Drama Queers! (10 page)

“Every time I see him lately,” Audrey goes on, “he’s always with Little Miss Cheerleader.”

“I know,” I can’t help but agree, because it’s true.

It seems odd that Jack still spends so much time with Betsy Sheffield. I mean, last year they sorta went together, but now they’re just friends. Besides, Betsy’s been going with Mr. Homecoming King, Tom Fulton, for over a month. Yet just the other day, I seen Jack and Betsy heading out to lunch together in Jack’s 1979 pea green Dodge Omni. Sure enough, when me and Max got over to BK, we saw Tom with some of his Varsity football teammates, but Betsy and Jack were nowhere to be found.

I realize that Tom never got along with Jack back at Webb, but I know if
I
had a girlfriend (in my case, boyfriend), I wouldn’t be letting her (him) take off to the Universal Mall food court with some other girl (guy).

“I don’t know what he sees in her,” Aud mutters as we continue down the Choir/Band hall across from the auditorium. “Why the fuck did I bother joining Flag Corps if Jack was just gonna drop outta Marching Band?”

“I know,” I agree again. “It totally sucks without him.”

To top it all off, the other day Mr. Klan announced that we’re going to Florida to march in the Disney World Main Street USA parade. At first, I sorta thought it might suck wasting my Senior Spring Break with all the Band Fags, but most of my friends will be there (Ava, Carrie, Audrey, Liza Larson), so why shouldn’t I go?

“Just let me just grab my flag from the back!”

We enter the Band room proper where it’s totally impossible to hear anything over the deafening rendition of Van Halen’s “Jump” being belted out by Don Olsewski on drum kit, and his two cohorts, Curt Chaplin on alto sax, and Thad Petoskey on synthesizer.

“Take your time!” I holler back.

Audrey heads towards the practice room where the Flaggots store their flags and rifles and other shit they twirl—batons, hoops, (whips and chains). For a split second, I contemplate taking my trombone home. The thought of lugging it all the way out to my car in the back parking lot is just about enough to kill me.

“Brad!”

A tap on my shoulder scares the bejesus outta me. After I extract my heart from my throat and return it to my chest, I turn around to find Ava and Carrie joined at the hip like Siamese Twin sisters. You know, like the ones who appeared in PT Barnum’s Freak Show, but later wound up working as checkout girls in a supermarket somewhere…Violet and Daisy something or other.

“What are you guys doing?” I ask them, even though I already know the answer.

Every day after school, Ava, Carrie, and a bunch of the other girl Band Fags like to hang out in the Band room watching the guys practice. Last I heard, Don, Curt, and Thad are forming a band named Too Rad, and the girls are gonna be their official groupies…Lame!

“You know,” answers Carrie. “Hanging out.”

Gawking at Curt Chaplin!

Carrie Johnson’s had a thing for the guy since Sophomore year. Not that I can blame her. How come sax players are always the hottest guys in Band? First Freddy Edwards (Homecoming King ’85), then Kent Bowman (Class of ’87), now Curt Chaplin. With his dark curly hair, mustache, and athletic yet non-jock bod, Curt is right up there in keeping with this rule. The faces he makes when he’s blowing that horn…H-O-T, hot!

“What are
you
doing?” Ava asks, habitually twirling a lock of her dark curly hair, a hint of a smile gracing her lips.

“Waiting for Godot.”

“Who?” asks Carrie, totally perplexed.

“Forget it.”

Being non–Drama Queers, neither girl gets the Samuel Beckett reference. We read his play in Dell’s class this past week. Personally, I didn’t like it. The characters keep waiting and waiting and Godot never even shows up.

At first, I think maybe they think I’m also there to gawk at Curt. Like Audrey, I haven’t told either Ava or Carrie that I’m gay. Again, Jack is the only one who knows, other than Luanne Kowalski, who I barely see anymore since she went away to college at Eastern. Again, I’m not ashamed. It’s just not something I go around announcing to everybody, you know what I mean?

“Miss me?”

I totally jump a mile as Audrey gooses me with the end of her big-assed Flaggot flag pole.

“Where you two off to?” Ava questions, a hint of innuendo in her voice.

Aud expertly winds the maroon and gray nylon flag around its staff. “Wouldn’t you like to know?” she says, all sassy.

I don’t know how the hell those Flaggots can twirl those things without getting them caught on something or poking somebody’s eye out.

“I’m telling Berger,” Carrie teases.

I roll my eyes. “Please!”

