We Ride Upon Sticks

by Quan Barry

  “Cheese!” we shouted, though internally our heads filled with the sounds of a zoo at feeding time.

  Emilio says get fucked tonight! thought-yelled Jen Fiorenza.

  Outside, the photographer wanted one last shot of us. He had us take off our heels and stand barefoot in our hose on a brick wall in front of some ivy. Then he instructed us to jump off and do whatever the spirit so moved us to do, all while holding our sticks. It was dark outside but his assistants were aiming a series of lights our way.

  “On the count of three,” he said.

  “Wait a second,” said Mel Boucher.

  She began to untie the ratty-looking strip of blue fabric she’d temporarily wrapped around one of her fingers and moved it back to her arm. Jen Fiorenza had been hiding Emilio under a pair of lacy Madonna-esque gloves, the sock tied around her wrist. Becca Bjelica had used her part of Emilio to tie back her hair. Like brides on their wedding night we all shyly brought our share of the sock out into the light and boldly retied Emilio just above our biceps. Then we climbed up on the wall, and when the photographer counted to three, we leaped into the air screaming at the top of our lungs.

  We did it four times, and right before the fifth, Little Smitty dug a tube of face paint out of her bag and painted the good side of her face white. Then we made for the limos and sailed out into what had been sold to us as the second best night of our lives.

  * * *

  —

  When it came to kitschy roadside Americana, in the 1980s a short stretch of Route 1 in Saugus, MA, was ground zero. First up on what was locally dubbed Restaurant Row was Kowloon, an Asian restaurant with a giant wooden tiki god ensconced over the entrance, at night His Tikiness bathed in a soft pink glow, Kowloon’s whole setup both inside and out reeking of the banana-leafed mysteries of Polynesia. Next up was The Hilltop, a steak house with a forty-foot neon-green cactus overlooking an Astroturf range where plexiglass cows roamed free; from the highway you could see hordes of people wrapped around The Hilltop’s elongated entryway, said diners waiting upward of three hours to order the Holy Cow Burger with the famous Hilltop salad bowl. A little farther south down the strip was the Route 1 Miniature Golf & Batting Cages, where a sixty-foot orange T. Rex marked the entrance, the dinosaur purely decorative and not one of the eighteen mini-golf holes, which was kinda too bad since why not? Saugus was also home to the Tower of Pizza, a replica of Pisa’s Leaning Tower that jutted out toward the highway, a giant finger beckoning, ciao, bella. And just one town over in Lynnfield was the Ship Restaurant, whose name said it all, the thing red and life size and from the looks of it maybe even seaworthy.

  We will admit as residents of Boston’s North Shore, we often felt left out. Each time we drove down to Logan to pick up some distant relative we were reminded that poor Danvers just couldn’t compete with the idiosyncratic grandeur of Restaurant Row. True, up north on Route 1 in our neck of the woods there was The Banana, DB’s Golden Banana (if you’re nasty), a strip club with an electric-yellow awning. Over the years, many a misinformed gay man had stumbled into The Banana looking for some oblong fruit-inspired hedonism, but sadly for him, the dancers working the stage were strictly women. And sadly for us, The Banana was actually in Peabody and not Danvers. The best Danvers could do by way of memorable roadside kitsch was cute little Putnam Pantry, a tasteful ice-cream shop named for our Revolutionary War hero Israel Putnam, who was actually Abby Putnam’s great-great-great-great-something or other. The quote “Don’t fire until you see the whites of their eyes” was alleged to be something he uttered at the Battle of Bunker Hill, though the Battle of Bunker Hill was also allegedly something of a shit show (the revolutionary forces lost), so Abby didn’t talk too much about great-great-great-so-and-so Israel.

  While located in Restaurant Row proper, there was nothing obviously outlandish about Caruso’s Diplomat. Still, despite its lack of kitsch, it occupied prime real estate in our Route 1 imaginations. Throughout the years, anytime we drove south, Caruso’s made an impact on us not because of any overt camp it might have exuded but for its name. What the heck was a diplomat, we wondered, and, more important, why would one go there to eat? As we would come to find out, the Diplomat was a throwback to the days of Sinatra at the Sands, the Rat Pack lighting one another’s cigarettes ring-a-ding-ding. Basically Caruso’s was an event room reserved for functions, a big windowless space with round tables draped in white linen and what looked to us like the world’s tiniest dance floor. True, there were no streamers or balloons hanging from the ceiling, but it didn’t matter. The chandeliers and cloth napkins paired with heavy silverware were enough to make the Diplomat feel like the fanciest, most sophisticated space our teenaged selves had ever inhabited. If you paid attention you might even catch a ghostly whiff of the hair pomade of Dean Martin.

