Boys Like Me

By R.L. Clements

Boys Like Me is a powerful story that will take you on a journey through the eyes of a precocious twelve-year-old boy named Roy. Despite struggling with dyslexia, Roy has a passion for reading and a keen awareness of the bigotry and injustices that plague his small town in south-central Texas. He holds strong ethics and an unwavering commitment to the truth. Roy falls for Kid, the "best looker" he's ever seen. When Kid becomes distant due to problems at home, Roy begins to have strange visions that shake his understanding of reality.
One day, after being dumped by Kid for no apparent reason, Roy is brutally attacked by an older boy who tries to steal his handmade bike. As he lies face down on the gravel by the railroad tracks, a mysterious Dark Angel intervenes, switching the teenager. This encounter leads Roy to meet Mrs. Plowman, the first black woman he's ever met who isn't a maid. Through their serendipitous relationship, Roy discovers a new depth of wisdom and truth that changes him forever.
Boys Like Me is a poignant and thought-provoking story that explores themes of identity, acceptance, and the power of human connection. It is a testament to the resilience of the human spirit and a reminder that reality is not always as it seems. Join Roy on his journey of self-discovery and unlock the secrets of his world.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Mar 22, 2024
• ISBN: 9798989875825

R.L. Clements

RL Clements is an avid reader who is passionate about exploring new ideas. Despite struggling with dyslexia, he received an education by attending various schools and colleges. However, he believes that most of his knowledge has come from haunting local libraries, and his library card is the most important one in his wallet. Although he tends to be a bit of a recluse, he enjoys engaging in intelligent conversations over a glass of good wine and sharing home-cooked meals with sensible individuals. RL enjoys all genres of literature and music. He spends most of his free time with his partner and their cat, who only responds to the name of an extraordinary author, poet, and educator they once met.

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Boys Like Me

RL Clements

Copyright © 2024 by RL Clements

All rights reserved.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law.

The story, all names, characters, and incidents portrayed in this production are fictitious. No identification with actual persons (living or deceased), places, buildings, and products is intended or should be inferred.

ISBN – Ebook: 979-89898758-2-5

Book Cover by BN Gonzalez & RL Clements

Illustrations by BN Gonzalez & RL Clements

First Edition: February 2024 1-3385530601

I dedicate this book to B,

You stood behind me

Wanting me to stop talking about it.

Someone who is not a ten but an 11.

My best friend and my life.

Without your encouragement and Love,

I could not have done this without you

holding my hand every step of the way.

Thank you!

RL

Contents

1.Bike of Many Colors

2.As Far as Your Eye Can See

3.Treasure

4.Oregon Kid

5.Godzilla and Rio

6.The Trip

7.Eclipse

8.Birthdays

9.Big Fish in Blue Jeans

10.Halloween … and How!

11.War and the Hole

12.Thanksgiving Mess

13.Big O

14.Christmas Lies …

15.… And Truth

16.Spacemen

17.Dark Angel

18.A Learning Tree

19.Night Meetings

20.Something Wicked

21.Fight

22.Por Favor

23.Snow

24.Secret Door

25.If Looks Could Kill

26.No Answer

27.Heigh-Ho

28.Journey

29.Poor Farm

30.Not Just Another Halloween

31.Day the Earth Stood Still

Bike of Many Colors

Ialways feel alone. And not just by myself. I feel that way around everybody, even my family—it’s hard to explain what it’s like. Do you ever feel like that, Lilly? Like, on your own, I mean. I do all the time. Some people see things in others and take advantage of them. That’s just too close for my comfort. It’s a fact in my life—I’m not suggesting that’s about me.

Strange things are happening, Lilly. This mess is just not right—there’s plenty of uncivilized behavior. The chaos is big; it’s colossal, I tell you. This ain’t easy for me, you know. Perhaps I’m talking about every living soul on this old Earth. I have to spill my guts, Lilly—really shouldn’t, but gotta tell somebody. Heck, I took an oath to tell the absolute truth—well, okay, maybe it’s a little about me.

