He's GOOD at it...

[Not an excerpt from H.O.F. This is another freewrite, forgive any errors]

I was pretty lucky that I never had to come out. It was already done for me, evidenced by my wig box and assorted props (cheerleading pom-poms, juggling bags, eye shadow sponges and yarn). Nobody had to tell anybody anything.
Trust: when your nine year old's "down time" fills itself with walking serpentine through the house in a blonde bouffant wig, and digging through your dresser for Maybelinne eye pencils, you don't need to do the math. Equation solved.

My neighbor's toy box laid in sharp contrast to mine- not a old wooden toybox but a new one in the shape of a giant NFL football- the smell of thick plastic surrounded it from a solid foot on each side, it had its own aura. This giant toxic football, like an advertisement, was stuffed with tennis balls, catchers mitts, and the hand-held sports games that worked my nerves, with their constant bleats for touchdowns or more batteries. Above the toxic sports slush and the electronic games screaming feed me, hung every baseball card ever printed, screwed to the wall, on display.

Above my wig box- the wooden "toy" box that was mostly a tangle of synthetic hair- hung no such parephenalia.
There was an inexplicable, personalized autograph from (Dr?) Leo Buscaglia, who i had written to after reading his book On Love.
A picture of me with The King at a Medieveal Times in Florida- the King just looked like a dude from Orlando, not particularly enraged by his job. I looked by far more uncomfortable in my Vacation Costume, way too old at twelve to be posing with a character actor in a theme restaurant.

Next to that was a piture of me posing with Willie Whistle, the local clown of my youth, at a senior citizens facility Outside Boston. I have no idea how I even got there. Driving to Boston was always a hassle for my parents, and we rarely did it. We barely even crossed into the Massachusetts bordertowns that surrounded us, in fear of The Massholes, or as we called them, The Hillbillies.
[I realize some may take offense at the term "hillbilly". Be aware that I am not using this term to describe Noble Mountain Folk, but only to describe the Massholes, who bordered my town in their grassy yards they called farms. My dad adopted a horse from a Masshole, and gave it to mty sister, in one of our more stupid and embarrasing maneuvers as a family. but that's another post...]

Rushing home from third grade to make sure I caught my stories- General Hospital was gearing up for the Ice Princess and big things were happening- I'd see the other kids planning their afternoons. Shooting hoops, skateboarding, and eventually, thank god, playing Atari.

I sat myself in front of the full length mirror in my mother's room.
She was ironing, singing a Mama's and Papa's tune as I patty-caked against thew mirror.
Having nobody to practice with, I had to depend upon myself to learn the hand-clapping routines and the order in which to clap, pat, cross your hands or slap your knees. It wasn't easy, but with myself as my only competition I got wicked fast at it. Before I knew it I was a blur of arms in front of the mirror

...old lady mac, mac, mac...

I could hear my neighbor coming up the driveway, dragging some piece of metal sports equipment. I knew he was going to bother me, so I picked up the pace of my clapping in hopes he would get the hint. Instead he came to my mom's window.

"Hey, do ya wanna come play baseball with us?" Marty asked.

....all dressed in black black black

"Shhhhhhh!" I said. Clearly, the rhyme wasn't over. Why was he bothering me in the middle?

...with silver buttons buttons buttons

"Hey, you wanna come play baseball?" he repeated. They must have really needed someone.
My concentration was broken. My mother could see me getting flustered.

"Can't you see that I'm busy here? What's wrong with you?" I said in the mirror, his stupid head in the window. I started my hand claps again, from the top.

Old Lady mac, mac mac

"Why don't you wanna play baseball?" Marty was incredulous.

allll dressed in black, black, black...
I got louder. I wanted to take that bat to his head and really swing.
He was bugging me now.

"and why are you always practicing those girl games?" he said.

...with silver buttons buttons buttons

before I could jump up and run outside, my mother said:

"He's GOOD at it.That's why he practices, because he's good at it...you little shit"

...all down her back back back

Marty looked at my mom and ran away, schooled.

"He's a little shit," she said. "You're good at it...keep going, hon..."

She started singing again,  and my hands regained their speed
competing with their own reflection.

My mom was right.
I was good at it.
Still am.