Read Remembering Christmas Online
Authors: Drew Ferguson
Remembering Christmas (13 page)
“So how come you look like you're gonna cry?”
The sound of Kirk's baritone snaps me out of my melancholybaby moment. Shaking off my sorrow, I raise my stemware. “Cheers.”
“Here's lookin' at ya,” says Kirk, returning my toast.
Dinner is delicious. I polish off two plates, my abdominals about to burst. Yet I can't help but reach for another slice of garlic bread. (Love that Cole's frozen in a bag!) Kirk warns me to save room. But I can't possibly ingest another morsel, I'm so stuffed.
“Not even tiramisu?” he says, tempting me with my favorite dessert.
“Seriously,” I say. “I'm gonna throw up.”
He begins clearing away our plates, quoting from what I've come to learn as being classic Monty Python: “Not even one thin wafer?”
Holding my splitting sides, I demand, “Don't!”
Back in high school, I would
never
have found this type of British humor to be hilarious. Only geeks like Zack Rakoff and Claire Moody watched movies like
Life of Brian
and
Monty Python and the Holy Grail.
But if Kirk Bailey enjoys it . . .
never
have found this type of British humor to be hilarious. Only geeks like Zack Rakoff and Claire Moody watched movies like
Life of Brian
and
Monty Python and the Holy Grail.
But if Kirk Bailey enjoys it . . .
So many new pleasures have I come to take part in since making his acquaintance on the first day of this fall semester. In less than three months time, I've gone from being a Preppie, Birmingham wannabe to an all-black-wearing Alternative. Back in mid-September, if somebody had told me I'd be listening to Nine Inch Nails and Nitzer Ebb, I would've laughed in his face.
“Don't look now. . . .”
Of course I disobey the second I step through the doorway from the dining area. “Where'd you get the mistletoe?” I wonder.
“In the box with all the other Christmas crap my mom unloaded on me when I moved.”
Said items include: an assortment of figurines circa 1960s, a handmade 2½ by 1½ by 1½ foot wooden crèche complete with plastic Mary, Joseph, Baby Jesus (in a manger), Three Wisemen, some sheep, a donkey, and the ubiquitous angels, and an authentic “Electrified” Village. These objects we've strategically placed around the apartment, adorning the tops of bookshelves, the TV, the coffee table, and all the windowsillsâanywhere there's an available surface.
Truthfully, the room looks quite festive with the white lights delicately draped around the perimeter and the fully decorated, tinsel-less tree in the corner. (According to Mrs. Bailey, icicles are O-U-T.) I can't believe all the work we've done just for one single night. Come tomorrow, nobody's going to be around to enjoy the Currier and Ivesâinspired setting. If I had my way, I'd stay here the entire Christmas break. But my mother would kill me if I didn't come home for the holiday.
“You know what they say . . .” I say, harkening back to the holiday matchmaker hanging high over our heads.
“Huh?” says Kirk. Like he has no idea what I'm alluding to. Even though he's the one who brought it up!
Like I've said, maybe it's because I am indeed inebriated. Or maybe it's because it's the final day of class with only five more months to go until graduation. Soon John Robert Paterno and Kirk Edmond Bailey will descend upon the world. Who knows what could happen come May 21, 1992?
Throwing all caution to the wind, I lean in and kiss him.
Tongues touch.
Lips linger.
Pelvises press together.
He smells of Tuscany, spicy and sweet.
Suddenly, Kirk pulls away. “I can't do this. . . .”
Clinging to the present for as long as possible, I whisper, “Why not?”
Since the day we first met, there's been no denying the spark between us. I know Kirk senses it too.... How can he keep resisting?
“Brrr!”
Before Kirk's able to fabricate an excuse, the front door flies open. From around the corner comes the sound of a feminine shiver.
“In here!” he calls, going back to the dirty dishes, totally avoiding my gaze.
Always one to make an entrance, in walks my
least
favorite actress in the entire Department of Theatre, decked out in a white (what I hope is faux) fox fur. Snowflakes fall to the floor as she shakes out her mane of chestnut brown, wrapping her arms tight about her.
least
favorite actress in the entire Department of Theatre, decked out in a white (what I hope is faux) fox fur. Snowflakes fall to the floor as she shakes out her mane of chestnut brown, wrapping her arms tight about her.
“My God!” she exclaims. “It's fuh-reezing outside!”
“It's mid-December,” I say.
“Hello, Jack . . .” Raquel Loiseau regards me, clearly not amused to be breathing the same air as I. “What are
you
doing here?”
you
doing here?”
