Drama Queers! (29 page)

“Not if you’re gonna keep acting this way,” I retaliated.

For the first time, Richie looked at me. “Acting what way?”

“Like a Total Baby.”

“Fuck you!” he spat. “I don’t need your shit.”

I spat back, “Then get the fuck outta my car!”

Richie didn’t move. He just sat in his seat, staring straight ahead.

So did I.

Wouldn’t you know? At that precise moment, Whitney Houston started singing some sappy song on the radio. By the chorus, we were
both
crying.

Years ago, I used to listen to this program called
Pillow Talk
on WNIC. The DJ, Alan Almond, had this totally smooth voice, and he played songs like “When I’m with You” by Sheriff and “Somone that I Used to Love” by Natalie Cole. Tune after tune, it tore my heart out. Except back then, I didn’t know what it was to
really
love somebody…The way I did now.

How is it that a stupid love song can capture the essence of human emotion? How can some singer/songwriter come up with a bunch of words that describe precisely what so many of us are going thru at a particular moment, when they never even met us before?

After what felt like forever, the both of us freezing cold, The Sophomore said softly, “Please come in.”

I wanted to. But I knew I shouldn’t. The last thing I needed was for him to get me inside his house, and start getting all
Ryan
on me. I’d never be able to say what I knew must be said.

“I can’t,” I decided, opting for better safe than sorry.

“Fine…Then tell me why you’re doing this.”

I assumed he was back to wondering why I dropped out of the film.

Did he
really
wanna know?

I can’t be in
Faded Flowers
with you because I don’t want people thinking I’m a fag
.

I care more about my acting career than I do about you
.

I don’t know what the fuck I want anymore
.

“I’m totally broke,” I admitted. “I can’t be taking time off work like I thought I could.”

Apparently, that’s not what Richie was referring to.

“I’m not talking about the goddamn movie, Brad…I wanna know why you’re breaking up with me.”

Hold the fucking phone!

Correct me if I’m wrong, but don’t you have to actually be somebody’s boyfriend before you can break up with them?

“I wanna hear you say it,” Richie continued, once again in Molly Ringwald mode. “You’re ashamed of me.”

I had to laugh. “It’s not
your
fault you’re a Sophomore.”

Obviously, he didn’t find my humor funny.

“You don’t remember, do you?”

Suddenly, the subject changed. Again, I felt totally lost.

“The winter of 7th grade…You and Bobby Russell…Green Acres Park…”

That’s all he needed to tell me.

‘member at the beginning of the year when I first met The Sophomore, and I totally didn’t recognize him? Then I ran into him at
A Christmas Carol
auditions…

“You don’t remember me, do you?”

“From the other day in the Band room…Sure, I do.”

“I mean, from before…You were my Band Aide.”

‘member how embarrassed I was because me and Jack used to refer to Richie as “the faggy little 7
^th
grader who played flute in Prep Band and carried his books like a girl?” But at least we never said anything mean about him to his face…I can’t say the same for Bobby Russell.

On the day in question back in 1985, me and Bobby were on our way over Bobby’s house to smoke some pot (and fuck around after the fact). Richie happened to be lucky enough to cross our path, and Bobby decided to be a Total Dick to him. I remember him saying something like, “Where’s your flute, you little fag?” And Richie was like, “I’m not a fag, I’m not a fag,” in the whiny little fag voice he had at the time.

Bobby ended up chasing Richie across the 1–75 catwalk, and cornering him in the Calvary Baptist parking lot where he was all like, “Shut up, you little fag.” And Richie was like, “Make me.” Next thing I knew, I was helping Bobby drag Richie to Bobby’s house where he proceeded to do just that.

Please don’t ask me what went on exactly, just know I wasn’t involved
physically
.

“We’re not breaking up.”

This was all I could say to Richie at that point as he sat silently in my car.

“We’re not?”

He sniffled a little, wiping the snot from his nose.

“How can we?” I wondered, masking my frustration with more laughter. “We’re not even going together!”

He looked at me point blank. “Then what the fuck’s been happening between us for the past month?”

“We been rehearsing for a film.”

Richie scoffed. “This is just another part you’re playing? None of this means anything
more
to you? It’s all about some stupid movie!”

“I never said it was stupid.”

He looked at me, puppy-dog eyes pooling. Now it was Richie’s turn to plead. “Don’t do this, okay?”

As much as I hated it, I knew I didn’t have a choice. Especially if what Christopher told me in New York was in fact true.

“I can’t be your boyfriend.”

Tears flowed.

“Why not?”

I swallowed hard. “I’m not a
fag
.”

Liar!

As if this night couldn’t get any worse!

Wanna know where I’m spending
my
Valentine’s Day?

Go on, take a wild guess.

“This place is D-E-A-D.”

Sitting at The Gas Station with Miss Peter, drowning our sorrows in high-octane, all the while listening to unrequited love songs on the jukebox. Did I mention Janelle and Ted got married yesterday? Their wedding was nice, but just another reminder of how
everybody
but me manages to find their True Love.

