The Strange Haunting of Johnny Feelwater is a story about a thirty-two year old man who realizes, during a onslaught of astonishing circumstances, he has set his stride on the wrong path.
Like countless men like him, another man lives inside his head, a man he can’t allow himself to be, a confused identity shunted into the darkest corners of his consciousness. He had married Marrilee, started his career, took on a mortgage–he was normal.
Then, one morning he innocently steps into another world, Cassandra and Julian Mott’s world, and everything begins to unravel, his career, his marriage, his peace-of-mind. He comes face-to-face with the other side of his sexuality. After lifting his legs and resting them on another man’s shoulders, nude and vulnerable, he realizes, if he is to get his life back, he needs help.
Johnny knows that a man called Dr. Brian Fowler is the one who can help him, the one man that can deal with Cassandra and Julian Mott; but Fowler is in Africa, where he goes every summer to donate his time to the people of Kenya known as the Maasai. For Johnny, there’s no choice other than to exhaust what remains of his finances and journey to Africa, where he finds answers to his unmasked questions.
Johnny’s senses are overwhelmed during his stay with Bryan Fowler in the Maasai village, the human smells and visuals, humanity’s oneness with the earth. His imagination is set ablaze and his self-recognition begins to blossom as he lives among these dynamic people and sleeps so close to Brian in the tiny confines of a Maasai hut.
One day he and Brian attend a traditional ceremony, where the two of them sit on a knoll with the village elders, watching the festivities. Here is what he sees:
(From The Strange Haunting of Johnny Feelwater) . . . It was a time of waiting. Puffing their pipes, Johnny and Brian continued to observe the activities from their positions on the knoll. Johnny’s reprieve held. There were no omens in his hands. Locking his fingers around a knee, he sat comfortably, the pipe clenched in his teeth, his shoulder and neck muscles tension free. While the elders next to him spoke among themselves of their important concerns, Johnny continued his private study of Maasai contentment. He watched young mothers with newborn infants at their breasts, tiny babes engulfed within loving arms and gazes. A toddler emerged from a forest of long legs, wailing. So distraught was his small face that Johnny’s heart felt a pang. The child had lost his mother, not yet old enough to know there was no safer place on God’s earth he might be. The younger men, the warriors, stood in small groups, conversing and comparing adornments and body paint. From them came no shortage of teasing; for it seemed where go the warriors, so go the girls and the catcalls and flirting.
Johnny had been watching one of them in particular. A young man who would be king, Johnny surmised as he leaned forward and stared, resting his forearms on his knees, letting his hands hang limp. The warrior, shouldering no more than twenty-five years of life’s trials, stood an inch or two taller than his companions; a stature enhanced by a magnificent, horseshoe-shaped headdress, feathered with stuffed orioles and kingfishers. Flaring nearly as wide as his shoulders, he wore it like a crown. Chalky white paint formed a raccoon-like mask around his eyes and strands of beads crisscrossed his forehead. Set in the perfect symmetry of a longish, oval-shaped face, his eyes shone with self-confidence and arrogance, his nose long and broad with large nostrils, his lips a voluptuous, omnipotent smirk. Tied at the back of his neck, a bright red cape draped down over his torso to his knees. It hung loosely open down the back, which allowed shadowy hints of rich black skin and the masculine contours of his lower back and buttocks.
The shadows had drawn Johnny’s eyes, and his imagination. And why not? Why not, now that his self-recognition was out in the open and clear? Why not allow for one opportunity to savor male beauty? He sighed as he stared at the uninhibited warrior as if no one else were there, with little doubt about what had caught and claimed his eyes, mindful of the feelings that warmed his inner thighs. He wondered what went through the young man’s mind, displaying himself that way, so freely allowing one and all to behold his sensual beauty. Reflections accompanied Johnny’s dream-like gaze that unmistakably defined his evolving vulnerability, enhanced each time the animated warrior turned this way or that, or a wisp of air stirred the red cape.
Such perfect gluteal flesh, as if by design this part of the body was meant to reduce one’s thoughts to one thing: two mounds separated at the convergence of strong and graceful legs by a darkened, tantalizing rift. So specific were Johnny’s thoughts as he stared at these umber and tar-like colors, that he sighed and let the image take complete hold of him. Yes, he knew. It was nothing less than another confirmation that rose out of his not-so-subtle gaze. Now he fully recognized these duplicitous urges. He was in touch with his need to enjoy such fine male sculpture, and enjoy it he would; for it was the one part of him, upon leaving Africa, forever destined to live in poverty.