  That night as we the Class of 1990 filed in with our dates, the DJ was playing an assortment of instrumental songs, stuff like “Axel’s Theme” from Beverly Hills Cop 2 and the themes to Chariots of Fire and Miami Vice. At the door, we handed our tickets to Mrs. Emerson, the Home Ec teacher who was also our yearbook adviser. In return we were given little slips of paper that we were supposed to put on our plates, blue for beef, pink for chicken, yellow for what turned out to be scrod. There were no pat downs to get in, no metal detectors, no searching people’s bags, no breathalyzers. Principal Yoff (whose first name was John, i.e., Jack) stared long and hard at Little Smitty not because of the Contusion, which we were used to by then, but because of her half-painted warrior-like face. Little Smitty, never one to pass up a staring contest, especially one against an adult, gave as good as she got until Principal Yoff looked away, his gaze falling on the goods on display behind Jen Fiorenza’s lace dress, at which point poor Jack Yoff simply shook his head, probably feeling old, which he was.

  Field field field! Little Smitty thought-yelled, and pumped her fist as she walked by him.

  Hockey hockey hockey! we responded, and with that, it was official. We had arrived.

  As soon as we were inside and had secured two tables, we did what girls do when getting their bearings in a new location. We headed for the bathroom.

  Brunet Mark already had his camera out. In a weird way he was both prom date and parent in one. As Julie Minh walked off with the rest of us to powder our noses, Brunet Mark blew her a kiss, then snapped a picture. His camera was so out of date it actually needed a flashbulb. We watched as he pulled out a new one and swapped out the old, the thing pale blue and shaped like an ice cube. Thankfully, he only had a dozen of them, so his picture-taking days couldn’t go all night.

  The Diplomat’s bathroom was already crowded, but no matter. None of us were there to actually use the facilities. We had never seen a bathroom with an outer sitting room before, let alone two. The place was cavernous. Even Girl Cory was impressed by its magnificence, the series of chaise lounges lining the walls probably made of “rich Corinthian leather” Ricardo Montalbán–style. We thought of that show on TV, Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous. Maybe someday we would have a bathroom that big. Then we could invite our friends over and all sit around painting our toenails and live the glamorous life.

  Though ostensibly there to reapply our lipstick and make sure every inch of our claws was fully buttressed and supported, our secret agenda was espionage. Who was wearing what? Who looked good? Who might make it onto the court? Who would actually be queen?

  Were we catty? Yes. Did we try to hide it? Sorta. First rule of prom: tell everyone they look amazing. It didn’t matter if they looked like wet cat food served on a paper plate. You were supposed to smile and say, oh my God! You look amazing! If a girl looked really good, like good enough she might end up on the court, then you only complimented her if you yourself had no chance of making it onto said court. In other words, you didn’t compliment the competition. Or you could just be like Jen Fiorenza and compliment absolutely no one, the Claw already sparkling like a cro
wn thanks to some kind of industrial-strength glitter Jen had doused It with.

  Too bad whatever it was smelled like a combination of rubber cement and rotten eggs. Jen was already feeling woozy and we weren’t even ten minutes in.

  * * *

  —

  Here are the most memorable moments—the good, the bad, and the fugly—from the Danvers High Class of 1990 Senior Prom held at Caruso’s Diplomat, November 25th, 1989:

  For Mel Boucher and le Splotch, the best part of the night was ordering Sprite after Sprite and telling the waiter, “Put it on my tab.” Each time Mel said the words, a rush of energy sluiced through her veins. It made Mel and le Splotch feel like baby millionaires. At one point she waved her empty glass in the air at a passing waiter and simply barked, “Hit me.” Ah, the power of Sprite!

