JETS OVERHEAD by Peter Nolan Smith

My childhood on Falmouth Foresides was quiet. Occasionally ship pulled their horns leaving Portland Harbor and a channel buoy bonged out the passing waves. At night I listened to the Celtics game on a small transistor radio from Japan. The volume turned to almost silence. My older brother was a light sleeper. Mornings belonged to the chirping birds and my mother's call for my brother and me to get ready for school.

None of this coastal quietude was good preparation for our move in 1960 to a suburb south of Boston. The neighborhood itself was peaceful, however our split-level ranch house lay directly beneath the landing pattern for Logan airport. The jets powered down sixty seconds apart, as if Boston was under attack from a bombing run. I was eight.

That first night I lay in bed crying. My brother was dead asleep. Sobs and planes didn't disturb him. Only the voice of Johnny Most calling the Celtics.

My Uncle Jack entered the darkened bedroom and sat on my bed.

"What the problem?" Uncle Jack was the youngest of my uncles. He had a good laugh, so did the rest of my uncles. We were a close family.

"The planes." I whispered, as a flight whined overhead.

"The planes." He laughed with relief. "Those planes are bringing people home from trips far away. Soldiers, sailors, mothers, fathers, and children. They're a good thing."

"But they're loud." Only the fireworks for the 4th of July were louder.

"Yeah, I guess you're right." Jack followed the plane with his eyes. His house was up the street. He shrugged a shoulder. "Believe me you'll get used to it. My kids did."

"They did?" Jack had three sons. 8, 7, and 6.

"Yeah, you cna get used to most everything." Jack said like he was telling a lie. "Well,not everything. I ever tell you about the time I was in the Chosin Reservoir."

"No." Uncle Jack had been a Marine lieutenant during that war. I read comic books about their battles. He had won several medals for bravery. Everyone in my hometown called him a hero. No one ever said why.

"I marched through that frozen hell with my troops. We started out strong, but day by day we lost friends. I can remember their names. Their faces. The Chinese blowing their bugles. There was noair cover at night. You want to talk about noise. Loud. Those soldiers were loud and then we'd shoot them down with machine guns. Rifles. Hand grenades. Rocks. Then it was over. Everyone dead or so exhausted that they couldn't even breathe. Quiet. Just like now. Then there was a gasp. Not one, but by all the living, wounded, and dying. Some crying too, but none of it loud like that."

Uncle Jack pointed to the approaching roar of a jet.

"Silent like no one was sure what they were, because we were scared. Chinks and us. No one wanted to die anymore. I went to sleep right after that. The only officer left in a command of ten men. Slept like a king surrounded by the dead. In the morning a jet flew overhead. A beautiful sound. Too late, but still beautiful. Now you go to sleep too." His voice had authority. Men of that era were taught that. He patted my head and then said, "Not an order. Dream if you got them."

It was a strange bed story.

Probably should have kept me awake for hours, instead I slept until dawn and Uncle Jack was right. I did get used to the jets. Not that they became quieter. Only that I couldn't hear them anymore.

Years later I ran a cross-country track meet in East Boston. My school against Don Bosco. The course skirted the beach across a channel from Logan. Neptune Road was so loud that your filling vibrated loose.

No one that lived on that dead end street said that they grew accustomed to the noise.

Not then and not now.

And neither will Uncle Jack to sobs at night.

JETS OVERHEAD by Peter Nolan Smith

Falmouth Foresides was a quiet neighborhood in the 50s. Ships blew their horns leaving Portland Harbor and channel buoys tolled out their passing wake. At night I listened to the Celtics game on a small transistor radio from Japan.

I set the volume to almost silence.

My older brother was a light sleeper.

My mother worried about my hearing and I pulled the earphone out of my ear before falling asleep to my brother's breathing.

None of this coastal quietude preparation me for our move in the summer of 1960 to a suburb south of Boston. The neighborhood itself was peaceful, however our split-level ranch house lay directly beneath the landing pattern for Logan airport. The jets powered down their engines sixty seconds apart, as if Boston was under attack from a bombing run.

I was eight.

Our first night in the house I lay in bed crying. My brother was dead asleep. Sobs and planes didn't disturb him, only the hoarse voice of Johnny Most calling the Celtics and they weren't playing this time of year.

Downstairs adults were laughing in the kitchen. My parents were having a house-warming party for the neighbors. Cocktails were popular in the suburbs. Their drunken conversation grew louder with each overflight and then subsided with the planes passing our house.

I covered my face with a pillow.

My Uncle Jack entered the darkened bedroom and sat on my bed.

"I thought I heard crying." Uncle Jack was the youngest of my uncles. "What the problem?"

"The planes." I whispered, as a set of jet engines whined down its speed.

"The planes." He laughed with relief. "Those planes are bringing people home from trips far away. Soldiers, sailors, mothers, fathers, and children. They're a good thing."

"But they're loud." Maybe the fireworks for the 4th of July were louder.