“He's helping me decorate for the party,” Kirk replies tersely, coming to my defense.
I gesture to the holiday explosion surrounding us. “Welcome to Santa's Bordello!”
Kirk continues reading Raquel the riot act. “What are
you
doing here?”
you
doing here?”
“Duh!” To her, it couldn't be any more obvious. “I'm here to see my
boyfriend
.”
boyfriend
.”
Lovingly, she's referring to Mr Bailey.
Ah, yes!
Why do I always fall for the wrong guy?
Talk about the worst holiday partyâever. Well, the soirée itself is fine. Most of the usual suspects show: Wayne and Guy. Dave and Shelly. Jim and Michelle. Sadly, Maureen couldn't make it. She's already headed home to “Long-k Island.” And Peggy, aka Ellen DeGeneres, I'm pretty sure went back to Bloomfield the day before. Or is it Bloomfield
Hills?
I can never remember where she grew up, exactly. Someplace fancyschmancy. Being that she lives in the duplex next door, I find it hard to believe when Bobbie arrives fashionably late. But who am I to talk? My mother is always saying I'll be late to my own funeral. Me and my Aunt Sonia, whose tardy genes I've apparently inherited.
Hills?
I can never remember where she grew up, exactly. Someplace fancyschmancy. Being that she lives in the duplex next door, I find it hard to believe when Bobbie arrives fashionably late. But who am I to talk? My mother is always saying I'll be late to my own funeral. Me and my Aunt Sonia, whose tardy genes I've apparently inherited.
Then of course there's
Raquel
.
Raquel
.
Was she ever surprised to see her boyfriend sitting down to a pre-party dinner with his
male
amigo! Sorry, not my problem. Kirk's the one who asked me to help him decorate when his girlfriend couldn't be bothered. In return, he offered to fix me a romantic meal. (Okay, maybe the “romantic” part I inferred.) Don't get me wrong, the trip to the salon did wonders for Miss Loiseau. She looked totally amazing when she finally arrived and interrupted us. I only wish her timing didn't suck so bad.
male
amigo! Sorry, not my problem. Kirk's the one who asked me to help him decorate when his girlfriend couldn't be bothered. In return, he offered to fix me a romantic meal. (Okay, maybe the “romantic” part I inferred.) Don't get me wrong, the trip to the salon did wonders for Miss Loiseau. She looked totally amazing when she finally arrived and interrupted us. I only wish her timing didn't suck so bad.
Once the other guests get there and Kirk starts playing host, he acts as if I'm not even in attendance. Every time I enter a room, he disappears. Downstairs, when I step out onto the dance floor, Mr. Bailey decides to stop boogying in favor of playing DJ. Sure, I took him by surprise with the lip-lock in the kitchen and all. I didn't expect it to happen myself. I was drunk. I don't know what came over me. . . . Guess I got caught up in the mistletoe moment.
Maybe I've been wrong about Kirk all along.
Maybe he really
isn't
gay.
isn't
gay.
Or maybe he's just not interested in me.
Thankfully, I've got the Christmas break to put some time and much needed space between us. To quote Chicago from their 1982 classic, “Everybody needs a little time away. . . .”
It Ain't Over 'Til It's Over
So many tears I've cried
So much pain inside . . .
So much pain inside . . .
âLenny Kravitz
Â
Â
Â
Â
Â
N
o matter how many times I return to “Hillbilly High,” it always feels like the walls are closing in. Not because being back is a reminder of how much I couldn't wait to get the hell out and really start living my life. It's as if the hallowed halls have literally shrunk. I used to think the exact same thing about Longfellow and even Webb whenever I went for a visit. But when I was a student at both of those schools, I was a whole lot smaller myself. Of course everything would seem bigger! How I ever managed to drink from that tiny kindergarten room fountain and sit at those miniature desks, I will never know.
o matter how many times I return to “Hillbilly High,” it always feels like the walls are closing in. Not because being back is a reminder of how much I couldn't wait to get the hell out and really start living my life. It's as if the hallowed halls have literally shrunk. I used to think the exact same thing about Longfellow and even Webb whenever I went for a visit. But when I was a student at both of those schools, I was a whole lot smaller myself. Of course everything would seem bigger! How I ever managed to drink from that tiny kindergarten room fountain and sit at those miniature desks, I will never know.
Now, only 3½ years after the fact, I can barely believe I ever spent any time roaming about this building. Or that I keep coming back. But I couldn't possibly miss my sister Jodi's senior year Christmas choir concert. Which is the only reason I've once again set foot inside this “Home of the Vikings” known as Hazel Park High School. Which is where I am now, sitting in the auditorium, waiting for the festivities to begin.