As if the dead leaves had been raked from his consciousness, so many things were clear. He finally realized how often over the years his head turned for a second glimpse at a man in passing, those subliminal occurrences that went back to his earliest memory. Incubating inside him since birth, it had drawn its first breath that day in the gym. All those boys. How naked they were in the shower, that pageant of genitals and flesh every which way he turned, those gluteal contours that cast a spell every time one bent down to wash his legs. No, he had not been simply curious about the other boys’ penises that day-he had lain awake that night wondering about their weight and texture and taste, and set sailing by the infinite varieties of color and shape. So was it all buried on his wedding day? Hardly. Nor could he blame Julian, after all. Julian had not infused him with this propensity for firmer flesh and masculine smells-Julian had simply looked into his mind and responded to an invitation already there.
The tireless warrior did not hesitate to impose his lively antics upon the young women, teasing them and lifting their chins as if he were inspecting their faces, while the other warriors stood near and looked on with awe and envy, passively acknowledging they stood in the presence of a man with whom they could not compete. Spellbound by the warrior’s charisma, Johnny drifted on reverie as his eyes revisited again and again every glorious detail. On his fingertips lived the desire to touch; on his tongue the desire to taste; within his arms the desire to hold. Involuntary were the flexing muscles of his buttocks and legs, and within his loins lay a yearning for the penetrating warmth of another man’s need. Such was power of human genes, the instincts and desires that are called upon from within those dark creases and landscapes of flesh, those subtle nuances that connect the world’s like-minded men. Such was the power of one man to own another man’s mind.
Encroaching on his wistful thoughts came the deep resonance of Brian’s voice.
“That’s Seto.”
“What?” Johnny asked, jolted from his daze.
“His name is Seto,” Brian repeated.
“Who?” asked Johnny, turning to him.
“The one you’re staring at. He’s the one connected to the girl I was treating when you first arrived. Now that she’s recovering, she’ll become his third wife. He and the men he’s with have been out stalking some goat-snatching hyenas. …Quite captivating, wouldn’t you say?”
“Captivating?”
“Apparently you agree. You’ve been staring at him the last ten minutes.”
“Yes, I agree,” Johnny replied, looking back at the enigmatic warrior. “Three wives. That’s hard to fathom.”
“No kidding, when just one can be a handful. These men can marry as many women as they wish, and a young man like Seto has little difficulty attracting them. I’d say at least one or two of those gazing at him now are hoping to be his fourth wife.”
“Brian … how can you feel worthless one minute, I mean really worthless, not worth the cost of the bullet it’d take to kill you; and then feel justified to indulge yourself the next, because you’ve worked every day of your life and not once enjoyed a personal reward for the effort?”
“Sounds like guilt. Bet I could guess what was going through your mind when you were looking at Seto.”
Johnny stared at his companion without a reply.
“I thought so. Well, this isn’t an occasion to lose behind a blindfold of guilt, my friend. Take stock of what’s before you. Isn’t it obvious Seto has put himself on display? So why not enjoy looking at him? He represents God’s finest work. Why deny yourself the pleasure of such perfection?”
The young warrior turned suddenly and caught Johnny staring at him. Their eyes locked for a moment, Seto’s gleaming with humor and curiosity. He broke from his friends and started toward the knoll, his prankish gaze lit with hints of mischief. His friends followed, stopping behind him as he stood towering before Johnny, looking down at what likely seemed to him a rather plain looking, city dwelling black man, confined in a white shirt, blue jeans and sandals. The elders on the knoll stopped their conversation and watched with interest.
A nervousness settled over Johnny. He felt antsy becoming the sudden focus of Seto’s attention.
“Iloridaa enjekat,” said Seto, grinning. Laughter erupted from the elders.
“What did he say,” Johnny asked, aware the words had been directed at him.
“It’s a reference to your jeans,” said Brian. “It means ‘Those who contain their farts.’”
Johnny looked back at the young man, who then barked a command in Swahili.
“Well, my friend,” said Brian, “seems you’ve become a potential source of entertainment. He wants you to stand up.”
A chill rushed up the back of Johnny’s neck. With no small reluctance, he came to his feet, feeling diminutive in the presence of an exotic Maasai warrior standing two inches taller than his own six foot, one inch frame. Seto looked him over, thoughtfully, head to toe. He then reached out and took a hold of Johnny’s collar, issuing another command.
“He wants you to take off the shirt,” Brian translated.
Johnny looked at Brian meekly. “I’d rather not.”
“I’m afraid he’s expecting you to be a sport.”
An anxiousness tightened Johnny’s chest as he turned and looked into the dark eyes peering at him from the chalky white, raccoon-like paint. He glanced at those behind the tall warrior, their faces set in anticipation; then he hesitantly went for the buttons of his shirt. Handing it to Brian, he watched Seto’s hands come forward and the long black fingers rake down over the hairs of his chest.
“He’s intrigued by your chest hair,” said Brian. “I’d explain the European influence in your genes, but I’d lose him in the translation.”
