Dear Girls Above Me

by Charles McDowell

“Oh my God, I totally saw that video on Facebook! You were pretty awful,” Pat chimed in.

  “Thanks.” Geez, talk about kicking a dog while he’s down.

  “Sorry, I’m drunky. So where are we going, anyway?” Pat asked.

  “Wherever the wind takes us, my friend.” Pat brings out the cheesiness in me. There was no one else on the planet I would have said that to.

  I steered our vehicle on a southwest course, and it was only a matter of minutes before we arrived in “Boys Town.” I had done my research and knew the exact street to drive down in order to get stuck in the most traffic (something someone who lives in L.A. has never done). A couple of blocks away I could hear the rumblings of a catchy beat, which was basically the same sound that was coming out of my car’s stereo. Pat was in his own little drunken world with no idea what we were about to “stumble” upon, until, all of a sudden, one specific musical note caught his attention. He perked up, seeming completely sober, and looked around for the origin of this sound.

  “Was that the opening note to Gaga’s ‘Alejandro’?” he asked.

  “Umm, I’m not sure,” I responded, wondering if it had been a rhetorical question.

  As I made the final turn, almost at Santa Monica Boulevard, Pat’s question was answered. In front of us was the most vibrant spectacle I had ever seen. Thousands of people, all different racial types, men and women of every age, stood in front of us in the celebration of being gay. The energy that filled my convertible was electric. It sort of felt all of a sudden like stepping in front of a high-powered fan, except this fan blew ultra-gay air. And, yes, the DJ, who was wearing only a sock (and not on his foot), was blasting Gaga’s “Alejandro.”

  I glanced over at Pat, whose surprised reaction made him look as if he were a kid seeing the castle at Disneyland for the first time (or so I’m told). I would not have been shocked if he had stood up in my car and screamed out into the glittery parade, “Honey, I’m home!”

  “You idiot! Now we’re going to be stuck in this traffic!” he shouted at me, pretending to be actually pissed off. I guess this wasn’t going to be as easy as I thought.

  We sat in my car, totally gridlocked, watching as the floats crept by one by one. Pat pretended to be miserable, but he was not able to cover up his initial excitement when a theme he liked marched in front of us.

  “Oh my God, they’re totally dressed as McKinley High School faculty members from Glee!” Catching himself, he added, “The female babes on that show are super sexy.”

  As Pat remained conflicted, I sat there totally enjoying myself. The parade offered the thrill of a circus, except these participants had all of their teeth and were incredibly good-looking. However, I was most impressed, although not surprised, by the creativity and artistry of each passing float. Every one of these mobile structures showed such individuality, apart from one theme that seemed to connect them all: rainbows. The winner, if I had been a judge, was a re-creation of Rainbow Road from Super Mario Kart. The float was made up of two massive figure-eight rainbow tracks. On the tracks were people dressed up as each Mario character. They sat in homemade go-karts, racing each other in circles. They replicated it almost exactly like the video game; the only difference was that in their version, Luigi was a transvestite.

  All right, it was time to begin the process of broaching the subject of the day with Pat. My hope was that I wouldn’t need to outright interrogate him and that he would come out with it, literally, in the flow of a conversation. He had been given more than enough time to process the extravaganza in front of us. How could he deny his true sexuality any longer after seeing the joy on those sailors’ faces aboard the “Butt-Pirate Ship”? Even I considered embarking on their vessel and helping them hoist up the rainbow mainsail. Plus, I secretly wanted one of their colorful papier-mâché parrots for my shoulder.

  “Hey, Pat?” I looked over at my roommate.

  “Yeah?” He continued eyeing the parade as the grand finale made its way down the boulevard.

  I probably should have just simply asked him the proposed question. He was one of my best friends, and apart from one major roadblock, we told each other everything. He was one of the few people in my life who had seen me at my happiest and my lowest moments. And although his “I’ve so been there” relationship advice was terrible because he had so never been there, I still appreciated every word. I now wanted to be there in the same way for him. Just as real friends don’t let friends drive drunk, well, real friends also don’t let friends act straight when they are gay. It was time.