I can’t believe anybody would ever think there’s anything romantic going on with me and Audrey Wojczek. Plus the racket in the room is starting to give me a splitting headache…Thank God the Too Rad boys stop at that point to take a pee break.

“Mr. Star Thespian is helping me with my monologue for auditions on Thursday,” Audrey explains. “Not that it’s any of
your
business.”

That’s when I hear from behind me the sound of a guy’s voice I can’t say I recognize.

“Oh, my God…You guys are Drama Queers?”

I’m about to turn around and say,
Yeah…What the fuck’s it to you?
Except as I do, it takes everything I got in me
not
to lose it when I see the totally cute Sophomore—holding a
saxophone
.

A bit taller than me (5’9”), he’s got blondish hair that’s short on the sides, and sorta long and flippy in front. A tiny cleft sits in the center of his chin, below a perfect set of pearly whites. He’s a little on the thinner side than I usually find attractive, but he does fill out a pair of Girbaud jeans rather nicely. I also like his leather K-Swiss tennis shoes.

“I’m Brad Dayton.”

“I know.”

The guy looks thru me with piercing eyes, perfectly matching the pale blue script on his Blue Lake Fine Arts Camp hooded sweatshirt…Definitely a Band Fag.

Normally, I’d be all like,
Who the hell are you?
Only I’m a little stumped. Is he just being an asshole…or is he flirting with me?

I honestly can’t tell.

All I can manage to do is say, “Hi.” Then I just stand there with this totally dumb expression on my face. Like I flunked Special Ed or something. Meanwhile, Audrey, Carrie, and Ava are of no help once Don Olsewski and crew return from the restroom.

“Play ‘Panama’!”

Somebody shouts out. Probably Ava. She loves Van Halen and has been devastated ever since their breakup.

“I’m thinking about trying out for the play,” Cute Sophomore Guy informs me, a smirk on his flawlessly complexioned face.

“You mean
auditioning?
” Audrey interjects from atop her high horse.

“You totally should,” I encourage. At least he’d give me something to look at during rehearsal. “If you need a hand…” I offer, meaning with his audition. Until I realize my words could be totally misconstrued, and red I go.

Open mouth, insert foot!

“Thanks,” Cute Sophomore Guy replies graciously. “Gimme your number. I’ll call you.”

Wouldn’t you know? I can’t find my spiral notebook in my duffle bag. Instead, I open my World Lit book and tear off a corner from the Russian section. Only to discover, I don’t have anything to write with.

“Um…You don’t happen to have a pen, do you?” I ask, feeling like a Total Loser.

CSG loans me a red Papermate Flair. I jot down:
398–5836
, and hand him the tiny scrap.

Just when things are starting to get good, Audrey decides, “We gotta go, Dayton…Now!”

As I’m practically dragged into the hall, I call out to Ava and Carrie, “Have fun!”

And to Cute Sophomore Guy, whoever he may be…

Call me!

Tonight I’m going on my first
real
date.

I mean, with a guy.

His name’s Larry, he lives Downriver, and he’s twenty-four.

I know, between the Larry part and the living Downriver, not so great, but the twenty-four is pretty cool, huh? We met this past Friday night at The Gas Station. I mean, the bar, not a real gas station. I would never go picking up a guy at like Gas ’n Go or Mobil. Unless he was hot, then I
might
consider it.

“Just wait’ll you see him…”

My new friend, Miss Peter, couldn’t stop gushing the second I sat down for a drink.

Oh, my God…I just realized I haven’t mentioned Miss Peter yet!

Miss Peter is this guy named (what else?) Peter. I don’t know why, but everybody calls him
Miss
Peter, and refers to him as
her
and he as
she
. And believe me, she is fabulous!

I’m sooo glad the Homecoming Dance last month sucked donkey balls. I ended up cutting out early and heading down to my usual haunt, Heaven, even though I don’t usually go out on Saturday nights anymore. Normally, I’d be at
Rocky Horror
, but all my cohorts were back at Hillbilly High “Dancing on the Ceiling.”

That’s when I met Miss Peter for the very first time.

Waiting in line to pay my cover, I spotted him—I mean,
her
—right away wearing black capri pants with a black and white striped top that reminded me of something outta
The Pirate Movie
. You know, with Christopher Atkins of
The Blue Lagoon
fame, and the bad ass chick from
Little Darlings
, Kristy McNichols—I mean,
McNichol
.

“You do
not
wanna go up there,” the big-haired middle-aged man warned when I was about to fork over my five bucks. “The place is D-E-A-D.”