  The best part of the night for Jen Fiorenza was getting to walk around practically bare-chested with 100% impunity. She’d always suspected that if invited, the male half of the species would openly and happily ogle her, and her suspicions proved correct. Jen Fiorenza liked a good ogling, and a good ogling she got. We were still decades away from sex positivity and grrl power, the idea that a woman owned her own body and could do whatever the hell she wanted with it. But do with it she did. Hallelujah and pass the hot sauce! Jen Fiorenza and the Claw were living in 2089 while the rest of us mere mortals could only dream.

  For Boy Cory, the best part of the night was when the entire Class of 1990 somehow managed to pack itself on the dance floor and the DJ played “Dancing Queen” and he felt a strong hand grab his butt and squeeze the way you might grab an unripe avocado and without turning to look he knew it was Reed Allerton with his swimmer’s body and his smooth chest, Reed’s breath in his ear, just him and Reed gyrating to ABBA, not a care in the world, no hard feelings about Barbie Darling walking in earlier that night draped around Reed’s form like a human muff, no everything perfect, everything in balance.

  Wait, scratch that.

  The best moment of Boy Cory’s prom was when he and Reed met up in the alcove by the cigarette vending machine and for a secret second rammed their tongues down each other’s throats. Yeah, that moment was definitely tops in his book.

  Abby Putnam would never forget the moment a few hours after the prom when she and Bobby Cronin were sitting in the back of Bobby’s parents’ Toyota and Bobby was trying to get her to kiss it like she’d done on again off again a half-million times before. Abby glanced out the car window. In the sky, the moon was just a few days from full, its face warped but getting there. I’ve never had an orgasm, she thought, not even on my own. How many more moons would pass, she wondered. Then she felt a moonbeam on her skin. In the moment, its light burned stronger than any sun. Abby pulled off her petticoat, then her pantyhose, then her underwear, and put Bobby’s hand THERE. The goddess floated down to earth and helped her do her thing. Don’t fire until you see the whites of her eyes, boys! Abby’s pupils rolling so far back in her head that that’s all there was, whites everywhere, a slot machine coming up all dollar signs.

  For Girl Cory, the strangest moment of the night was when she opened her diamond-studded purse and found a photograph of herself at age six sitting on her father’s lap. Girl Cory hardly remembered her dad, who died in a sailing accident just a few months after the picture was taken. And there was “Philip’s” handwriting scrawled on the back. “True love always wins.” Bryan Adams’ “Heaven” was playing, and Richard Wolf, the handsomest boy at St. John’s Prep and the captain of the lacrosse team in addition to being a giant douchebag, was tugging possessively on her arm, trying to pull her onto the dance floor. She glanced again at the photo and realized her and Richard’s unworldly good looks couldn’t mask whatever was missing inside both of them. Then the moment passed, and she let herself be pulled out to dance in the arms of someone the world told her she should be with only because they were equally jaw-dropping.

  Little Smitty and the Contusion probably had the best night of anybody at the prom. Sometime in between the main entrée and dessert she painted half of Brad’s face white too. On the dance floor, she busted so many moves it looked as if she had three hands, her body everywhere at once. At one point, she parted the crowd like Moses working the Red Sea as she got down on her stomach and did the Worm across the parquet. For her, no one moment of the prom stood out. Her exploits that night could fill a book.

  For Julie Minh, being named Prom Queen by the DHS faculty (at Danvers High, students didn’t vote for prom king and queen, after various unfortunate events in years past) and dancing with the sunniest boy in the school, Prom King Peter Ridgely, who was small and round and had Down syndrome but was everybody’s friend, was the best moment of the prom and possibly even of her life. It almost made up for what she’d heard earlier in the bathroom. A group of girls were smoking in one of the stalls. They were talking about her purple tuxedo, how rad it was, but then one of them said something or other about Julie Minh’s mom and some other parent getting caught steaming up a car’s windows after a PTA meeting, and how Mrs. Kaling tried to blame it on the AC.

  Out on the dance floor, Julie Minh put Peter’s hands on her hips and slipped her arms around his neck as Brunet Mark circled the two of them, using up the last of his flashbulbs. The prom theme was playing, “I’ve Had the Time of My Life” from Dirty Dancing. She couldn’t remember who on the field hockey team had said it, but they were right—it was a hard song to slow dance to. She thought of the candle she’d lit in her locker on the first day of school, how her dream had come true and then some. She was prom queen, she had a boyfriend, and the cherry on top was finding out her saintly long-suffering mother was a whore. Boy, things sure would be different back home from here on out. Prom King Peter Ridgely playfully squeezed her hips with his hands. Yes, this was definitely the best night of her life. If there were some way to store the feeling in a can and save some for later, she would’ve paid any price.