Personally, I wasn't a songbird back in my day. At least not while at HPHS. I did do some singing during elementary and junior high. In fact I was quite good, if I do say so myself. In fourth grade, our Vocal Music teacher invited me to join Chorus after hearing me sing soprano in his class. That same year we put on a big to-do where we sang the number one hits dating from 1955 (“Rock Around the Clock” by Bill Haley & The Comets) up until 1980 (“Rock With You” by Michael Jackson). Some of the songs were done as big group numbers featuring dances (“The Twist” by Chubby Checker, 1960, and “The Loco-Motion” by Little Eva, 1962). Others were assigned to smaller groups (“One Bad Apple” by The Osmonds, 1971âI sang lead as Donnyâand “Stayin' Alive” by The Bee Gees).
But my biggest turn in the spotlight came with 1959's “Venus” by Frankie Avalon. Some little old lady actually stopped me after the show and told me my voice brought tears to her cataract-covered eyes when she heard it. Honestly, I didn't know most of these songs (“California Dreamin'” by The Mamas & The Papas, 1965, and “Bridge Over Troubled Water” by Simon & Garfunkel, 1970) before we performed them. But I couldn't be more grateful to Mr. Derrick Diedrick for exposing me to the world of popular music.... I wonder whatever happened to him?
In eighth grade, my favorite English teacher,
Ms.
Cinnamon “Do you mind if I smoke?” Lemieux, got swindled into taking over Choir after the original director decided to up and switch to Computers. Poor Cin (as my best friend forever, Bradley Dayton, and I like to call her)! All because she had minored in Music, she got stuck with the sorriest bunch of so-called singers. At first, I didn't even sign up to take the class. Brad did. But when he and Cinnamon realized there were only
six
boys, none of whom could carry a tune with a proverbial handle, they recruited me. I had to rearrange my entire school schedule just to fit it in. And, boy, was I ever sorry I did.
Ms.
Cinnamon “Do you mind if I smoke?” Lemieux, got swindled into taking over Choir after the original director decided to up and switch to Computers. Poor Cin (as my best friend forever, Bradley Dayton, and I like to call her)! All because she had minored in Music, she got stuck with the sorriest bunch of so-called singers. At first, I didn't even sign up to take the class. Brad did. But when he and Cinnamon realized there were only
six
boys, none of whom could carry a tune with a proverbial handle, they recruited me. I had to rearrange my entire school schedule just to fit it in. And, boy, was I ever sorry I did.
Not that I didn't enjoy a second helping of Lemieux Love. I just couldn't stand any of the guys who were in the group. Except Brad, of course. He and I, being Teacher's Pets, got away with practically everything. (Maybe that's why the other boys hated us so bad?) We spent more hours hanging out in the back office attempting to teach ourselves Journey's “Don't Stop Believin'” on the piano than we did rehearsing any of the tunes Cinnamon chose for our repertoire. These happened to be “Flashdance . . . What a Feeling,” from the film of the same name, and “Up Where We Belong,” from
An Officer and a Gentleman
. To this day, I still haven't had the pleasure of seeing this particular Richard Gere masterpiece. Though I did enjoy his recent performance in
Pretty Woman
(“Hello, Daddy!”), which I saw up at The Berkley for a buck-fifty.
An Officer and a Gentleman
. To this day, I still haven't had the pleasure of seeing this particular Richard Gere masterpiece. Though I did enjoy his recent performance in
Pretty Woman
(“Hello, Daddy!”), which I saw up at The Berkley for a buck-fifty.
Over and over
we sang these same two songs. (Well, Cin did talk me, Brad, and these three lowlife losersâwho shall remain namelessâinto performing Billy Joel's “For the Longest Time” at one of our concerts, without any real rehearsal whatsoever. As lead, I literally had to write the lyrics down on my hand so that I could remember them. Talk about being the laughingstock!) Cinnamon couldn't help the fact that she wasn't able to teach us anything else. Her means were meager, since she specialized in Bassoon.
we sang these same two songs. (Well, Cin did talk me, Brad, and these three lowlife losersâwho shall remain namelessâinto performing Billy Joel's “For the Longest Time” at one of our concerts, without any real rehearsal whatsoever. As lead, I literally had to write the lyrics down on my hand so that I could remember them. Talk about being the laughingstock!) Cinnamon couldn't help the fact that she wasn't able to teach us anything else. Her means were meager, since she specialized in Bassoon.