I had no other choice but to take his (her) word for it and follow him (her) into the bar downstairs. To be honest, I never even knew there was a second bar, let alone the fact that The Gas Station is also gay. Until I met Miss Peter and she filled me in. She says the fags are the only ones in Detroit willing to drive south of 8 Mile for a little fun and frivolity.

I remember commenting, “I like your sandals.”

“They’re espadrilles,” he (she) informed me, making a beeline for the bar. “Come along, Opie…I’ll buy you a Shirley Temple.” Did I mention Miss Peter’s got a voice that’s reminiscent of a cross between Brenda Vaccaro and Bea Arthur from
The Golden Girls?

We spent the rest of the night hanging out and talking till 2:00 AM. That’s when Miss Peter first told me about her friend Larry, and decided we’d make a perfect couple.

A month later, she finally got around to introducing us.

“I’m telling you…He looks like Fred over there.”

With her cigarette, Miss Peter gestured to the black-and-white framed poster of a totally hot half-naked guy holding a pair of Goodyears.

“Who?”

I couldn’t fathom any guy looking like the Greek god hanging on the opposite wall above the dance floor—fondly known as The Pit. Not because it’s nasty or anything, even though it totally is, but you have to take a few steps down to get to it, with the tables overlooking the area on all sides.

Miss Peter rolled her eyes. “Who have we been talking about?”

“Larry?”

I couldn’t help but wonder what a hot guy like that would want with a pipsqueak like me.

“Bradley,” Miss Peter said sincerely, sucking on her Parliament, “You’re a baby…Would I lie to you?” She stubbed the butt out in the ashtray. “Now bum me a ciggie, I’m out.”

The other cool thing about Miss Peter is she likes to smoke—a lot. In fact, I started calling her The Once-ler. ’member that Dr. Seuss special, the one with the Lorax? He’s that whiny little orange guy with the bushy yellow mustache who’s out to save the Truffula trees from being cut down and turned into Thneeds. And all you see is the arm of The Once-ler sticking out the window.

Well, one night after the bar closed, a bunch of us went back to Miss Peter’s apartment over in East Detroit. She sat there the entire time in this big old Papasan chair, buried in pillows, smoking up a storm…And all you saw was her arm reaching out every once in a while for the ashtray!

Hence the nickname.

“Who’s this Larry guy, again?”

I had to have Miss Peter remind me prior to her hot friend’s arrival, because truth be told, I was a little crocked the first time she ever mentioned him.

She daintily sipped her Captain Morgan’s and Diet Coke thru a candy cane–striped stir stick/straw before elaborating. “He’s the kid brother of my high school girlfriend.”

I almost choked on my fuzzy navel.

I wouldn’t wanna insult Miss Peter in any way, but I can’t imagine her ever having an interest in a woman, you know what I mean? Minus the 5 o’clock shadow, you might think she was one herself. I almost asked where and when she went to high school, but something warned me against it.

“You said his name’s
Larry?
”

I couldn’t help but make a sour face. I totally pictured McLean Stevenson from that sitcom
Hello, Larry
. ’member, he was a friend of Mr. Drummond’s from
Diff’rent Strokes
, and his two daughters were played by the girl from
Escape to Witch Mountain
, and the chick from
Jaws 2
. You know, the one Chief Brody saves at the end when he electrocutes the shark.

Miss Peter advised, “Don’t judge a book by its cover…Unless it looks like
that
.”

Sure enough, when I glanced over my shoulder to observe Larry making his entrance, I almost choked on my fuzzy navel for the second time…’member what I said about not picking up a guy at a gas station? In Larry’s case, I’d definitely make an exception. He’s SWB, dark hair, dark eyes, not the least bit gay acting at all, i.e., totally my type. Did I mention he wears plaid flannel and works in a body shop?

“Larry, this is Bradley,” said Miss Peter, making the formals. “Bradley, Larry.”

Larry reached out and shook my hand, something I’m discovering a lot of gay guys do, which I sorta like. His grip was sooo strong, I thought he was gonna crush my fingers.

“’s up?”

I’m not complaining or anything, but Larry sounded more like a Dumb Jock than a Total Fag. Now if only I could do the same. The last thing I wanted was for him to think I was a little girly-boy. Unless that’s what he’s into, then he could think whatever he wanted.

Miss Peter drained her drink, slurping loudly. “Like my tired old pussy,” she reported, “I’m dry.”

“Rum and Coke?” Larry offered, ready to make his way to the bar.

“You two stay here,” Miss Peter ordered. “I’m not an invalid, for chris’sakes!”