  “Don’t you think it’s beautiful that there’s a place where gay men and women can go to feel accepted?” Thanks to that guy in the coffee shop, I had my introduction.

  “Umm, yeah, I guess so,” he responded suspiciously.

  But that didn’t back me down even for a second. “I mean, look out there. What do you see?”

  “Well, I see a guy dressed in lederhosen swinging around his nipple tassels.”

  “Yeah, but beyond that, what do you see?”

  “Okay. I see a group of men in flip-flops and Speedos, and on their asses it says ‘U.S.gAy,’ ” he answered.

  “Look through them, Pat!” Had he never heard a metaphor before?

  “Well, I’m trying to, but there’s a huge advertisement for Nair in the way!” he yelled right back. I guess not.

  “You’re not understanding me, Pat.”

  “Understanding what? That’s what I see!”

  “You don’t see a bunch of people being honest with themselves? Feeling truly accepted for who they are? You don’t see real human connection out there? People who are so in love with one another and know that no matter what society thinks of them, they would rather die than not be together? You don’t see any of that?”

  Pat squinted his eyes, trying to find the float I was talking about. But, sadly, I could tell that I hadn’t even made a dent in his protective armor. He shook his head.

  “Can we go home now?” Pat asked in a somber voice. He put his hoodie up and cranked the music, letting me know he wasn’t interested in communicating any longer. I guess I had tried to pull him out of the closet with a little too much force.

  My plan had failed miserably. And worse than that, I had upset my dear friend. I looked out into the sea of sparkling men, taking in their good spirits one last time. I made a mental note to return to next year’s festivities, but to remember to bring a blanket and a girlfriend. Who knows, maybe Pat would even be a part of the parade by then. Possibly on the “Skittles: Taste the Gay-bow” float? They seemed to be having the most fun.

  When we got home, Pat disappeared into his room to take a phone call, a real one (I could hear the person on the other line), not a fake one like I usually do to remove myself from an awkward situation. I was left alone with my thoughts. Thankfully, the girls above me were home so I could distract myself with some background chatter. Unthankfully, they were discussing “how swollen a vagina gets for the week after childbirth.” But then, something useful actually traveled from their apartment, through the vent, and into my room.

  Somewhere between post-childbirth vaginas and Real Housewives of New Jersey analysis (I was pleased that both of them shared my opinion that Teresa’s an opportunistic bitch), Cathy and Claire discussed their friend Jasmine, or as they refer to her, Jazz Hands. Apparently, Jazz Hands’s makeup addiction is getting out of hand—er, out of jazz hand. Cathy and Claire were worried that her excessive purchasing of makeup products was masking, quite literally, an insecurity she had due to slight facial scarring from years of acne. They brought it up to her a few times in a “nonjudgmental way” (I’d love to hear those conversations), but Jazz Hands would clam up and get defensive.

  “Sometimes, it’s like, we just assume people don’t already know themselves. Like how Teresa on Housewives has no clue what a wretched whore she is. But sometimes they really do know. And all we can do is let them figure things out at their own pace while letting them know that we’re th
ere to support them,” Cathy philosophized.

  Holy shit. Did that just happen? This profound insight that presumably formed in Cathy’s brain and traveled out of her mouth with articulate execution had just made me recognize that I was going about this entire Pat thing all wrong. In an instant I was guided to the realization that my job was to be there for Pat when he was ready to come out on his own terms. It was never about Pat coming out, it was about Pat letting me in.