"Yeah, I guess you're right." Jack followed the plane with his eyes. His house was up the street. He shrugged a shoulder. "Believe me you'll get used to it. My kids did."

"They did?" Uncle Jack had three sons about my age. We were to attend the same school. They were the same as me.

"Yeah, you can get used to most everything." Jack said like he was telling a lie. "Well,not everything. I ever tell you about the time I was in the Chosin Reservoir."

"No." Uncle Jack had been a Marine lieutenant during that war. Comic books glorified these battles. He had won several medals for bravery. Everyone in my family called him a hero.

"I marched through that frozen hell with my troops. We started out two-hundred strong, but day by day we lost friends. I can remember their names. Their faces. The Chinese blowing their bugles. You want to talk about noise. Those bugles were loud and then we'd kill the men blowing them before anyone with a weapon. We mowed them down with machine guns, rifles, hand grenades, and rocks. Then it was over. The commies were either dead or so exhausted that they couldn't even breathe. Quiet. Just like now. Then there was a gasp. Not one, but by all the living, wounded, and dying. Some crying too, but none of it loud like that."

Uncle Jack pointed to the approaching roar of a jet. His eyes were wet and he wiped at them with his sleeve.

"Silent like no one was sure what they were, because we were scared. The chinks and us. No one wanted to die anymore. I went to sleep right after that. The only officer left in a command of ten men. I slept like a king surrounded by the dead and wounded. They knew how to cry, but in the end it got quiet. Now you go to sleep too." His voice had authority. Men of that era were knew how to speak like their fathers. He patted my head and then said, "Not an order. Dream if you got them."

It was a strange bed story, which probably should have kept me awake for hours, instead I slept until dawn and Uncle Jack was right. I grew accustomed to the jets that I didn't hear them anymore.

Years later I ran a cross-country track meet in East Boston. My high school against Don Bosco. The course skirted the beach across a channel from Logan. Neptune Road was so loud that the noise rattled loose your fillings.

A few of the opposing track team lived on that dead end street. None of them said that they had ever grown accustomed to the noise.

Not then and not now.

And neither will Uncle Jack to sobs at night.

For him the crying belonged to the dead.

Journal Entry - June 20, 1977

A long gap between entries.

I left Boston hitchhiking on the Mass Pike.

Libby and I went to the Other Side. The blonde model left with a tranny. I visited my parents, saying nothing about my life. I went over to Brookline to University Road. Hilde was with Dennis, but I was ignorant of her sister's wanting me. I am blind to those who desire me and those that do not.

I was late for a rendezvous with Libby at Chandler's. We met later and fucked in the stairway of the Ritz Hotel. Ronnie saw us afterwards and said, "You know her boyfriend is a fag."

He was speaking about Derek and I said, "So?"

I thought about verbally attacking him, but restrained from spouting off my mouth. I had no reason to speak the truth, since I didn't know the truth.

I walked Libby home. She had a plane to catch.

To Italy.

"At her door I said, "Libby, I would have liked to make love to you in a bed."

"I thought the hallway turned you on."

"It did, but I want more."

"Derek is at my place. I don't want to hurt him." She shield her Viking blue eyes.

"No, it's something else, but I'm happy to have you any way I can."

My cum was drifting down her thigh.

"I like feeling you met on my skin."

No one was at her Newbury Street apartment. We fucked two more times. She didn't bother to bathe. "I want you on me."

A racer friend drove us to Logan in a BMW. Her friends waited at the gate. She was amputating them. I stood in the background. The racer grabbed her, as she said, "Peter."

She touched my arm, as a photographer said, "I have to speak with Libby."

All her friends wanted a piece of her, a minute, a few seconds. She had little to give. The other passengers got on the plane. I went to the nearest bar and drank a beer. her blonde hair shone in the day's dying light. Libby spotted me and walked over, saying, "I haven't forgotten you."

I attempted to kiss her. She turned her head to offer her cheek.The loudspeaker called for her.

Lisa Fleeson to Aer Italia. "Paging Lisa Fleeson. Last call for boarding."

Libby ran up to me.

"Derek thinks I love you."

"Do you?"

Her haughty laugh told the truth.

"See you in your dreams."

She ran to the gate, waving to her friends.

They mourned her departure like they had lost a limb.

I walked to the end of the terminal. The windows ran 4' by 25' to the ceiling. Doctor Gonzo appeared at my side.

"Libby's gone. She isn't going to come back the same. Europe changes people."

The setting sun's dirty gold brilliance pierced the Mystic Bridge's steelworks. The brightness blinded me and I turned to watch my shadow lengthen on the stone floor. Libby's roommate joined us, but realized I was lost in a sad reverie of star, man, and earth. I exited from the terminal and started toward the MBTA stop. A Benz stopped at the curb. The driver was Doctor Gonzo and Derek was in the front seat with the hair stylist John Dellaria in back. Gonzo drove into the city. They spoke about Libby. I told them to stop at a Chinatown basketball park by the Pike. "Why are you leaving?"

