1½ ounces lemon juice
1–2 tablespoons sugar
MY PISCO SOUR RECIPE
8 ounces cheap brandy
2 squeezed lemons from the neighbor’s withering tree
5 tablespoons powdered sugar
I wasn’t messing around. Needless to say, Pat was in.
“Oh my God, this beverage is to die for!” Pat shrieked as I poured him another. He must have been so thrilled I was mixing him a drink for the first time that he completely overlooked the fact that it tasted like hard children’s lemonade-stand lemonade.
“All right, so, ah, should we go for a little drive?” I asked him as he stared back at me cockeyed.
“Wait, Charlie. Hold your pony just a second. First will you tell me the story of when you were a kid and realized you were chubby?”
Every single time Pat gets drunk, he begs me to tell the story of when I used to be fat and then pretends that he’s never heard it before. I have no idea why he showed a particular fondness for this story. Maybe my emergence from the fat closet was an incidentally relatable social allegory. Maybe he just found humor in picturing me as a young portly boy with long wavy locks and a love of Looney Tunes shirts. Regardless, I really wasn’t in the mood to relive my plus-size years, but I also knew we weren’t going anywhere until I did. I figured a bit of self-humiliation was a small price to pay to get Pat to come out of the closet. So, I caved and gave him what he wanted.
There was no scientific explanation for my weight gain, but for some reason, between the ages of nine and twelve, I got quite plump. My mom believes it was an “emotional reaction” from witnessing her getting mugged on the streets of New York City, but I think it had more to do with the discovery of peanut butter M&M’s. On Halloween I would trade away all other types of candy for peanut butter M&M’s and then hoard them under my bed for the year. The bursting of my belt buckle was minor in comparison to the satisfaction I got when a peanut butter M&M burst in my mouth.
Looking back on it now, my main problem was that I didn’t realize I was becoming overweight. It was as if my recently added fat was blocking a signal to my brain that was saying, “So … you’re looking a little husky, my friend.” But this self-denial was not the case for everyone else around me. My dad recently admitted that when he used to watch me play soccer, as I was galloping down the sidelines after the ball, he would whisper under his breath, “Look, there goes my son, Fatty McDowell. Oh, and he took a tumble to the ground. Big surprise.”
“All right, so I guess the story begins—”
Pat stopped me. “Tell it like you normally do. With my favorite opening line.” Ugh, all right …
“There was once a time in my life when I had bigger tits than my sister.…”
It was the summertime after fifth grade, and I was in the meatiest state of my life. I was with my family vacationing on Martha’s Vineyard, a place we had been going ever since I was a toddler. But this summer was different from the others; something magical was in the air, and that was because Primo’s Pizza had just opened up about a mile away from us. I was excited to try the place that some of my “islander” friends described as “the best thing to happen to the island since the nude beaches.” As a twelve-year-old who had just discovered masturbation and loved to eat, this looked like it was going to be an incredible summer.
I’ll never forget the first slice I ever ordered from Primo’s Pizza. It was a simple cheese slice. I had no idea at the time that one slice would start a chain reaction of many slices in the days to come. But the pizza was that good. Thin but not frail, cheesy but not lame, oily but not enough to want to soak up with a napkin.
My first week I eased into ordering pizza slowly, only getting one slice. But the second week I watched the kid in front of me, a true visionary, as he demanded, “Two slices of cheese off the rack.” I had never heard of such a thing. What was this “off the rack” that he spoke of? My question was answered when his pizza was handed to him in under ten seconds, instead of the usual fifteen minutes. So, “off the rack” meant to forgo the heating-up process and to take the lukewarm pizza as is. That wasn’t illegal? Genius. As you can imagine, I followed suit.