  * * *

  —

  Meanwhile, back at the ranch, the Doctors Johnson were out at the Boston Garden. Isaiah Thomas and the Detroit Pistons were in town, and Mr. Johnson could feel it in his bones—this was the Pistons’ year (turns out he was right). AJ’s older brother, TJ, was home from Howard for Thanksgiving. He’d brought a friend of his home for the holiday, a bespectacled boy named Nate. Truthfully, AJ, Sue Yoon, and Heather Houston were just happy the two Howard men deigned to have them in their presence. In some ways, AJ, Sue, and Heather had the best night of anyone (excluding Little Smitty). They spent it watching black classics like Hollywood Shuffle and Cooley High and learning how to roll a joint, then learning the proper way to pass it.

  Heather had never laughed so hard in her life. It almost made her want to go somewhere like Oberlin where weed was as ubiquitous as salt. At one point when she got up to go get some more cheddar Goldfish, she ran into Nate in the hall coming out of the bathroom. “Hos got to eat too!” she yelled, a joke from earlier in the night. The frames of Nate’s glasses were a hip cobalt blue. Heather’s pink frames gleamed in the hall light. “You wanna kiss?” she said, all filters blown.

  “Sure,” said Nate. They didn’t even slip into one of the bedrooms. They just stood there going at it in the hallway, their glasses periodically bumping

  Even after someone yelled from the living room, “Where are those goldfish?” they kept right on kissing, the whole world suddenly brave and new. I can’t believe I’m doing this, thought Heather. Finally. Ab uno, disce omnes. From one, learn all. True, it wasn’t sex, but it was enough. Nate was a perfect gentleman. When she finally put a hand on his chest, he stopped and smiled, said thanks, then went back to his place on the couch just in time to watch Preach try to seduce Brenda with poetry.

  * * *

  —

  It was the moon with her lopsided face that put us all in touch. Little Smitty was the first to hear her call, the moon speaking sister to sister, c
rooked face to crooked face. Little Smitty looked up from her Moons Over My Hammy. After the music had ended and Caruso’s had slowly cleared out, the Class of 1990 once again sailed off into the night. This time, the patient limo drivers dropped each of us wherever we wanted. Consequently, she and Brad had ended up back in Danvers, first at Little Smitty’s house, where Brad’s car was parked, and then at the Denny’s on Endicott. They weren’t the only promgoers there.

  One table over a group of girls were splitting some mozzarella sticks. “I can’t believe Karen Burroughs didn’t even make the court,” one girl said.

  “Can you believe Julie Kaling got picked?” said another girl. “Yeah, the purple tux was far out, but that’s gotta be the first time a gook has ever been prom queen.”

  Calmly Little Smitty picked up her fruit punch and walked over to their table. Nine times out of ten she would’ve poured it right on the girl and her baby-blue dress, but tonight the not-quite-full moon was speaking to her, softening her edges. Instead, she poured the punch on the girls’ food, then walked cool as a cucumber back to where Brad was sitting.

  “You’re the best,” he said, in between bites of his lumberjack slam.

  “I gotta be sumware,” she replied. She could feel a slight itch in the Contusion.

  Brad slid his car keys across the table. “Knock yourself out,” he said. That was another thing she liked about him. Maybe it was the West Coast sun running through his veins. Maybe it was just how he was wired. Either way, at all times he was up for absolutely anything without question, a California Buddha, even up to being abandoned in Denny’s at one in the morning. Little Smitty kissed the tips of her fingers, and pressed them to his forehead. He then pressed his own fingers to the spot she’d just touched, and pressed them to his lips.

  Abby Putnam was the second to show up under the moon’s warped light in the woods by the reservoir. Her hair was down, a calmness radiating off her skin. As amazing as those few minutes in Bobby’s Toyota had been, going forward there would be no more hot and sweaty sessions in his car. After her heartbeat had come back down to its normal resting rate, she’d asked him to drive her to the reservoir. He’d done so eagerly, thinking more sex was on the horizon somewhere out in the woods by the water. But when they pulled up and he began to turn off the engine, she shook her head. “Nope,” she said, matter-of-factly. “You and I are done forever. Take care.”