We moved to Augsburg in ’61 on my eleventh birthday. That was last year—all the headlines were full of hostilities. I don’t want to pay attention to those things on TV. But, as usual, I notice plenty of stuff. I feel like a patient cat sometimes, analyzing prey–I see, —hear plenty. My stubborn curiosity disturbs me. I didn’t want to watch that junk on television then. I did, though, begin watching it just before I turned twelve. It was a year the world changed forever.

I know I talk a lot—I’m having trouble telling you this—am I making any sense of it? You know, reading for me sometimes … it just don’t sound right. I write stuff no one can read—not even me! I’m rambling, aren’t I? Never mind. I’m not getting my thoughts all tangled up into that web. Forgive me, Lilly.

Crazy things are going on all over the place. TVs, radios inform us of burning buses, rioting, hundreds of arrests—men in white hoods burning crosses. There’s something strange going on in Cuba. It’s causing turmoil everywhere in the world. Many people around the country are digging up their backyards. They’re building fallout shelters in fear of WWIII.

Last year, Russia started building this big stupid wall in Berlin on August thirteenth, splitting the city right down the middle. A week later, we moved from our small neighborhood near Dallas to Augsburg, Texas, where nothing ever happens.

People are angry. Trouble’s brewing. I care for none of it. It’s hard to stomach—don’t want to see the ugliness. I got plenty of time to play alone—that’s fine by me. Leave me alone. I just want to be a kid. Let me grow up slowly, because terrible, scary stuff is happening.

You may not like a lot of what I’m gonna tell you—it’s the truth.

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Saturday, June 2, 1962

I cannibalize my brothers’ old bicycles, working with their leftovers every day for nearly a whole week. No one’s here to help me make all those parts into a bicycle; nor does anyone assist me in packing the bearings with grease. There’s not one person to lend a hand putting on the tubes, tires—wheels. No one helps me tighten the loose spokes—true the wheels—something I learned by watching my brothers do it.

After getting the thing together, I consider painting it at first. Nine years ago, I was almost four when my cousins and I painted my old hand-me-down pedal car. Father beat the tar out of us. Takes only a little thinking. And the answer is no: I couldn’t care less if the colors match—has some small scratches. Purple and white strips on the front fender, a blue frame with cream rings, a red rear fender … all factory painted. A bicycle of my own … now there’re no limits to where I can go. It’s odd-looking—ugly—who cares? It’s mine. That’s good enough for me.

My bike isn’t a hand-me-down like most of my clothes. Well, guess it is technically a hand-me-down; it’s a kooky-looking thing. Kind of reminds me of that Bible tale. You know the one. That story about Joseph’s cloak of many colors—don’t think anyone will be jealous of this thing.

The town’s at my handlebars. I’m overjoyed—go where I please. It’s no longer only the short distance to the square and the Rio Theater for me—there are places to go I’ve never been to. It’s not like the tiny neighborhood we came from, where it’s just housing, nothing else.

The boundaries of this small, trivial Texas town aren’t more than three to five square miles, including every building in it. That’s the whole shebang. That’s everything in the entire town, except for Sargent Gillmor’s Military Surplus Armory about a mile or so west of town—a place plenty popular with us kids.

I spend most days playing at the old train station. I like going to stores on the square—sneaking into the hotel—trying to get a ride on the elevator. Mr. James, the elevator operator, he’s old—he’s nice. He lets me ride now and again to the top floor, long as no one else is around. There’s nothing for me to do before a movie—or after a matinee.

I sort of haunt the square, making myself at home—maybe just a nuisance.

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Friday, June 8, 1962

I’m coming back from the library on my bike of many colors, and a big hole blows in the tube. It’s flat—can’t repair it. I’ve already used all the patches in my Monkey Grip box; it ain’t gonna take another. Knew it was old—bad, just kept adding air.

I need to find out how much dough a new one will cost. Don’t have a lot of money—I need that tube. I cut grass—two of my regulars didn’t have the bucks they owe today. Have to wait for my pay—next week I’ll get double.

Early Saturday morning, after yard work, just before noon, I walk the entire eight blocks downtown. I fool around a lot.

I always make sure I have enough moola—keep thirty-five cents handy for a movie, candy. I decide to watch the double feature at the Rio since the theater is so close to Mueller’s Hardware. Movies are just as important as the bike tube. The Poe film starts at one thirty, so there’s still plenty of time for me to check out the price of a tube at Mueller’s.