Galvanized, Johnny stood stiffly as Seto stepped around him to survey his upper body. Then came the next command. Johnny noticed Brian had bowed his head and was rubbing his eyes.
“What did he say?” Johnny asked, growing jittery at Brian’s reaction.
“He wants you to disrobe.”
Johnny’s jaw tightened. Disrobe? Entirely! In front of all these people!
“You’re in an awkward position, my friend. But look at it this way: The Maasai aren’t as stigmatized by nudity as we righteous Americans are. It’s inconsequential to them. Be advised: Your new friend isn’t inclined to take ‘no’ for an answer.”
Incredulous, Johnny looked back at the impatient warrior.
“But … ” he stammered, feeling a creeping inevitability.
Seto grabbed the waistband of Johnny’s jeans and gave it a firm yank, implying compliance with his demand.
Like the smaller boy bullied by the bigger boys in an alley, Johnny found himself unbuttoning and unzipping his jeans, in want of nothing more than to get this episode over with. Lightheaded, a breath of resolve flurried through his nose as he pushed the jeans down his legs. Nothing at all like the surreal humiliations imposed by Cassandra and her decadent retinues from the past, here he felt conspicuously and utterly exposed, like in that awful dream when one finds himself vulnerably naked in public. His jeans bunched around his ankles, he kneeled and pulled off his sandals and then stood upright and stepped out of the jeans. With the breeze tingling on his bare skin and gooseflesh racing across his forearms, he stood before a dozen pairs of eyes, nude, desperate for something to do with his hands.
Seto knelt for a closer look at his hairy legs, brushing over them with the palm of his hand. For Johnny, it had become intoxicating, his nostrils drawing air in large, audible volumes. His face flushed when the young warrior casually lifted his penis and then looked back at the others, displaying it so they could see that Johnny had been circumcised, which prompted nods of approval among the men. Seto then addressed one of the young women, who turned abruptly and hurried away.
The elders had fixed their attention on the tall black, now naked American visitor, obviously amused by Seto’s toying with him. A small queue had formed around Seto, faces adorned with beads and tinted animal fat and lit with amused curiosity.
“What’s going on, Brian?” Johnny asked pointedly.
“He seems to have taken a liking to you. He wants to see you dressed like a Maasai. Perhaps he feels a kinship of some kind.”
Johnny closed his eyes and let out a sigh as Seto inspected and sniffed at him. Charged with a bewildering array of awkward sensations, Johnny’s tense shoulders fell with submission. It was, after all, Africa, an adventure; and in this particular Maasai settlement, he was apparently destined to experience it as few tourists ever do. He stood resigned to whatever might happen, resolved to endure Seto’s whims; even this affront, which was, all things considered, really no affront at all. He had already begun to mentally record memories of Africa, its land and its people, the sentiment of being included in a day in their lives. Why not this? Why not make the best of it before these many eyes and join the revelry of Maasai life? So no, he decided his imposed nudity was not a humiliation; rather a Maasai-style welcoming, and a way in which he might have yet another taste of his own heritage.
Seto drew him from the knoll with an outstretched hand. Johnny, still clinging to his composure, stepped forward, now exhilarated by his unsolicited interaction with a Maasai warrior. Those behind and around Seto had grown keen with interest in what might unfold between these two men. The tall warrior stood before him on the flatter ground in front of the knoll, grinning, his hands placed confidently upon his waist. He abruptly extended a leg and planted his right foot on the ground between himself and Johnny, pointing then at Johnny’s right foot.
Johnny caught on to Seto’s proposal. A contest of strength and balance. An immediate rush of adrenaline steeled through him. Instead of feeling intimidated by the young buck, the challenge came over him as an opportunity, even if Seto happened to be the stronger man. Seto extended his hand, his elbow cocked, his fingers upright and curled, inviting Johnny’s grasp. Johnny stepped forward with his right foot. Now combatants, their feet planted side-by-side in the dirt, Johnny reached out and had his hand taken in a vise-like grip.
Both men tensed.
Though his sudden nudity had drawn hardly a glance, this contest grabbed widespread attention. Oblivious to the gathering crowd, Johnny braced himself with determination. With their hands locked together, they pulled and pushed at each other, more forcefully by degrees, their bodies contorted this way and that with increasingly precarious balance. Johnny’s determination held fast. It would not be strength by which he would win, but wit, beginning by proving himself a little more than Seto had bargained for. The struggle intensified, Seto’s eyes now gleaming with a bit less bravado. Johnny suddenly feigned a near-fall, catching Seto off guard, and in that fleeting instant he pulled hard, bringing the surprised warrior onto his knees.
There were gasps among the crowd and quick murmurs of conversation and even some laughter from the older men. From his knees, Seto looked up at his foe and a magnanimous grin slowly formed on his lips. The gleam in his eyes took on a hint of admiration. He stood and laid his arm around Johnny’s shoulders, nodding accolades and respect.