I want to play hoops."

It always helps my mind.

LATER - Brookline 9pm

"Claire is interested in you." Ande said at the kitchen table in the Dean Street house. "She's depressed you didn't show up yesterday at Hi-Hat's."

"Huh? She's too young."

"Therese says she has a crush on you, but doesn't want to make a move, because you don't seem interested."

"More scared and I'm not sure she's 16.

I turned to Therese's beautiful sixteen year-old sister and motioned for her to join me outside. I was cold, cruel, and then friendly. When we reached Universty Road, Hilde smiled and said she wanted to play backgammon on the basement water bed. Claire joined us to smoke a joint and asked, "Is Peter sleeping here? What will Dennis say?"

"He's asleep upstairs. He hates the water bed."

It was unheated.

We talked about Dennis knowing about Hilde and me and Therese's wanting Ande.

"You know, Peter, my sister thinks you're her only friend. I'm going to sleep." Claire waited at the door. She left and then so did Hilde. In the morning Dennis woke me in a dream.

He was not happy.

JETS OVERHEAD by Peter Nolan Smith

Falmouth Foresides was a quiet neighborhood in the 50s. Ships blew their horns leaving Portland Harbor and channel buoys tolled out their passing wake. At night I listened to the Celtics game on a small transistor radio from Japan.

I set the volume to almost silence.

My older brother was a light sleeper.

My mother worried about my hearing and I pulled the earphone out of my ear before falling asleep to my brother's breathing.

None of this coastal quietude preparation me for our move in the summer of 1960 to a suburb south of Boston. The neighborhood itself was peaceful, however our split-level ranch house lay directly beneath the landing pattern for Logan airport. The jets powered down their engines sixty seconds apart, as if Boston was under attack from a bombing run.

I was eight.

Our first night in the house I lay in bed crying. My brother was dead asleep. Sobs and planes didn't disturb him, only the hoarse voice of Johnny Most calling the Celtics and they weren't playing this time of year.

Downstairs adults were laughing in the kitchen. My parents were having a house-warming party for the neighbors. Cocktails were popular in the suburbs. Their drunken conversation grew louder with each overflight and then subsided with the planes passing our house.

I covered my face with a pillow.

My Uncle Jack entered the darkened bedroom and sat on my bed.

"I thought I heard crying." Uncle Jack was the youngest of my uncles. "What the problem?"

"The planes." I whispered, as a set of jet engines whined down its speed.

"The planes." He laughed with relief. "Those planes are bringing people home from trips far away. Soldiers, sailors, mothers, fathers, and children. They're a good thing."

"But they're loud." Maybe the fireworks for the 4th of July were louder.

"Yeah, I guess you're right." Jack followed the plane with his eyes. His house was up the street. He shrugged a shoulder. "Believe me you'll get used to it. My kids did."

"They did?" Uncle Jack had three sons about my age. We were to attend the same school. They were the same as me.

"Yeah, you can get used to most everything." Jack said like he was telling a lie. "Well,not everything. I ever tell you about the time I was in the Chosin Reservoir."

"No." Uncle Jack had been a Marine lieutenant during that war. Comic books glorified these battles. He had won several medals for bravery. Everyone in my family called him a hero.

"I marched through that frozen hell with my troops. We started out two-hundred strong, but day by day we lost friends. I can remember their names. Their faces. The Chinese blowing their bugles. You want to talk about noise. Those bugles were loud and then we'd kill the men blowing them before anyone with a weapon. We mowed them down with machine guns, rifles, hand grenades, and rocks. Then it was over. The commies were either dead or so exhausted that they couldn't even breathe. Quiet. Just like now. Then there was a gasp. Not one, but by all the living, wounded, and dying. Some crying too, but none of it loud like that."

Uncle Jack pointed to the approaching roar of a jet. His eyes were wet and he wiped at them with his sleeve.

"Silent like no one was sure what they were, because we were scared. The chinks and us. No one wanted to die anymore. I went to sleep right after that. The only officer left in a command of ten men. I slept like a king surrounded by the dead and wounded. They knew how to cry, but in the end it got quiet. Now you go to sleep too." His voice had authority. Men of that era were knew how to speak like their fathers. He patted my head and then said, "Not an order. Dream if you got them."

It was a strange bed story, which probably should have kept me awake for hours, instead I slept until dawn and Uncle Jack was right. I grew accustomed to the jets that I didn't hear them anymore.

Years later I ran a cross-country track meet in East Boston. My high school against Don Bosco. The course skirted the beach across a channel from Logan. Neptune Road was so loud that the noise rattled loose your fillings.

A few of the opposing track team lived on that dead end street. None of them said that they had ever grown accustomed to the noise.

Not then and not now.

And neither will Uncle Jack to sobs at night.

For him they belonged to the dead.