Augsburg’s like most any small town. It has a central square—a gigantic courthouse in the center. Most of the town’s stores are on the square. They’re all the usual shops, like Stevenson’s Drugs, George’s Barbershop—A&P is the largest store. The next corner is Crawford’s Furniture, Ben Franklin’s Five & Dime—a big corner parking lot. The block after that is Mueller’s Hardware. Mrs. Bailey’s Restaurant and Boarding House is in the center of that block. Stieglitz Brothers’ Clothing is across from Brick’s Hotel.

Misters Hiram and Abraham Stieglitz are a couple of real characters. These guys are an odd pair of old gentlemen indeed. I always enjoy talking to them. They speak a comical language called Yiddish—well, that’s what they call it at least. Sounds funny; so are they—they’re very nice to me.

I learn a lot from my parents; I’ve also gotten plenty from Abe and Hiram. They taught me how to treat others kindly. They’re nice guys—some people don’t seem to care for them—I don’t know why. They’re a couple of real screwballs managing the men’s clothing store since 1919—they’re haberdashers. It took a while telling them I couldn’t spell it—Hiram said not to worry. I asked Abe to write it down—said I wanted to look it up in a dictionary. Hiram gave me one of their business cards instead.

Brick’s Hotel, where Mr. James works, is next, the tallest building in town. It takes up one-half of the block—four stories tall—only building with an elevator. The ground-floor rooms are about all they use anymore—don’t hardly need the top three. People don’t stay in Augsburg; they don’t visit here, not like they once did. The small café inside Brick’s is open, only for breakfast, lunch. Lewis’s Music is teeny-weeny, sandwiched between Brick’s and the second-tallest structure, Rio Theater.

The Rio’s my favorite place in the whole wide world. I spend as much time there as I can muster. The magnificent Rio Theater! I watch movies—all the shows, almost any picture that’s playing. There’s just not much to do around here—go to school, play at the train station, walk around the square.

I’m strolling along, keeping a leisurely pace, just killing time before the matinee. I stop off at the soda fountain, stepping into Stevenson’s Drug Store for a glass of water. I won’t buy soda pop here. Sodas are fifteen cents—way too much. That’s true since they’re a nickel—seven cents with a deposit out of a machine—at a grocery store. I’m going to sit for a few minutes, look at the people moving around the square,—drink another glass of water.

Crossing the street to Mueller’s on the opposite side of the square to check on the tire tube, I panic. Drank more than I should have. It’s a sudden detour to the courthouse—the only available restrooms.

I never liked that creepy building, guessing it’s a strange 1920s oddball—never go near the place. Try avoiding it, never stepped foot inside those doors for any reason. I haven’t any notion why—that strange-looking place always gives me the willies. I don’t have a choice. It’s the only place in town that will let the public use restrooms. It’s like Huck said, All right, then, I’ll go to hell. I have to take a leak, bad.

I run up the white limestone steps, studying the oversized solid-oak doors, taking a deep breath. I open one of the heavy doors, entering complete silence—utter darkness. I’m waiting for my eyes to adjust to the dimness, hearing the beat of hard-soled shoes crossing the vast tiled surface. The steps echo with a tap-tap-tap like a graceless hoofer on an empty dance floor. I spot a cop going up the stairs on the other side.

I begin realizing the inside is just as disturbing as the outside. There are extra-wide stairways on both sides of this cavernous lobby, bigger than any church I’ve ever been in. There’s not a person in sight—aside from the officer.

I look around for a toilet, seeing none, not even a sign to point the way. I commence thinking I’m Fred Astaire, Gene Kelly—start slow-waltzing to unheard music. I go into a full dance across this immense room, waving my arms, pretending to be a great dancer. Tunes pop into my head sometimes—I make them up all the time. This one will keep me from peeing myself.

A tall, thin man emerges near the opposite side doors, shouting vulgarities. He hits another man coming inside; they set off scuffling. The policeman going up is now running downstairs. Four or five other officers come rushing from all corners of the building, all at once. I had no idea this little burg had so many cops.

The officers struggle with the two men, little by little pulling them apart. They wrestle with the dingy-looking man who started it all, handcuffing him. That man’s yelling—shaking—jerking at the cuffs as one cop holds him.

