I’m sure Billie had a last name, but everyone in the neighborhood called him Blue-eyed Billie. We met on a lazy summer day as he rode his bicycle in front of my new home in the city. I stood up on the porch, hoping for enough air to move the windchimes… and he rolled by, looked at me, and rounded the corner. On his next pass… he nodded to me as I perched on the stoop. His next circuit found me on the sidewalk, the next? leaning against a parked car. Finally… he rounded the corner to find me in the street.
He was in his early twenties and I had just earned my driver’s license. We flirted off and on… me with words… he with his incessant circling of my house on that bike over the next few days. We never dated. Neither of us had money. He had no car and we’d often take his younger brothers and sisters to a nearby park in my mother’s old powder blue Cadillac. I never got a firm count on just how many siblings Blue-eyed Billie had, but once they spilled out of the car and across the playground, he and I would make out in the car… languidly… in the humid air of Nimisilla Park. I fucked him once… or was it twice? I don’t recall why I stopped seeing him. He was a slow and easy man. He smiled a lot. My most vivid memories are of his strong legs, his mocha skin and steely blue eyes. If I met him on the street today, I might not recognize him, but if he were to ride by my porch as wind chimes barely swayed in a late summer breeze? I’d pour him a glass of lemonade and offer him a ride for old time’s sake. I do believe I would.