Elated, Johnny stood at Seto’s side, at one with his victory and his close proximity to the one he had vanquished. From the warrior came odors forged in pursuit of hyenas, the grit and sweat of untold days in the brush, both sour and sweet, though not so very disagreeable as potent and masculine and laden with the pheromones of youth. Sweet was the honey beer tainting Seto’s breath. Sour was the damp wafting from beneath the warrior’s arm, draped admiringly around Johnny’s shoulders, so close as to conquer the earthy smells of smoke and roasting meat and the countless human bodies sweating in the sun.
The young woman returned a few moments later. In her arms she had a red garment and beads and a gourd of liquid. Seto himself did the honor of draping the sheet-like cloth down over Johnny’s head. Knotted at the shoulder and split down the side, it left one shoulder bare and flowed down just below Johnny’s knees, billowing slightly on the westerly breeze. Seto lifted it from the bottom and wrapped a beaded belt around his waist. He fixed bracelets of silver and beads to Johnny’s wrists and ankles. He tied a beaded necklace around Johnny’s neck. He took the lid off a small, hand carved wooden box and took onto his finger a daub of chalky white paint, applying it in a series of stripes down the side of Johnny’s face. Finally, from the gourd he poured a mixture of liquefied fat and ground ochre on Johnny’s head, working it through his short hair with unhurried fingers.
Then Seto stepped back to admire his creation.
Palms up, Johnny stretched out his arms and looked down at himself. Seto’s careful blandishments set his mind sailing. The onlookers witnessing his transformation stood smiling. Johnny turned to look at Brian, who sat looking back with tongue in cheek. The young woman produced a small mirror, which Johnny took and held before his face. His eyes set in a disbelieving gaze, it took a moment to recognize the man in the mirror as himself. A tingle went through him as a wispy breeze shifted the flowing garment and fluttered the fabric across his skin. He released a reverent sigh, not just fascinated by his transformation, but feeling quite nice. An aura of delight had descended over him, temporary though it might be, in that he was having fun; that opposed to leaving these citizens of Africa as strangers in passing, he had found himself embraced and befriended by them.
Seto turned to take a broad survey of the compound. Johnny’s eyes swept from the breadth of his shoulders to the small of his back, where he had a fixed leather patch to his belt, another of many adornments. It was square in shape and beaded in a colorful design. Pulled tight to his skin by the belt, it rested in the concave of his back, just above the flare of his rump. Here, in response to the chanting women across the way, were muscles set in motion. Here, flawed by not so much as a blemish, the color of dark cocoa and glistening with imbedded particles of sand, were firm rounds of hairless flesh and long hairless legs giving rise to dance.
Seto danced a few steps forward and added his voice to the women’s rhythmic chant, soon joined one-by-one by the other men around him. The mantra grew louder and contagiously gathered more and more voices across the compound. Perhaps heard for miles, the timeless chant filled the early afternoon with sound, repetitive as it was infectious, evolving into a collective refrain. Seemingly pressed on their souls by the ancient mysteries of Africa, the ceremonial sound surely resonated across the land as the mass of men and women began to lose themselves in the primordial rhythm. Up and down they went, then forward and back, all in unison with their gyrations and sway.
This is me, thought Johnny, enchanted as one with front-row seats at the Bolshoi, already caught up in the rhythm when he heard Brian’s voice from behind.
“You’re dressed to join them, my friend. Don’t forfeit your one opportunity to dance with the Maasai.”
Johnny studied the movement and listened to the chant a moment longer, falling in tentatively at first. Invigorated by their growing fervor and enticed by the infectious rhythm, he found himself in harmony with the crowd. Jump he did, as did the throngs around him, though not so high as the Maasai men, who sprung into the air like arrows shot from the earth. Then back he stepped in unison, then forward as part of the whole, until the throng tightened like one massive creature with many heads before stepping back again. It was a glorious natural high. Never before had he felt so alive, so enriched by human sound and movement and smell, so free of life’s shackles and embraced by a people; and for at least in this blinking of an eye, his trials with Cassandra Mott were lost on the energy of a mesmeric mantra.
The day passed with feasting and song. There were no more encounters with Seto, as the young warrior’s attentions had returned to the young women. How easily he set hearts aflutter, plying them with his displays of charisma and irresistible charm. A natural showman, thought Johnny, whose eyes found him often as he politicked and flirted during the course of the day.
. . .
When asked which is my favorite novel, I’m hard pressed to say. I can say The Strange Haunting of Johnny Feelwater was the most fun to write. It allowed me to blend my imagination with some bizarre and dynamic setting with the inner struggles of male sexuality. I’ve been delighted that women enjoy it as well as men.
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