By week four I was eating “three slices of cheese pizza off the rack” every single day and was even pouring on extra Parmesan. I went from being a cute pudgy kid who loved peanut butter M&M’s to a fat-ass who was addicted to pizza. But the sad part was I was still in denial about my growing girth. That is, until week five …
“Three slices of cheese pizza off the rack, please,” I said directly to Primo himself in my soft polite voice. I considered a fourth slice but noticed there were only three pieces left on the rack and there was no chance my hungry belly was going to wait around for another pizza to get made.
Unfortunately, the place was jam-packed and it was hard for me to tell whether Primo had heard my order or not, as he was busy rolling the dough for a brand-new pizza. I started to get a little frantic. The other register had just opened and the teenager next to me looked very hungry. What if he knew about the “off the rack” program?! Then he would be the one enjoying the last of the slices, while I waited around for Primo to get his act together.
“I’ll take three slices of cheese pizza off the rack, please,” I said once more, this time a little louder and with more bravado. But yet again, Primo did not acknowledge my existence. My blood pressure was running on yesterday’s pizza slices, and I was beginning to get cranky.
I eavesdropped on the kid next to me as he ordered: “Can I please have two slices of pepperoni and a slice of cheese …”
Oh, thank God, he knew nothing of the rack.
“… off the rack.”
That son of a bitch! Now there were only two slices of cheese left on the rack, and I was sure that the rest of the kids in line were starting to understand the benefits of the no-heating process. I needed to act fast. It was now or never. I took a deep breath, cleared my throat, and prepared my voice for a level that Primo was sure to hear.
“Give me my damn pizza!” My prepubescent voice ricocheted off of every pot and pan in the joint. Not only had Primo become aware of my presence, but the entire pizza place had as well. I was slightly embarrassed, but relieved that this little mishap would now get straightened out and soon I would be enjoying my pizza.
Primo marched toward me. He did not seem happy. “You’re going to need to calm down, miss.” My body froze. Did he just call me miss? I wondered. Impossible, I must have heard him wrong. I bet he meant to say mister but got bored halfway through the word and called it a day at miss.
“Excuse me?” I asked, reverting back to my soft polite voice.
“We’re very busy today. But I’ll get it for you now, little girl,” he responded.
Still in shock, I looked down at my body and realized for the first time …
“… that you had tits bigger than your sister’s,” Pat chimed in, putting an end to my tragic story.
“Yep.”
“Well, did you end up eating those two slices of cheese off the rack?” he asked.
“Of course. But after that I never had a slice of Primo’s Pizza again,” I responded.
“Aww, fat little Charlie. Rest in peace.”
“You ready to go for a joyride in my car now?” I asked, jingling my keys.
“Hells. To. The. Yeah! Let’s go drive like the mad men—oh, I love that TV show—that we are!” He always has to one-up me.
THE GIRLS ON SINGING AND LYRICISM
Dear Girls Above Me,
(singing) “Ovvvulation. Ovvvulation. Ovulation, ovulation, ovula-a-a-a-tion.” You’re not allowed to be around men today.
Dear Girls Above Me,
(singing) “The answer my friend, is blow jobs in the wind, the answer is blow jobs in the wind.” So I see you figured it out.
Dear Girls Above Me,
(singing Aladdin) “I can show you my tits. Shining, shimmering, hard nipples.” You didn’t even have boobs when Aladdi
n came out!
Dear Girls Above Me,
(while throwing up) “I blame it on the a-a-a-a-a-alcohol.” I’m pretty impressed you had the determination to say it like that.
Dear Girls Above Me,
(singing) “When the moon hits your eye, like a big pizza pie, that’s vagina. DaDaDaDaDaaa.” Did you guys bake pot brownies again?
Dear Girls Above Me,
(singing) “I love Zac Efron cause he’s so delicious, gone goldfishin’.” Thanks for getting this stuck in my head at the DMV.
Dear Girls Above Me,
“I want a guy who’s gonna meet me half way, like the Black Eyed Peas song.” I want a girl who doesn’t quote the Black Eyed Peas.
