Drama Queers! (20 page)

“Don’t apologize…I love The Judds.”

Sean returned the tape, and I breathed a sigh of relief.

“Oh, my God…You’re kidding?”

“Heartland’s
an awesome album,” he declared when I asked if I should buy it or not. “Totally.”

I said, “Thanks,” confessing, “It’s for my mom…For Christmas.”

Sean dropped his chin to chest in disappointment. “So you’re not a Naomi and Wynonna fan yourself?”

“I am,” I admitted, impressed that he called mother and daughter by their first names. “I just don’t meet many guys my age who even know who The Judds
are
…”

“What can I say?” Sean modestly replied. “Occupational hazard.” Then he asked, “So what
is
your age, anyways?”

‘member what happened the last time I lied to Larry the mechanic from Downriver? Keeping that fiasco in mind, I stated, “I’ll be eighteen on my next birthday.”

Sean grinned. “Look at you…Not even legal yet.”

I blushed. “I know…It sucks, right?”

“I don’t know…Does it?”

I was just about to say,
You should know…You already been there.

And then I got it.

This guy is totally gay and he’s totally flirting with me!

“H-h-how old are
you?
” I stammered, not knowing how to answer his question.

Sean replied, “I’ll be twenty-one next August,” as if he had one up on me just because he was older. Followed by, “I’m a Virgo, by the way.”

Like a dork, my face lit up. “So am I!”

“The 29
^th
.”

“September 4
^th
.”

I don’t know why, but whenever I meet somebody with the same sun sign as me, it’s like I immediately bond with them. Like somehow, our being born between the same thirty-day span connects us in some spiritual way or some shit. Why is that? It’s not like I’m a firm believer in astrology or anything, even though I totally read Joyce Jillson every day!

“So what’re you doing Saturday night?”

“I don’t know…” I played it coy. “Why do you ask?”

Now here’s the thing about being gay: it’s like it’s this secret society not just
anybody
can join. You gotta be a certain type of person, you gotta dress a certain way, use certain expressions to let others know you’re a member of The Club.

Up till this point, I didn’t know for sure if Sean carried a card. I had a stinking suspicion he did, from the way his eyes held mine when he looked at me, from the proximity of his (male) body to my (male) body as we stood together between Country and Classical.

Then he gave me the signal. “There’s this bar downtown called Heaven…”

That’s where I knew him from!

A few weeks back, I was standing in line, waiting to pay my cover…

“How’s your
boyfriend
, Nancy?”

I couldn’t help but overhear the guy in front of me talking to the girl in the Sally Jessy Raphael glasses who works the door. An inch or so taller than me, he had on a black leather biker-style jacket, black jeans slightly cuffed at the bottom, and black leather boots with two buckles on each. He wore his hair slicked back on the sides, and sorta poufed up on top, in a style reminiscent of
Grease
or The Stray Cats. I couldn’t quite see his face, but I had a feeling he was pretty cute. Sometimes you can just tell, you know what I mean?

Nancy answered, “Steven is good,” taking the man-in-all-black’s five bucks.

“Tell him we got the new Madonna twelve-inch at Harmony House…I’ll give him my employee discount.”

“Stop it!” Nancy ordered. “Steven is
not
gay.”

And Nancy isn’t fat…“She’s big-boned!” (Judy Tenuta)

She’s also got very large teeth. Rumor has it her uncle owns Heaven, so she can totally let in whoever she wants for free. Too bad she never does.

“You know what they say,” the guy in front of me said. “Takes one to know one.”

From the way he cackled, I had a feeling he was already wasted. I heard him say something about JP’s, which I’m told is a gay strip club in Canada where the guys go
nude
. Can’t say I ever been!

With her black magic marker, Nancy marked an
X
on the top of his hand, meaning N-O drinking. “I want my
Powertool
tape back,” she bellowed. Then she shouted, “Next!” and the guy, who I now realize was Sean, turned over his shoulder to smile at me before disappearing inside.

Back to the future…

“What the fuck were you doing out there?”

Sean asks me this once I climb into the safety of his (former) cop car and we’re back on the road.

“Freezing my ass off!”