“It’s Sunday,” I say, trying to account for the lack of eye candy and the emptiness of The Pit. “Maybe they’re all at Menjo’s.”

With the exception of me and Miss Peter seated side by side on stools, and Mike-the-mohawked-bartender bare-chested at his post behind, there’s a total of
zero
other guys in the entire bar.

“And to think I wasted this outfit…”

In honor of the holiday, Miss Peter sports a pink off-the-shoulder sweatshirt, à la
Flashdance
(“What a feeling!”), a big broken heart stenciled on the front. On her feet she wears ballet slippers. Covering her lower extremities, leggings—I made the mistake of calling them
tights
. Big mistake!

“I like your fairy wings.”

When she first arrived, I complimented the homemade feather-covered pair she had strapped to her back, along with one of them container-thingies that holds the arrows…A quiver, maybe? Thank God the pink tips are only plastic suction cups.

“I’m Cupid,” Miss Peter croaked. “Not a fucking fairy!”

No comment.

To quote Rizzo from
Grease
when she turns to Marty after spying Crater Face Balmudo in the Rydell High parking lot, coming up with a plan to score a date for the
National Bandstand
dance contest: “I think our luck just might be changing.”

Thru the door walks a very attractive man. Tall, dark, and handsome, you could even call him with his slicked-back hair, parted on the side, and matching mustache. An olive-drab trench coat drapes his broad shoulders. He wears tan slacks, a plaid button-down shirt, open just enough at the collar to reveal a patch of hair sprouting up from his chest. He looks a tad bit like a teacher, but he’s definitely a man. As opposed to some 15-year-old
boy
, like the one I been pining away for the entire evening.

“Well, well, well…”

Miss Peter becomes an entirely different person the second she spies School Teacher Guy walk past us. Her eyes sparkle, a smile dances its way across her only-moments-before dour face.

Seconding the emotion, I echo, “Well, well, well…”

“I could sure go for some baked ham,” Miss Peter muses, without taking her eyes off the prize.

“Some baked ham sure would hit the spot,” I concur. “Don’t you think so, Mike?”

Mike chuckles to himself. “You girls are insatiable.” This doesn’t stop him taking a break from restocking the refrigerator with Bud Light bottles to peek over his shoulder. “Mmm mmm mmm…Baked ham
does
sound good right about now.”

Baked ham
is one of our code words. Like when one of us sees somebody we like and we wanna make it obvious to the other without coming out and blatantly saying so. Last week it was
casserole
.

School Teacher Guy pulls up a stool about five feet away from us. “Can I get a Bud?”

Miss Peter just about wets herself at the sound of his voice. Not since Jon-Erik Hexum have I heard such a deep, resonant bass.

“So…?” she says, a little louder than usual, even for how inebriated she is.

“So…?” I repeat, trying to pique STG’s interest.

Too bad his eyeballs are glued to the TV above the bar where some spandex-clad speed skater does laps around an ice rink in Calgary, Canada. The Winter Olympics only started yesterday, and already I’m sick of them interrupting my regularly scheduled ABC programming. Like tonight, I’m missing Dolly Parton’s new variety show,
Dolly
. I only caught a few episodes, but some of my favorite guests so far include Juice Newton, Emmylou Harris, and Miss Piggy.

I’d be lying if I didn’t admit I’m a big fan of the Olympic Games, particularly the winter ones. Call me stereotypical, but my favorite event has gotta be women’s figure skating. This might explain my passion for
Ice Castles
.

Starting with Dorothy Hamill in ’76, I fell in love with the sport, even though I was only six at the time her (and her haircut) took home Olympic gold, so I barely remember a thing. I do, however, recall seeing the commercials the following Christmas for the Dorothy Hamill doll.

It wasn’t till four years later that I developed a serious passion for the sport while watching the 1980 Winter Olympic Games held in Lake Placid. I distinctly remember skating around our sunken-in family room in my stocking feet, pretending I was the dark-haired American contender, Linda Fratianne, sporting my sequined skating dress, displaying my perfect axels, triple toe loops, and triple salchows. I was sooo bummed (and outta breath) after watching poor Linda skate her butt off and only win the silver—what a gyp!

“Me thinks I need another…”

My cup far from runneth-ing over, I decide I could use a refill.

“Allow me,” Miss Peter offers cordially. “It’s the least I can do since you were
dumped
on Valentine’s Day.”

This last part she says at the top of her voice, for the benefit of our new arrival, I’m sure.

“Hey!” I cry, totally taking offense. “I’m the dumper here, not the dumpee.”

Miss Peter shakes her head, winking at Professor Studly. “Sure you are…”

Reaching for one of her love darts, she draws back her bow and lets her arrow go. Luckily, Miss Peter is already wasted off her ass, not to mention her aim sucks to begin with. The arrow falls to the floor with a thud, missing its mark by a bijillion miles.

“You girls need something?” asks Mike.

I just about cream my jeans watching him suction-cup the toy to his massive man tit.

The only reason Mike’s even here tonight is because Heaven isn’t open on Sundays and, believe it or not, he’s single. Being the good guy he is, he decided to give the regular bartender the night off and come slumming with the rest of us losers. Only thing is, Mike gets
paid
to be here!