Dear Girls Above Me,
(upset) “And on top of that Fergie was wrong, big girls do cry.” Please stop living your life to the words of the Black Eyed Peas.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
It was a brisk night, but I decided to put the top down on my fifteen-year-old convertible anyway. This way Pat and I would feel as if we were a part of the gay pride parade without having to get out of the car. Pat’s skinny body was shivering, but he was too drunk to notice or care. I could tell by his exaggerated scoffs that he was not happy with my music selection. Pearl Jam had way too much electric guitar and too many metaphorical lyrics, not enough of an electronic beat, and certainly no Auto-Tuning. But this was Pat’s night, and I wanted everything to go smoothly, so I changed the radio station until I found something I knew he would bob his head to.
“This is definitely the Pussycat Dolls’ best song,” he said, hinting to me that I had found the station he wanted to listen to. He then belted out every single lyric from the song without missing a beat. As if that weren’t impressive enough, he knew all of the words to the next song as well. And the next. And the one after that. I tried to think of just one song to which I could sing every lyric. The only one that came to mind was Billy Ray Cyrus’s “Achy Breaky Heart.” A classic never dies.
I think a lyrical memory is something you’re either born with or you’re not. Since Pat is able to listen to a song just once or twice and remember it, he was clearly born with this talent. Cathy and Claire, on the other hand, not so much. I mean, they can remember lyrics all right, but they’re never the correct lyrics. Everyone has had their fair share of misheard lyrics, but these girls take it to a whole new level. I know this because at least once a day, often while I’m just about to fall asleep, they start singing these malapropisms at the top of their lungs.
Here are my favorite “lost in translation” lyrics from the girls above me:
KATY PERRY
“FIREWORK”
THE REAL LINE:
“ ’Cause baby, you’re a firework.”
THE GIRLS ABOVE ME SING:
“ ’Cause baby, you love firewood.”
MAROON 5
“MOVES LIKE JAGGER”
THE REAL LINE:
“I’ve got the moves like Jagger.”
THE GIRLS ABOVE ME SING:
“I’ve gotta prove I’m a jaguar.”
Edit: They eventually did figure out that last one, but they don’t seem to know who Mick Jagger is. Claire thought he was the movie reviewer for Rolling Stone, to which I gave partial credit.
MICHAEL JACKSON
“SMOOTH CRIMINAL”
THE REAL LINE:
“Annie, are you okay?”
THE GIRLS ABOVE ME SING:
“Annie, eat your own cakes.”
THE BLACK EYED PEAS
“BOOM BOOM POW”
THE REAL LINE:
“Boom boom boom, gotta get-get.”
THE GIRLS ABOVE ME SING:
“Yum yum yum, get a Kit Kat.”
DR. DRE AND SNOOP DOGGY DOG
“NUTHIN’ BUT A ‘G’ THANG”
THE REAL LINE:
“Ain’t nuthin’ but a ‘G’ thang, baby.”
THE GIRLS ABOVE ME SING:
“Wearing nuthin’ but a G-string, baby.”
ADELE
“ROLLING IN THE DEEP”
THE REAL LINE:
“We could have had it all. Rolling in the deep.”
THE GIRLS ABOVE ME SING:
“We could’ve had to crawl. Oh, and the meat.”
GUNS N’ ROSES
“SWEET CHILD O’ MINE”
THE REAL LINE:
“Whoa, oh, oh, sweet child o’ mine.”
THE GIRLS ABOVE ME SING:
“Ho, ho, ho, the child is blind.”
EMINEM
“LOVE THE WAY YOU LIE”
THE REAL LINE:
“Just gonna stand there and watch me burn.”
THE GIRLS ABOVE ME SING:
“Just gonna stand there and watch Bieber.”
SUBLIME
“SANTERIA”
THE REAL LINE:
“What I really wanna know, my baby.
What I really wanna say, I can’t define.”
THE GIRLS ABOVE ME SING:
“Well, I really wanna know, Jan Brady.
What I really wanna say, I can’t eat limes.”