Despite the heat being cranked full-blast, I can’t get warm.

“You’re lucky I recognized you…I almost didn’t stop.”

“You totally freaked me out…I thought you were a psycho killer!”

“Qu’est-ce que çest?”

Sean taps the wheel with a leather-gloved hand. I almost don’t get the Talking Heads reference, I’m so frostbit. I pray I don’t catch pneumonia from being out in the cold for so long.

Wouldn’t it be just my luck with New Year’s Eve coming up next week? I’m supposed to go to a party at Shellee Findlay’s house and I wanna ask Sean to come with…I’m
really
starting to like him, but I can’t tell if the feeling’s mutual or not.

“Drive faster,” I order. “I need a hot toddy!”

Sean gives me a look. “Too bad my name’s not Todd.”

Guess that answers my question!

As per usual, the lot behind The Gas Station is packed, so we find a spot on the street halfway down the block. The worse thing about going to a gay bar in Detroit is the parking situation. Lemme tell ya, there’s been many a time I had to literally
run
from my car outta fear of getting shot by a passerby. Or at least called
Fag!

I turn to Sean, about to make a break for it. “You ready?”

“Hold on a sec.” He places a hand on my shoulder, stopping me from opening my door. “There’s something I wanna do first.”

And then, as the song says…

He kisses me.

Splat!

Wanna know what that was?

The sound of 13-year-old Jodi Paterno puking all over Shellee Findlay’s kitchen floor at her house in Ferndale…I knew tonight was gonna be a trip.

It all began around 11:35 PM with me and Sean practically getting ourselves killed by a shit-brown boat of an Impala as we rounded the corner on 10 Mile looking for a place to park.

“Did you see the way that guy was swerving?” my passenger asked, climbing outta the car into a three-foot snow bank.

“Fucker!” I hissed. “I hope he crashes and burns.”

Why do all the crazies come out on New Year’s Eve?

And better yet, what are they doing out on the roads
driving?

We started crunching our way up Shellee’s street. She lives on Harris, two blocks east of Hilton, and down the road from Edison Elementary.

Sean asked, “Which house?” not knowing where the Findlay family lived.

“Can’t you tell?”

To me, it seemed pretty obvious: the beige one-story aluminum-sided number on the right with porch light aglow and all the cars parked out front.

“Is that a Rabbit on the lawn?” Sean asked, sounding totally shocked.

No, he didn’t mean a bunny as in Bugs. An actual VW found itself parked in the middle of the Findlays’ front yard. If I knew my Hillbilly High classmates, this was probably the handiwork of Tom Fulton and/or his jock friends, who have nothing better to do than get all drunk and act disorderly.

“Guess they didn’t party like this at Fraser, huh?”

That’s where Sean went to high school, Class of ’85.

Stepping up to the Findlays’ single step of a porch, I recognized the routered wooden
Home Sweet Home
plaque Shellee made in Mr. Bowdoin’s 7
^th
grade Wood Shop, back when she was still Shelly with a Y.

Knock knock!

I figured nobody could hear me over the obnoxious blare of some new band I can
not
stand, Guns N’ Roses, rattling the window panes…’member when ’80s music was actually good?

“I say we just walk in,” Sean decided, opening the front door and leading the way. Did I mention how hot he looked?

Dressed in cuffed jeans, wearing his signature leather jacket and buckle boots, his hair slicked back à la his favorite model/musician/singer-songwriter, Nick Kamen. Don’t worry, I didn’t know who the hell he was either till Sean clued me in.

‘member the Levi’s 501 commercial circa 1985 where the totally cute dark-haired guy walks into a laundromat looking about for an empty washer? “I Heard It Through the Grapevine” plays in the background as he removes his Ray-Bans. A pair of bratty-faced boys scrutinizes him while he dumps a bunch of rocks into the machine, for that sought-after
stonewashed
effect.

As the mother shoos away her sons, the guy strips off his black T-shirt and black leather belt before unbuttoning his button fly. Nearby, a woman wearing 3-D glasses and her friend giggle like schoolgirls. But the cute guy pays them no mind (hmmm…I wonder why), picking up a magazine and plopping a squat between them in nothing but his boxers.