“What-choo havin’, Opie?” Miss Peter turns to me, slurring her words only slightly.

“Sloe gin fizz.”

With the entire bar draped in red, I figured I might as well match my drink to the décor and switched from fuzzy navels. What stinks even more about this whole V-Day situation is…I been plotting it out in my head for like the last month as to how exactly I wanted to spend the holiday: alone with Richie as Ryan and Noel.

Mr. and Mrs. Tyler went away for another bowling tournament, and we were gonna have the entire house to ourselves. I specifically requested the night off from Big Boy’s, so I only had to work 10:00 AM–5:00 PM at the Gap, allowing plenty of time to go home, shit, shower, and shave, and be over Richie’s by 6:00 PM for a romantic candlelit dinner of chicken parmigiana, garlic bread, and mixed-greens salad, which he promised to have ready and waiting on the table.

I even bought a new pair of Calvin Klein undies up at Hudson’s for the special occasion, in case we ended up rehearsing any of our Ryan and Noel love scenes, you know what I mean?

“Bottoms up.”

Mike returns with our drinks in hand.

His massively large hands, matching the rest of his massively large, totally perfect body.

Why can’t I find a boyfriend like Mike?

Because I don’t
want
one…’member, I’m not a fag?

Liar!

Making the most sour-looking face I ever seen, Miss Peter lets out a serious moan. “What is in this drink?”

Mike replies, “Captain Morgan’s.”

“Captain Morgan’s and…?” Miss Peter quizzically questions.

“Captain Morgan’s and Coke.”

This Mike says with a slight trace of uncertainty.

“Well, no wonder if tastes like ass…I asked for Captain Morgan’s and
Diet
.”

“My apologies…I’ll take it back.”

Mike reaches for Miss Peter’s glass, but she isn’t giving up the ghost.

“Oh, no…This one I’m keeping.”

Miss Peter slurps her Captain and Coke as Mike makes her another
avec Diète
. She’s practically done with the first by the time the second appears.

“Sorry about that.”

Reaching into her man-purse, while at the same time firing up a Tareyton, Miss Peter instructs, “Just take it out of this,” flinging Mike a $50.

“Your money’s no good here, ma’am,” her informs Miss Peter, doing his best Wild West barkeep impersonation.

“Since when?”

Mike nods his head towards our not-so secret admirer.

“It’s nice to see
somebody
take pity on a couple of single girls,” Miss Peter sighs with glee.

“Sorry, guys…Wasn’t me.” STG downs his Bud and signals for another. “Yo!”

Wanna know who we see standing just
beyond
School Teacher Guy?

Go on, take a wild guess!

Both are tall and handsome—one dark, the other fair.

At first, I don’t recognize them on account of they’re the last two people I expect to find at The Gas Station on a Sunday night, let alone on Valentine’s Day.

“Bradley,” says the dark one, nodding his gorgeous head of hair my way.

“What’s up?” asks the other, shit-eating grin on his beautiful blue-eyed face.

Obviously, Miss Peter doesn’t recognize them either.

“Those boys are cute!” she squeals. “Let’s go over and say hello…We’re gonna
starve
if we wait around for some baked ham.”

I can’t help but follow the fifteen feet to the end of the bar with Miss Peter dragging me along as her human crutch.

“What are you guys doing here?” I inquire, the second we’re within speaking range.

“It’s Valentine’s Day, isn’t it?” the older of the two responds. “We’re celebrating.”

“Isn’t that sweet,” Miss Peter coos. She raises her glass, offering a toast. “To young love…What’s your name, bitches?”

“Noel and Ryan,” supplies the happy couple’s younger half. “I’m Noel…This is Ryan.”

“Charmed,” Miss Peter replies, drunkenly yet still demure.

Before she gets a chance to extend her hand, I cut in. “No…You’re
Richie
and he’s
Joey
.”

Miss Peter does a double take. “Richie from Scrooge, Richie? I thought you said your name was Joel.”

I explain to Miss Peter that Richie and Joey are working on an acting project for school, in which they portray characters named Ryan and
Noel
—with an
N
. Like a lot of Drama Queers, they sometimes get carried away with playing pretend, so we have to indulge them.

“I’m a big fan of role play,” Miss Peter quips. “Care to join Opie and I for a cocktail?”

Now it’s Joey’s turn to do a double take. “Opie?”

Richie replies, “Don’t ask.”

As if this night couldn’t get any worse!

I properly introduce Miss Peter to my so-called friends, and we take our seats. Luckily, there happens to be two empty stools between us and our stingy new friend, the school teacher. I make sure to grab the one on the far side, keeping as much distance from Noel and Ryan as I possibly can. My plan is to sip my sloe gin in silence, and let Miss Peter do all the entertaining while I smoke a cig-rette.

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

“So what are two nice boys like you doing in a dump like this?”

Richie begins, “We were in the neighborhood—”

Miss Peter interrupts, “You mean the
gayborhood
?” She laughs so hard, she starts hacking up a lung.