We watched as she stumbled away.

Shortly thereafter, a lull fell over the high-top table. I honestly didn’t know what to say. Guys like Larry never give me the time of day, let alone wanna
talk
to me.

“How do you know Peter?” he shouted over the wail of Donna Summer, surprising me when he didn’t say
Miss
.

“From here!” I leaned in closer so he could hear my reply.

Larry smelled of Polo, which normally, I loathe. Fucking pine tress, you know what I mean? My cologne of choice for a man is Drakkar Noir. Not for myself. I always wear Lagerfeld.

“So how old are you?” he asked, between sips of bottled Bud Light.

Wanna know what popped into my head and found its way outta my mouth?

“Eighteen.”

Larry smiled, showing a chipped front tooth, which I totally found to be hot. I wanted to reach across the table and run my finger along its sharp edge…But I resisted.

“I remember eighteen,” he sighed, like it was years ago. “So when did you graduate?”

Either he caught me off guard or I had way too much peach schnapps (or both), but I instinctively replied, “I still got another year.”

Larry gave me a quizzical look.

Quickly, I covered. “My mom held me back in kinny-garden.”

This is how I sometimes say
kindergarten
, mostly when I been drinking.

I guess I got worried Larry wouldn’t wanna go out with me if he knew I’m Jail Bait. Not that we’re gonna have
sex
or anything on our first date. Unless he wants to, then I’ll consider it.

“Where d’you go to high school?”

I watched him swig his beer, wrapping a thumb and forefinger around the longneck bottle in a way that reminded me of Luanne Kowalski. Only when Larry did it, it made me melt.

For a second, I considered saying somewhere glamorous like Huntington Woods or Pleasant Ridge. But I figured if we ever become boyfriends, Larry might wanna pick me up from school one day in his
truck
, and if I lied, then what would I do?

So I hesitantly replied, “Hazel Park.”

He responded,
“Hazeltucky,”
the way most people do.

So I made sure to point out, “But I live in Ferndale.”

Larry laughed. “Don’t apologize…I grew up in
Taylortucky
.”

Once we established we had the white-trash element in common, we continued chatting for the next hour or so. Miss Peter completely disappeared, and I completely forgot I planned to have
a
drink and head upstairs to Heaven.

“I don’t wanna keep you,” said Larry, giving me an out.

“Please…I’d much rather stay down here.”

He flicked the tip of his tongue at the hole in his beer bottle. “Why’s that?”

I blushed. “No reason.”

Larry reached out and tousled my curly locks. “Wanna go up together?” Unlike Miss Peter, I didn’t complain. In fact, this guy could manhandle me all he wanted!

“We don’t have to,” I decided, giving him an out. “It’s a dance bar.”

I couldn’t imagine Larry being the type of guy who actually
danced
.

“You kidding? I’m a regular Deney Terrio.” He flashed me his dopey chipped-tooth grin, took my hand, and led the way.

I don’t know how I ever made it up those rickety steps. The next thing I remember is hearing a song that reminded me of The Go-Go’s, and feeling a pair of hands firm upon my hips. Sure enough, Larry stood behind me swaying to the music, my head against his massive chest.

My first
real
dance.

I mean, with a guy.

Named Larry from Downriver.

“Pardonnez-moi…”

Round about midnight, I found myself seated at yet another table, this one tucked away in a dark corner beneath a framed picture that looked exactly like the Duran Duran
Rio
album cover.

When I looked up with bleary eyes, who did I see standing before us?

None other than the Matchmaker herself…Miss Peter.

I managed to mumble, “Hello,” my belly full of too much liquid. Nearby, a couple of lesbians played pool. For a second, I thought one of them was Luanne…Thank God it wasn’t.

All smiles, Miss Peter cooed, “I saw you out on the dance floor…Looks like you’re hitting it off.”

Larry squeezed my hand. “He’s a cutie, isn’t he?”

“Why do you think I introduced you?” Miss Peter bragged, taking full credit for the setup.

I couldn’t remember how or when mine and Larry’s fingers became entwined or which one of us took the initiative, but it sure felt nice being in the presence of somebody like him. He’s totally the type of guy I could walk around the mall with and nobody would ever suspect we were anything more than friends. Not that we are just yet, but you know what I mean?

“How you feeling?” Larry asked Miss Peter.

“Sober.” She toasted us with her empty rocks glass. “How ’bout another?”

I declined the offer, thinking how totally hungover I was gonna feel the next day waiting tables at Big Boy’s from noon till 8:00 PM. “I’m good, thanks.”