I pulled down Donny Osmond’s pants when I was five years old in the presence of John Glen (my neighbor, not the astronaut) to see if there was a penis. Wiry-headed Marie lay discarded in the driveway, her ugly “I’m a little bit country” skirt yanked up around hard, pointy breasts, her polished pelvis thrust up, her legs snapped back like boomerangs. Donny’s molded scrotal lump was smooth like a worry bead beneath my thumb. His flat, brown eyes stared out over painted, smiling teeth, and his tiny, purple socks scratched my wrist. Suddenly, screen door! Rickety frame clattered smack. Mom, cross on the walk, lips creased tight into hospital corners, “If you can’t play right with your toys, I’m gonna put ‘em up!” John Glen scorched a comet’s tail through the long grass home. I curled up- like Marie’s microphone in the fireplace- on the sidewalk and cried. -Mark J. Royse January 17, 1998