But since this was Hazeltucky we were dealing with, the school board considered Ms. Lemieux more than qualified to take over as Vocal Music Director of Webb Junior High School. And Brad and I loved Cin to death, so we didn't mind her being an “Incompetent Buffoon” as our Band teacher, Mrs. Jessica “Friends hold you back” Clark Putnam, had dubbed her. Thank God for Cinnamon's sake, the next year she up and abandoned teaching altogether so she could follow some man down to Florida. Sadly, the relationship didn't last but six months. The school year after that, she was back teaching my brother Billy's second grade class at Longfellow.
“Good evening, ladies and gentlemen . . .” A manly bass booms over the sound system. I look up from my program to find a familiar face appearing onstage through the crack in the curtain. “My name is Harold Fish, and I'm the Director of Vocal Music here at Hazel Park High.” Better known as “Call Me Hal” according to Brad, who was a member of the top choir called Choraleâno idea why! (Our mutual buddy, Max Wilson, and I used to always tease Brad about it being a “horse thing.”) “We thank you for attending our annual holiday concert,” Mr. Fish continues. After being under the bright lights for not even two seconds, he's already becoming a sweaty mess. Fortunately, Hal's got his trusty hand towel at his side to mop off his brow. “Without further ado, we wish you a Merry Christmas. . . .”
Like magic, the curtain parts, revealing a wintery wonderland: a group of high school girls decked out in holiday sweaters decorate an artificial tree. Others gather around, all snug and cozy, in front of a non-roaring fake fireplace. From the rafters, bits of white paper fall like snowflakes. My sister stands leaning against a pathetic grand piano (what can you expect from Hazeltucky?), ready to sing her little heart out. She looks super cute in her red and green plaid skirt with black turtleneck, matching tights, and permed shoulder-length bob haircut.
Immediately, I recognize the song they're destroyingâI mean
singing
âas one of my particular faves: “Do They Know It's Christmas?” by Band Aid. Too bad that song didn't come out until ninth grade. Brad and I could have talked Ms. Lemieux into letting us sing it. Instead, we got something called “Jazz Gloria,” a riff on “Gloria in Excelsis Deo,” but with a Caribbean twist. It's no wonder I dropped out of Choir after that experience.
singing
âas one of my particular faves: “Do They Know It's Christmas?” by Band Aid. Too bad that song didn't come out until ninth grade. Brad and I could have talked Ms. Lemieux into letting us sing it. Instead, we got something called “Jazz Gloria,” a riff on “Gloria in Excelsis Deo,” but with a Caribbean twist. It's no wonder I dropped out of Choir after that experience.
“Jackie Paterno!”
An hour and a half later, who do I run into in the lobby outside the auditorium? None other than the former love of my life, Joey Palladino. Talk about a Blast from the Past! Of course he looks as hot as ever. Same tall, dark, and handsome Joey who I first fell for how many years ago? Same black leather jacket hanging off those same broad shoulders. Same long, muscular legs filling out a pair of Bugle Boy jeans. Same sunshine smile, same cherry lips . . . Not to mention those chocolate eyes.
“What's up?” Joey asks, sounding as surprised to see me as I am him.
I explain my situation, how I'm home on break from Michigan State and here to see my sister's performance. Turns out Joey came to the concert with his family, as his brother also sings in Chorale. (I almost forgot Jodi and Tony used to go together when they were both in junior high.) Speaking of . . . Little Tony sure has grown up to be quite the good-looking young stud, I must say! I almost didn't recognize him as the six-foot-two hunk of Italian sausage singing and dancing about the stage in a white tuxedo shirt with teal cummerbund and matching bowtie.
Hubba hubba!
“I'm here till the twenty-seventh,” Joey says, snapping me back to reality. “We should hang out sometime.”
“Sure,” I say, happy to make time for an old flameâI mean
friend.
friend.
Hard to believe I last saw Joey on the football field at graduation: June 16, 1988. As Brad and I like to say, “We are getting sooo old!”
Speaking of...
Back at my parents' house, the accordion-fold door opens into what used to be my bedroom, and my best friend since seventh grade appears, all bundled up like he's ready to embark on a journey across the Arctic tundraâas opposed to going out to a gay bar.
“Today!”
“What's up?”
Standing at the full-length mirror, I've been futzing with my hair for almost half an hour. I don't know how Luke Perry manages to keep his bangs all swooped up the way he does. I use gel; I use hairspray. . . . I still don't look like the dude. Though most people compare me to Jason Priestley. Which is fine. He's cuter. Why can't anyone else remember him being on that series
Sister Kate
with Stephanie Beacham circa 1989?