  After the excitement of my newfound awareness subsided, I sat there stunned that I was actually guided to this realization by the girls above me. I couldn’t help but wonder if there was more to them than I initially thought. Were they philosophically in tune with certain cosmic insights that we “normal people” couldn’t possibly fathom? Was I living beneath the modern-day, female versions of Proust and Nietzsche, if Proust and Nietzsche had inside access to the new Manolo Blahnik line that you “can’t even get until next season”? I silently sat there, petrified that I had horribly misjudged the girls above me—

  “Sorry, I completely missed what you just said about Jazz Hands, I was Google Imaging swollen vaginas after childbirth. And FYI, I now understand why Angelina adopts those African babies.”

  Okay, maybe I didn’t entirely underestimate them. Thanks for bringing me back down to earth, Claire.

  Later that night, I was in the bathroom, making sure my receding hairline hadn’t subsided any further since last night’s inspection. One strand seemed to be missing. Probably from the stress of my day. When I began brushing my teeth (the second time), I heard a knock at the door. Pat poked his head in.

  “Hey, thanks for getting me drunk tonight.”

  “Yeah, no problem,” I said with a mouth full of toothpaste.

  “Also, the parade was really … colorful.”

  “Yeah. It was, wasn’t it?”

  He nodded. “Okay, well, good night.”

  “Good night, Pat.”

  I was climbing into bed, getting ready to call it a night, when I heard a familiar song echoing through the walls of our apartment. An unspoken acknowledgment that can only come from someone who has a flair for the fabulous. Playing softly from Pat’s room, I heard … “There used to be a graying tower alone on the sea.…”

  THE GIRLS ON HOLIDAYS

  Dear Girls Above Me,

  “Supposedly if you get wasted the night before New Year’s, your hangover isn’t as bad on New Year’s.” Words from a true alcoholic.

  Dear Girls Above Me,

  “I don’t understand weather talk, but it says there’s a 10% chance it’s going to rain on New Year’s. Is that high?” Are you high?

  Dear Girls Above Me,

  (phone) “Mom, if I come home for Thanksgiving, I want calorie signs beside each dish.” That was all the Native Americans wanted too.

  Dear Girls Above Me,

  “She’s dressing up as a pumpkin? Just a pumpkin!? So shady, I don’t trust this bitch.” Agreed, never trust something not slutty.

  Dear Girls Above Me,

  “We should celebrate by going to the hospital and looking at newborn babies!” Or you could celebrate Labor Day by getting a job.

  Dear Girls Above Me,

  “She was a major buzz kill talking about death and war. I wanted to be like, relax, it’s a holiday weekend!” Happy Memorial Day.

  Dear Girls Above Me,

  “What the hell does Easter have to do with Jesus anyway?” You don’t know? He’s the one who hires the Bunny.

  Dear Girls Above Me,

  “So far my biggest disappointment of 2011 was realizing that real bowling is way harder than Wii bowling.” You’ve had a rough year.

  Dear Girls Above Me,

  Throwing a Cinco de Mayo “partaay” over the weekend means you’re just getting drunk on a Saturday. Regardless, Happy Ocho de Mayo!

  Dear Girls Above Me,

  “I hate St. Paddy’s Day cause I look fat in green although getting pinched secretly turns me on.” I live under you, it’s no secret.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Whenever the girls above me say the words I have the best idea everrrrr, I know that something terribly bad is going to happen. I can’t recall there ever being an occasion that their “best idea everrrrr” was even a moderately good one. And not only that, it changes on a daily basis. So that means that yesterday’s “best idea everrrrr” really only lasted for twenty-four hours, instead of its promised “everrrrr,” because now all of a sudden there is a new “best idea everrrrr.” When I start to calculate what today’s “best idea everrrrr” is going to be in a few days, I get dizzy and need to lie down. I think it might have to do with an overload of R’s.

  What’s even harder is overhearing ideas that Cathy and Claire believe to be exceptional but that I know from their past experiences will only bring them sorrow, disappointment, and a trip to the gynecologist. But it’s my duty to respect their integrity and protect the stable ecosystem of their apartment by not interfering with them. I’m not going to pretend it’s been easy, because it hasn’t. There have been many times that I’ve wanted to lend a neighborly hand, but I have had to learn to let Mother Nature follow her own course and allow the girls to make their own mistakes.