Pat sang along to the radio with enough vivacity to rival Little Richard. Sure, he was drunk and a little looser than normal, but the amount of passion he conveyed through each and every syllable was something to be seen.
“Come on, sing with me!” he said as he held his imaginary microphone to my lips. I felt as if I were trapped in the opening-credits sequence to The Hills.
“I don’t sing,” I responded.
“What are you talking about? I’ve heard you sing in the shower before!”
“Yeah, but I haven’t done that in a long time.”
“Since when?” Pat asked.
“Since … I don’t know.” I wanted to change the subject, but my drunk, irritating roommate wouldn’t let me.
“Charlie … since when?”
Oh, wow, he pulled the first-name card. How had he turned his “coming-out night” around on me? To be fair, he didn’t yet know he was going to come out. “Well, if you must know, the last time I sang was in Las Vegas,” I said.
“Vegas? What happened there?”
“Something I would like to forget …”
I have always been someone who finds karaoke to be incredibly uncomfortable. To me it’s a lose-lose experience. If you’re really bad at karaoke, then everyone judges your painful squawking performance, and if you’re really good at karaoke, then there’s something sad and depressing about you. I’m also convinced that when you’re singing, you think you sound a lot better than you actually do. I’ve participated only one time in this obnoxious activity. As I said, I was in Las Vegas, which was bad enough to begin with, and I was somehow coerced into getting up onto a stage in the middle of a trashy casino to sing Seal’s “Kiss from a Rose.” I’m not going to lie, I quite love that song and felt as if it were the hymn that best represented me, and the Batman franchise. So I decided to go ahead and give it my all: “There used to be a graying tower alone on the sea.…”
I’ll be the first to admit that I started off a little rocky, but by the time the chorus kicked in, I was definitely American Idol top-five-contestant-worthy. “Baby, I compare you to a kiss from a rose on the gray,” I belted out passionately, of course, from a kneeling position. By gauging the people’s reaction in the casino, I figured that I was singing at about an eight out of ten (I even got an elderly lady to glance up from her slot machine). But more important than that, my choreography added heft to the emotional performance, which scored me at least a 9.5.
I don’t remember much from while I was up there, which had nothing to do with alcohol and everything to do with my transformation into the body of Seal, the original artist, minus the facial scarring. When I saw my friend Justin filming the concert from the front row, I was reminded for a minute that I was not Seal. His gigantic grin was an infuriating distraction, especially during the second verse, when I tripped up a bit. But I was happy for the documentation and
was definitely going to ask him to post it on Facebook so all my ex-girlfriends could see how far I’d come. There’s nothing more gratifying than having a girl who once loved you wish she was still your main squeeze. To me, this video was well worth all of the countless hours of heartache and pounds I’d gained from eating away my feelings.
“Now that your rose is in bloom …” Dramatic pause. “A light hits the gloom …” Turn my back to the crowd and have a personal moment. “On the …” Turn back around and look up at the ceiling while slowing raising my fist above my head. “Graaaaaaaaaaaaay.” Wait for the applause … wait for it … and … there’s Justin’s clap and a few other unknown adoring groupies.
I hopped off the stage and immediately grabbed Justin’s video camera.
“Dude, that was hilarious,” he said as I pressed PLAY.
What did he mean by hilarious? Since when was a sincere pitch-perfect performance humorous? I looked down at the screen. The beginning was a little shaky, but I knew that the chorus would make up for it. Then, when the chorus came in, I was paralyzed by how bad I sounded. Not only that, but the dance moves that I had believed to rival Michael Jackson’s looked more as if I were channeling Psy in the “Gangnam Style” music video. Was it possible that Justin had quickly doctored the video and this was an elaborate prank?
“You were so funny up there,” Justin said with a chuckle that made me want to punch him in the face.
“Thanks. I felt like the room needed some comedy,” I responded, completely disheartened.
“Well, you sure gave it to us. Oh, man, I can’t wait to post this on Facebook!”
Dear Girls Above Me Page 17