Git these dang thin’s offen me!

Several officers rush the other man into a room near the doors at the building’s entrance, while one policeman moves to help with the scruffy man. The two officers begin patting him down.

Hey, look, one policeman says to the other. Look, Howard, I found a knife.

Lemme go! the man shouts.

They begin pulling him across the chamber floor toward me.

Lemme go, ya damn screws!

Pretty nice knife too. Think I’ll—Actually, I’m keeping it, Howard.

I’m watching them, reducing my pace, going into slow motion,—carrying on with my dancing.

Why not? says that officer—Howard. Sure thing, Stanley. He won’t need it.

Goddamn fuckin’ coppers! Lemme go!

The pair drags the struggling man across the floor of the monstrous room in my direction, his shrieks echoing throughout the chamber.

I says, git these goddamn thin’s offen me!

I begin inching along with my obscure ballet, ogling the scene. The scruffy man holds his hands high as possible, rattling the chains of the handcuffs. He’s cursing something fierce while the cops tow him across the floor, moving closer and closer to me.

Git ’em off, damn it! What ’bout that sum-bitch I’s fightin’? He done fuckin’ had it coming!

He eyes me, giving a hard stare—a ghoulish smile springs across his face. This man is scaring me. He’s gnashing missing yellow teeth, rattling the chains. I freeze in my tracks, coming to a complete stop, motionless—just gawking.

What the hell ya lookin’ at, boy?

The building becomes thunderous straightaway, closed doors fly open—people flood the antechamber. They stand motionless for a moment along the stairs, ogling this skirmish in the large arena below them. Crowds begin a slow get-together in clumps, pushing each other on the main floor, all of them trying to catch a better view of this hostile display before the police can haul him away.

I’m just standing here like a knothole—feel so stupid. The man licks his lips, grabs his crotch,—looks directly at me—they drag him by.

Ya sees sumpin’ ya like? Hum—do ya? Fuckin’ queer.

The police officer, Howard, points a nightstick at the man, giving him a rough poking. Hey! Leave the kid alone. Move along, kid.

Damn it, coppers—lemme go! Goddamn fuckin’ screws! He done—

One cop jerks the man by an arm—the other grappling with the man’s dirty coat. They’re pulling him away; he keeps struggling—hollering. The crowd watches open-mouthed as if they had never heard those words before, while the man kicks, screams, shouting obscenities.

He had it comin’! Tha fuckin’ asshole had it—

One officer gives a hard jerk; the other pushes a bat into his gut—raising the nightstick into the air.

—comin’!

"Hey, hey, Gabby!

Damn it, git ’em off!

Don’t make me use this on you, man, ’cause I will if I have to!

C’mon, boys, lemme go. Lemme go! He’s ta blame—not me!

My eyes shoot to a sign in the shape of a finger-pointing hand. I start speeding toward it. The finger points downstairs to the basement below. I look back, catching glances at the unpleasant exhibition. I’m in a bigger hurry now—don’t want to piss myself.

I fly down the extra-wide staircase into a very large hallway with offices on one side, their doors all closed. A large sign hangs from the ceiling in the middle of the hall—Platt Rooms A, B, C. A finger pointing in the opposite direction at the bottom of the sign—the one word I need … Restrooms.

I tear through the first door to the nearest stall. Soon enough, I’m washing my hands, noticing two men staring oddly at me as if I don’t belong. It doesn’t make me afraid; I kind of feel peculiar. I hurry up, dry my hands—leave.

Step outside, looking back a couple of times. I then come to an absolute halt in the middle of the hall, ogling the signs on the front of each door. The far end placard reads WHITE WOMEN ONLY, the middle WHITE MEN ONLY—the one I just stepped from simply says COLOREDS.

I’m confused, taking two steps backward, not altogether making a connection of where I am—what this means. Two Negro men come out, heading for the stairs, now ignoring me altogether after staring at me in the restroom. I’m standing mid-hall, giving a slight turn, watching them go up the stairs. They reach the top steps—one of them glances over his shoulder at me—disappears from view.