Well, that guy happens to be the guy I’m talking about…Nick Kamen.

According to Sean, his debut album,
Each Time You Break My Heart
, came out last year, produced by Madonna…Who knew? Maybe it’s because he’s British, but I can’t say I ever heard of him. This seems strange to me, since the guy’s a Total Babe, you know what I mean?

“Watch it, Asshole!”

Wanna know who greeted me the second we entered the Findlays’ house?

I’ll give you a hint…

“Oh, it’s
you
.”

He’s the totally hot Sophomore who I totally love—I mean,
hate
.

If you said, “Richie Tyler,” you win the prize!

“Sorry,” I apologized, even though he’s the one who shouldn’t be standing behind the door totally blocking the foyer.

Richie grinned. “It’s okay…Don’t let it happen again.”

That’s when I heard the drunken shriek of a female voice.

“Don’t talk to my Chorale partner that way!”

Since we have more girls in 4
^th
hour than guys, I actually have
two
Chorale partners: Jamie Good and Tonya Tyler. And since I just saw the former make her way down the hall with her boyfriend, former boys’ Varsity basketball captain Jeff Rhimes, I assumed the denim mini-skirt-clad brunette swigging from a plastic two-liter of Sun Country strawberry daiquiri cooler must be the latter.

“What’s up?”

I’d be lying if I didn’t admit I was a tad surprised to see such a popular girl hanging out with the likes of a Sophomore. Until I made the connection: Tonya
Tyler
…Richie
Tyler
.

“You guys aren’t related, are you?” I had to inquire.

Mr. T informed us, “She’s my cousin.”

“No,” Miss T interjected. “You’re
my
cousin.”

An argument erupted over who’s whose cousin, what came first: the chicken or the egg, da-dah da-dah…Personally, I couldn’t care in the least.

Not because I don’t like Tonya, she’s a Total Sweetheart, even if she gets a little loud and obnoxious when she boozes. (Who doesn’t?) But the last thing I wanted at 11:40 PM on New Year’s Eve was to have a conversation with the (former) love of my life when the (hopefully) new love of my life stood by my side. Especially when former love looked totally hot sporting a white turtleneck with black pegged pants and suspenders hanging down around his waist, along with white slip-on shoes without socks.

On anybody else, this outfit would make the wearer look like a waiter. Or a penguin. Richie Tyler somehow made it work.

Damn him!

Quickly, I said, “Tonya and Richie, this is Sean…Sean, this is Tonya and Richie.”

Richie reached out a hand. “Actually, it’s Rich.”

Whatever…

I’m never gonna get used to
Richie
Tyler going by Rich.

“Hey.”

Sean totally sized The Sophomore up, even though he wasn’t aware I once had feelings for the boy, and therefore had no reason whatsoever to be envious.

Of course, Richie wondered, “How do
you
guys know each other?”

I prepared to launch into my spiel (not that it’s any of his business) when suddenly, from a far corner of the room, I heard a familiar shout.

“Dude!”

Max Wilson toasted me with a half-empty bottle of Bud, his close-set blue eyes now glassy and red. He stood chatting with our hostess, smoking what looked like a Capri cigarette.

“What’s up, Fox?” Shellee gave us her signature semicircular wave with pinky, forefinger, and thumb.

I excused us from the Cousins Tyler, leaving them to their spat. “See ya!”

Sean called out over his shoulder, “Nice meeting you,” then under his breath he sighed, “What a hunk!”

I replied nonchalantly, “You think?”

Nodding and smiling at a bunch of faces I barely recognized, we weaved our way thru the crowd.

Who invited all these children?

There must’ve been a dozen Freshmen from both Beecher and Webb milling about Shellee’s front room, totally wasted. I swear one girl looked like she’s ten.

Properly, I introduced Miss Findlay to my guest. “Sean…This is Shellee.”

“S-H-E-L-L-E-E,” Sean spelled, doing his best to impress.

“Very good, S-E-A-N.” Shellee nodded approvingly. “Where did Brad find you? You’re ca-ute!”