Sister Kate
with Stephanie Beacham circa 1989?
“Let's go,” Brad orders. “We gotta get to The Gas Station by eleven.” By which he means the bar we're going to. Not an actual gas station.
“Why so early?” I wonder.
“Because . . . Everybody and their gay brother is home for Christmas break. If we don't find a spot in the lot, we're stuck parking on the street. And you know what that means. . . .”
“We get shot?” I ask, going along with our recurring joke. Not that it
is
a joke. I can remember on more than one occasion Brad and I driving downtown and fearing for our lives as we literally ran from the car, accompanied by the word “Faggots!” being screamed our way. God, I love Detroit!
is
a joke. I can remember on more than one occasion Brad and I driving downtown and fearing for our lives as we literally ran from the car, accompanied by the word “Faggots!” being screamed our way. God, I love Detroit!
“Plus, I promised Miss Peter we'd get there ASAP so she doesn't have to sit all by herself.”
“How is The Once-ler doing?”
I don't think I've seen Miss Peter since last Christmas vacation when she invited us over for a holiday party at her apartment in East Detroit. (I still can't believe they're trying to change the city's name to East
pointe
in order to disassociate themselves from Motown. We'll see if it takes.)
pointe
in order to disassociate themselves from Motown. We'll see if it takes.)
Brad rolls his eyes. “You know. . . . Still smokes like a chimney. Still drinks like a fish.”
Immediately, I imagine middle-aged Miss Peter propped up on a bar stool, legs crossed, sipping one of many Captain Morgan and Diets. “Does she still wear espadrilles?”
“Only when the weather's just right.”
Sticking a small silver hoop through my left lobe, I clasp it shut. Then I take note of Brad's aural nakedness. “Where's your earring?”
He tells me, “I took it out,” sounding somewhat disappointed.
“You're kidding?” Distinctly, I recall the cold winter evening back in 1990 when Brad and I decided we couldn't possibly partake in the Erasure concert at Masonic Temple without first maiming ourselves in homage to homo front man, Andy Bell. Not sure why we felt it necessary to drag straight Max down with us. Other than the fact that he first introduced us to
Wonderland
during sophomore year at Hillbilly High.
Wonderland
during sophomore year at Hillbilly High.
“My mom didn't like it,” Brad reveals. “She said it made me look gay.”
“You are gay,” I remind him.
“Yeah, but she doesn't know that,” he says. “At least not officially.”
This tidbit comes as a tad bit of a surprise. As long as I've known Laura Victor-Dayton-Victor, she's been nothing but supportive of her son and his so-called sexual orientation. One time, she even went with him to this gay bar called Gigi's where she witnessed him performing in a drag show as Alexis Winston from
Ice Castles
. I would have thought four years later, Brad wouldn't still be hiding in a closet. Though who I am to talk? I still haven't said a word to anyone in my family about my homosexuality. “What they don't know won't hurt them,” I always say, quoting some sensible person, somewhere.
Ice Castles
. I would have thought four years later, Brad wouldn't still be hiding in a closet. Though who I am to talk? I still haven't said a word to anyone in my family about my homosexuality. “What they don't know won't hurt them,” I always say, quoting some sensible person, somewhere.
“All set?”
Making sure I've got everything: keys, wallet, condomâjust in case I should get some “sump'n-sump'n”âI take one last look around. Hard to believe the spot we're standing in is the exact same space where Brad and I passed so much time together, back in the proverbial day. The minute I moved out, my father turned the place into his own personal rumpus room.
The bunk beds may be gone, and the knotty pine paneling stripped of its
Days of our Lives
paraphernalia, but if these walls could talk . . . Oh, the tangled tales they would tell! The nights spent lying in the dark, discussing which guys we'd think were cuteâif we were
girls;
reading through the torn and tattered trashy gay romance,
Now Let's Talk About Music
; or the night we conducted a séance, desperate in our attempt to contact the dearly departed spirit of
Making of a Male Model
and
Cover Up
star, Jon-Erik Hexum.
Days of our Lives
paraphernalia, but if these walls could talk . . . Oh, the tangled tales they would tell! The nights spent lying in the dark, discussing which guys we'd think were cuteâif we were
girls;
reading through the torn and tattered trashy gay romance,
Now Let's Talk About Music
; or the night we conducted a séance, desperate in our attempt to contact the dearly departed spirit of
Making of a Male Model
and
Cover Up
star, Jon-Erik Hexum.
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