I move around, discovering a water fountain in a small recess right below the stair. I look at the other one on the opposite end of the hall. That one is cool, refrigerated water—the one below the stairs is not. The fountain in the nook beside the stairs has a sign that states COLOREDS; the other fountain in the open is marked WHITES ONLY.

My brain erupts in pictures at supersonic speed—way too fast to pay attention. Crazy stuff like Khrushchev’s shoe hammering—buses in flames. I see riots in the South, blazing crosses, the Berlin Wall—all those atomic bombs. I’ve seen a lot of disgusting behavior on TV, much more in newsreels, some movies—never in the flesh.

A putrid feeling grows in the pit of my stomach, churning—gyrating in a rotten heap of bile, blurring my perception. I’m stunned. It’s never dawned on me—never considered it at all—everyone I know, everyone in my whole life has all been white.

I experience a hard slap of consciousness in a flash, opening my eyes, like Paul on his way to Damascus.

My perception: I see I’m dense as a post, just plain ignorant—discovering truth. I find it morbid—humiliating. I feel strange—disconnected—even more than normal. What is the meaning of this? I don’t understand. I’m neither stupid nor dumb—can’t comprehend wickedness—grasp the logic behind it.

Odd of me … me of all people, to know nothing beyond my family—very strange not having a grasp on the world outside my front door.

Where do I fit into all of this?

As Far as Your Eye Can See

South-central Texas is vast—empty, with plenty of miles between everything. There’s nothing out here, any way you go. Not a single thing outside of town within sixty miles, except Sarge’s place. At the edges of town are endless miles of roads—some rocky hills. There are flatlands for a hundred miles, spotted with sagebrush—cactus—millions of mesquite trees grow out there. Real trees are rare.

Many beasts roam the wild stretches of native lands. Like coyotes, bears, wolves, bobcats, and mountain lions—boars. Deer play while opossums, raccoons, armadillos get into stuff. Rats sneak around with prairie dogs, all of them searching for food. They easily wander the vast emptiness they call home.

Almost forgot about bunches of others, like the little creepy-crawlers. Some creatures are real dangers to be around. Texas has four kinds of venomous snakes, along with spiders, scorpions, centipedes—blister bugs. All these creatures live out there where few people will—most of this region is just flat, empty terrain as far as your eye can see.

Main Street is extra wide at the curve heading west, then narrowing,—switching just before crossing the bridge, under the railroad trestle. Then it’s a two-lane blacktop highway that winds, twisting west. Past the outskirts of town heading through isolated prairie. There are small mounds—hills before reaching the edges of the vast Texas mesa. The highway snakes west toward the next town sixty-some odd miles away, bordering onto the Edwards Plateau.

Augsburg is not only small—it’s an isolated town. Main Street’s no more than twenty big blocks. The street splits in two, going west at the division just before our house. It also goes in front of our house. This old house hides behind the curve—a big grove of trees with dense vegetation underneath. Main runs a near north-south direction, making kind of an upside-down Y. It’s sort of similar to the Greek number eight, which looks like this λ.

.

The part of Main extending in front of our house passes three empty lots—parallels the tracks and river. It goes in front of the old train depot, turning eastward—the road disappears into the weeds.

Our almost square two-story house sits fifty feet away from the arc in Main. Hidden behind some tall pecan trees, white oak trees—reds too. There are a couple of even taller American elms at the center of the others. Bet those trees’ strength saved us from Hurricane Carla’s destruction. She struck the Texas coast last September 9. Carla’s wind speed logged in at 175 miles an hour—one of the strongest hurricanes ever. The undergrowth is so dense under our trees that you can barely see the Lutheran church from our backyard across Main. It’s near impossible to see our house from the churchyard at all.

The railroad tracks run behind our garage. On the other side of them is a very steep slope. At the bottom is a small, wide, fast-flowing river. On the southwest side of Main Street across from us is a small park—behind that, the Lutheran church. To the east across the street is a small neighborhood of only five houses. Each house has two or three large sections of land. They built all of them in the late 1890s or earlier this century.

Haus’ Drive-In sits kind of catty-cornered across the road from our house. It’s a smelly little store with a house attached to the side. There are four heavily wooded lots past the store on that side. That stretch is solid with undergrowth down to the end of the street. The woods are also hundreds of yards deep.

