Jimmy, Jimmy

I remember digging in the sand underneath the slide at Brookwood School with Jimmy. I can't remember Jimmy's last name but I seem to recall it was a color, like White or Brown. It might have even been Gray. It probably wasn't Pink or Yellow and certainly not Cerise or Lavender.

In any event, I recall that we were perfectly happy doing what we were doing, though exactly what we were doing escapes me. Were we building a castle? I have a vague recollection of plastic army men, but I could be wrong.

The rest of the boys in our class were playing baseball in the field beyond. I can still hear their voices and I still remember how uninterested I was in sports at the time. In Jimmy I had found a kindred spirit. Who needed to sweat in a field and run stupidly after a ball? We had our imaginations.

I do, however, remember that this is the precise moment I realized I was different. I wasn't like the other boys and this revelation produced a certain sense of discomfort.