coin. Eventually, things took a hard turn into the territory and comfort of men.

There came a weekend night about a month later, where I was confronted by Freddy, who I can best describe as my first experience of knowing a militant black man, who thought I was taking advantage of one of the "slower" boys on the mountain. He called me out in front of everybody in the courtyard, and in an aggressive voice and stance, demanded to know, “are you a f*****?” in such a way that, once again, the only way for me to save myself was vehement denial. I did have designs on the "slower" boy, both because I thought he was cute and possibly easier to get because of his perceived "slower-ness" (today we would say he was on the spectrum) but to act on it was unthinkable. I reiterate--on that night, it would have meant my ass to say, "yes, I'm gay," but I still hadn't connected what I liked in other men with the words "homosexual" or "gay." When there are people around you chastising you for stupid things like carrying shopping bags in a feminine way (palms outward), there's no way to reason with them. They all went inside and ridiculed me loud enough for me to hear as I sat outside. If I'd had a sleeping bag, I would have slept outside that night. Instead, I waited until the lights went out and heard audible snoring, and snuck into the room and in my bed. 

About a month later, I was suspended for insubordination a second time, and whenever you get suspended, that means taking your half your things with you and leave the site. This time I had to leave to two weeks. I weighed everything out and decided it just wasn't worth it to stay on Oat Mountain any more, but I didn't tell anyone. I just took half my things with me and most of what was left of my month's pay, and after a phone call to Mom, I headed to San Diego, to live with them again. I enrolled at a Business college and found temp work when I could get it, also taking a second paper route to bring extra money. My main outlet for sex with other men was adult bookstores and it would be for about the next year. You had to be at least 18 to go into the bookstores, and you could purchase tokens to play in the video booths in the backroom section of the store. Everybody who went there knew what the backroom was for. I learned a lot about myself when in the company of of these men. 

It was during those times that I had my first moment of self-loathing. A man came to my booth and spent some time there, but after he...finished, I felt a strong sense of revulsion, so much so that I decided I was done with this kind of behavior (about two months before my first trip to Vulcan). I went home, put on a Sam Kinison tape and did the whole “fuck yeah, f*** are disgusting” bit. That lasted about a night. When I woke up, images of the man who came to my booth were almost the first thing on my mind. So much for that sense of shame and disgust. A few short days later, I was back in the booths like it had never happened. I was accustomed to taking care of business right there in those cubicles, but once in a while, I would go back with them to their place. I started to appreciate that--it was cleaner, quieter and for safer. For the most part.

Trigger warning--sexual assault. About a month later, I went back with (I would now call) a hot Leather Daddy to his place. Things were getting good and hot and he went to his bathroom to get something. He emerged with a bottle of poppers in one hand and lube in the other. He wanted to top me, and I didn't think twice of it, until the moment of truth came. But I knew something was wrong when he went in at the wrong angle, which caused me to clamp up in pain. But he wouldn't stop when I said “stop.” He wanted me to relax and pressed his full weight down against me. He wasn't that much bigger than me, but I was stunned into inaction, fight or flight in full swing. I thought best to just be still and get it over with. He was done in about five minutes, but the mark had been made. When he finished, he wanted to know what I wanted to do (completely oblivious to his actions). I just said, "Take me home." I was ruined on that particular sexual activity for about a decade. I justified this for years after the fact by saying that it wasn't rape because it wasn't violent (i.e., me squirming and kicking to try and get out from under him. I know better now. 

It gets better from this point...least for the next six months. Part Four coming Friday.