This quaint couple with deep German roots in their sixties—Mr. and Mrs. Haus—own that corner Drive-In grocery store. No—no, wait. I don’t think quaint portrays them accurately—not a good description. Bizarre might be more suited to them.

Mr. Haus thinks he’s a ventriloquist. He talks down to kids and some adults using silly, stupid voices. He’s no Paul Winchell—not even flub-a-dub. Winchell is a real genius—not just a ventriloquist, as he’s smart too. Mr. Haus thinks he’s funny—clever—not at all. The truth … Mr. Haus is arrogant—boisterous, smelling of stale beer. He greets the dawn nearly every day by clearing his throat.

Mrs. Haus is a bit snooty, a quelled woman. She wears more makeup than any woman I have ever seen—thinks she’s all high and mighty. Impeccably dressed, hair rolled up in a beehive on top of her head, wears black, pointy-end, cat-eyed glasses, all while reeking of inferior perfumes. She dismisses people on impulse—like they’re her maid. She says very little to anyone; it creates a false representation of herself. They are a very different sort of people indeed. I know of no others like them—both of them. They are eerie characters, to say the least.

The antique 1860s house we live in is timeworn—ten-foot ceilings throughout. It has large windows—old, wide plank floors that squeak, especially on the stairs.

When entering the foyer from the driveway, an extra-wide rawboned staircase is on the north side of the house. The room is a little longer than the open door. Underneath the stairs, down the long narrow hallway, is a water closet. Its door opens to the kitchen. On the other side of the toilet is the telephone room—off-limits without permission.

Moving straight through the foyer into the living room, the front door’s on the left. A set of double pocket doors on the far right lead into the dining room. Passing through the pockets, crossing the room, a right turn again midway takes you into the kitchen. The back door and sink are to the left. The stove is on the right—a small table’s center room. On the opposite side of the kitchen: the phone room, water closet, hallway,—stairs.

The bathroom’s at the head of the steps, with a big old claw-foot tub. An old-fashioned commode tank is positioned high on the wall. A very wide hallway stretches down the center of the second floor. There are two bedrooms on each side—mine’s on the right in the back.

Next to our large saltbox house sits an overgrown vacant lot with tall prairie grass. Large agave plants grow all over the yard. A couple of mesquite trees and some cactus spread out everywhere. The next site is a small, dilapidated house with holes in the floors, roof, walls. Half the boards missing from the front porch—the back porch entirely gone. No one has lived there since the ’20s. Sometimes these older boys hide inside to smoke cigarettes—who knows what else.

The next lot is an overgrown pie-shaped slice that runs along the tracks for about fifty feet or so. All the trees stop at the edge of the station yard. The cut grass is low, ends becoming gravel,—rocks all around the abandoned train terminal.

The depot’s a small, two-room, prairie-style structure. It’s made of limestone, redbrick, and thick, heavy wood. There’s an enormous raw timber canopy to the tracks, with loading ramps on both ends of the platform. The baggage ramp’s much wider than the passenger one—both ramps incline up to the boarding platform. It’s on a hill overlooking the river, with Established in 1887 carved above the front entrance.

Train whistles, squealing iron wheels—dozens of cars clanging together—all summon me from sleep in the mornings. However, it’s usually Mr. Haus hacking up phlegm that wakes me into a squint-eyed stupor. How disgusting!

Like I said, Main Street is almost straight, then curves eastward at the trees—splits in two, running in front of our house. It parallels the tracks a few dozen feet. This part of the old road disappears into the tall prairie grass that grew over the street a half century ago.

Almost a mile down the trail next to the tracks is a large dwelling. It’s completely hidden behind an enormous thicket of trees—brushwood that runs along the east side of Main. It sits on the edge of a huge uncultivated field facing the tracks—an old, well-worn Victorian house. It has stood abandoned for more than eighty years with all its decaying fiddly bits, about seventy-five to a hundred yards from the rails. An empty, mysterious three-and-a-half-story structure.

It was painted in purples and blues—a dozen other collections of colors—I bet it was beautiful once. The peeling paint—overgrown vines—weathered to a gloomy dull gray … just creepy—I still kind of like it.

A couple of large pecans and red oaks stoically