I explained our Oakland Mall connection, how we been hanging out this entire Christmas Break, da-dah da-dah. I didn’t go as far as to say that we’re (unofficially) dating, however. Not that I’m ashamed of Sean or anything, but I’d rather not run the risk of being judged right now. Especially with a room full of jocks, cheerleaders, and Vikettes who might overhear my confession.

“’s up, Dude?” said Max, smoke billowing in his face, Capri tight between his teeth. In one hand he held his beer, extending the other to Sean. “I’m Maxwell.”

Since when?

I said, “Me and
Max
have been Best Friends since 4
^th
grade,” even though he’s barely spent any time with me this semester now that he’s hanging out again with Jack.

Speaking of…

“Is Jack here?” I wondered aloud.

“Jackie Paterno?” Shellee’s bobbed head bobbed from side to side, crown-bangs firmly fixed in place by a fifth of Final Net. “I thought he was.” She made a face. “Ooh, I’m a little dizzy!”

For a second, I thought she said “ditzy.”

Speaking of
Jack
…Something told me Shellee had a little too much Mr. Daniel’s and Coke by that point.

“You just missed him,” Max reported. “He left with Tom Fulton.”

Figures!

I thought the shit-brown boat that almost ran me and Sean off the road seemed somehow familiar. I had to take back what I said earlier about it crashing and burning. I’d feel totally terrible if anybody I knew ever got killed in a car wreck, let alone my (former) Best Friend.

“His sister Jodi’s here,” said Shellee, gesturing towards her kitchen, which wasn’t very far from where we were standing considering her entire house couldn’t be more than nine hundred square feet.

“You’re kidding?”

Sure enough, 13-year-old Jodi Paterno stood by the refrigerator/freezer—right beside the washer/dryer—knocking back shots of Southern Comfort with Lynn Kelly, Angela Andrews, and Marie Sperling…Something I’m sure hers and Jack’s mom, Dianne, would
not
approve of in the least little bit.

“You wanna say hello?”

Sean asked me this, even though he wasn’t sure who Jodi Paterno was or how I knew her exactly.

I decided, with the inebriated state she found herself in, it was best to stay away. Until somebody I wished I
wasn’t
seeing made his way across the room in my general direction.

“Be right back.”

Leaving Sean to the care of Max and Miss Findlay, I beat a hasty retreat from Billy Idol wannabe Bobby Russell. I can’t believe he still wears his blond hair all spiked like that, circa 1983.

I made my way over to Jack’s sister. The poor girl looked up at me, lips crimson from too many wine coolers. I could tell from the haze in her hazel eyes, she couldn’t comprehend who I was.

“What are
you
doing here?” I asked, still not sure how she and her other junior high cohorts managed to crash.

“Jodi’s with us,” Angela Andrews informed me.

“Isn’t she a little young to be partying with the Seniors?”

Lynn Kelly answered, “All the Parkerettes were invited.”

Parkerettes are the junior high equivalent of Vikettes.

Sure enough, I looked around the room and saw a bunch of very young, very
drunk
girls being hit on by a bunch of wasted older guys. Thank God my sister, Nina, is (quote-unquote) special so she’s not friends with any of the girls in this crowd.

And that’s the precise moment when Jodi Paterno completely lost her cookies…

Splat!

“Sorry,” she sighs, slobber dripping down her chin.

Immediately, I go into big brother/Florence Nightingale mode, leading the girl down the hall to where I’m assuming I’ll find the bathroom somewhere.

“Coming thru, coming thru,” I warn the crowd, doing my best Marty from
Grease
impression…’member when the Pink Ladies are at the drive-in and Marty thinks Rizzo’s prego? And she’s like, “Lady with a baby.”

Nobody gives a shit, least of all the couple I find making out in the tub once I flip on the light, seashells and sea foam green surrounding us.

“Excuse me…”

This I say to Jamie Good and Jeff Rhimes, closing the door behind me. Did I mention Jeff graduated in ’87 with Luanne Kowalksi, and used to be a Band Fag baritone player back at Webb? Until he got to HPHS and gave up instrumental music because it was no longer cool.