  I witnessed the girls so distressed that they had to wait “a whole ’nother day” for the Bachelor finale, even though I knew it was on live TV at that very moment. It was driving me crazy knowing that they were missing it. I came very close to yelling out “Employee!” while I listened to Claire practice for her entry-level-job interview: “So, that’s why I want to be your employer.” And for a month I had to listen to Cathy learning a Spanish “phrase a day” in preparation for her “trip to Italy!”

  Knock on wood, these little mistakes and mishaps haven’t caused the girls any permanent damage. I would feel such guilt knowing that I could’ve saved them from acquiring a nasty STD (some people have good “gay-dar”; well, I have good “STD-dar”) but instead was forced to keep quiet so as not to blow my cover, although there was one specific incident where I came very close, so close that I was inches away from their door, getting into position for a Kramer entrance. But this was a life-and-death situation, and I couldn’t just sit there eavesdropping and do nothing about it. I didn’t care that I was breaking nature’s code and proving to have no future career as a National Geographic cameraman. This finally proved that my top-notch stalking skills were beneficial to their survival.

  Cathy speaks extra loud whenever she’s on the phone with her mother: “Mom, can you text me your green bean casserole recipe? Claire and I wanna make it for dinner. Best idea everrrrr!” I immediately called my friend and canceled our biweekly bingo plans. I happened to be remarkably familiar with a green bean casserole. In fact, it’s really the only thing I know how to cook. I don’t want to come across as a total arrogant asshole, but I am pretty much the red Power Ranger when it comes to green bean casseroles. Ever since my grandma Nell taught me her secret recipe, I’ve practically been able to prepare it in my sleep (although I’m not encouraging sleep-cooking; it can be quite hazardous, to say nothing of fattening). I’ve memorized all of the ingredients, measurements, and ideal cooking and cooling times. I figured the girls could use a professional spotter just in case things got out of casserole control.

  Up until this point, the only dish that the girls had made successfully was peanut butter and jelly on white bread (not toasted). Of course, I’m not able to visibly see the outcome of their sandwiches, so I can’t fairly judge how presentable they might be, but from the sounds of their orgasm-like moaning. Unfortunately for my little sous-chefs, most of their other kitchen experiences have been failures. Even the simplest of meals seemed to be too much for them, as indicated by some of their unsuccessful attempts: Toaster Strudels (burned), canned soup (tried microwaving in the can), chicken paillard (they got lost on step two), and hard-boiled eggs (they thought that by just dipping the eggs into boiling water they would be ready).

  My plan was to synchronize
my cooking of my grandmother’s green bean casserole with theirs in order to psychically guide them to at least one cooking success. Since my well-practiced dish was guaranteed to turn out, if I were to prompt them along the way so they would unwittingly correct their typical errors, their dish would be a success too. If I heard them veering off track, like mixing the ingredients in the wrong order or forgetting the secret component that should be a part of all green bean casseroles (Cheez-Its), then I would make a squawking sound out my window that would, I hoped, snap them back on track. In hindsight this plan made little to no sense, but it was getting me out of my apartment and forcing me to cook something that Rachael Ray calls “therapeutic.”

  I contacted a couple friends to see whether I could get them to join me in this night of synchronized cooking, but none of them was fully grasping my proposition.

  “So, you’re cooking the same meal as the girls above, but not actually making it with them? And on top of that they don’t even know you’re doing this?” my brother-in-law Jesse asked. It sounded so abnormal coming out of his mouth.

  “You’re not understanding. Okay, think of me as that sweet little rat in Ratatouille. I’m just making sure that they don’t screw up their dish,” I said, pleading my case.

  “Yeah, but in Ratatouille the guy is fully aware that he has a rat tugging on his hair. How is that even close to the same thing?”

  “Okay, well, this is a slightly different, less realistic version.”