Boys Keep Swinging

by Jake Shears

  Some days Pete and I just watched TV. He must have been on government assistance, because he spent his days not doing much. He’d wake up at noon, stroll to the library or sit with an espresso on the street. He had played guitar in a string of bands, his current one fronted by his girlfriend. Sometimes she’d be sitting on the couch when I came over, cordial but tense. I wondered if she thought there was something going on between Pete and me. Her voice was pretty, if a little flat, and she sang in a sighing, dejected way. Most of the songs seemed to be about being in love with a junkie. Pete was the closest thing I’d ever met to a rock star. And though his life had become a little boring and sad, there seemed to be so much possibility in that music. In that address book.

  I started my own band. It consisted of me and Mike McCracken, this senior from my school, on drums. Some guy named Ian played guitar. He was stocky, bisexual, the same age as me, and smelled like a goat. I met him in the Bauhaus café one night, after asking what the big X’s on the back of his hands meant. He was “straight edge,” he told me, meaning he didn’t drink or do any drugs. Sometimes after rehearsals we would go for walks and make out.

  We were called My Favorite Band, and our songs were written with the only five chords Pete had taught me. The song titles such as “My Chair” and “I Had Sex with Your Sister” were the least offensive. I loved nothing more than to shock people with disgusting lyrics and was now in the habit of saying anything for attention. We played a total of three shows: two at my school and one at the Puss-Puss Cafe, which was run by Kim Warnick from the Fastbacks. I had given her a demo cassette we had made on a four-track. I’m not sure if she listened to it, but she let us play. It didn’t occur to me we weren’t very good. I just got a kick out of looking at an audience looking back at me. It was like a mirror, reflecting a hundred eyes that weren’t yours.

  I knocked and opened Pete’s screen door. He was draped listlessly on the sofa, with one leg up. I sat down, my hands in my lap, and told him that the school knew about us now.

  He didn’t move his head but cocked an eyebrow and frowned. “Us—what? What’d they say?”

  “Uh, they’re not happy about it? They want me to tell my parents I’m gay?”

  He waved his hand and croaked. “What’s that got to do with me? Look, it’s just your folks. Don’t worry about it. You’re a good kid. Smart.” He squinted his eyes and sucked on his cigarette, pinched between his thumb and index finger, his peroxide-bleached pompadour looking less than fresh. He swung his legs around and sat up to look me in the face. “Look—you know I like you. You’re sweet. We’ve made out a couple times. I gave you a mixtape. But I’m not—I’ve never been—your boyfriend.” He scanned my face. “Have you been telling people I’m your boyfriend?” I didn’t answer. “Shit.” He stood up and looked at the cherry of his smoke, like someone would stare at a fire. “We haven’t even fucked. Don’t make this more trouble than it’s worth.”

  That night Pete took me to see Pearl Jam at the Moore Theatre downtown. I got permission from the dorm to have a late curfew, but I didn’t mention that I was going with him.

  It was a homecoming show. Eddie Vedder had Neil Young onstage for part of the set. I wasn’t the biggest Pearl Jam fan, but the electricity in the room was undeniable. After they finished, we went backstage and I felt like I had caught my foot in some door I’d been dreaming of. For the first time, I was among living and breathing musicians. Whatever tiny piece of music history was occurring, I was getting to see it with my own eyes and ears.

  Perched in a smoky booth with a couple of the women from 7 Year Bitch, I listened to them, astonished that I could be a witness to their barbed banter and gossip. Neil Young sauntered around as the band greeted their friends. Pete introduced me to Stone Gossard from Pearl Jam, who seemed kind. I talked to him about my school; he was an alum.

  I arrived back at the dorm. Everyone had already gone to bed, and the halls were quiet. As I brushed my teeth, I watched myself in the mirror. My face was starting to settle. It wasn’t as embryonic, my acne had calmed, and my eyes had a sparkle that I hadn’t seen in years. But that night, I felt another new desire. I wanted to be a part of everything I had just seen, the energy of the show and the excitement I had witnessed afterward. What if I was a rock star myself one day? What if I was able to conjure in others that frenzied trance that occurred when a band was slaying? As I padded back to my room, I couldn’t feel the carpet beneath my bare feet.

  Mary came to visit me and I took a bus to pick her up at the airport. She walked off the plane in a beige-and-black-striped dress, a louder look than usual. It was her first time in Seattle, and she was immediately taken with its gloomy beauty.

  She’d booked a room down the street from my school at the Sheraton, and I’d gotten permission to stay with her for the weekend. It felt as if we were actually adults together, riffling through the minibar and pretending to shop in stores that would never carry Mary’s size. I noticed when we wandered around downtown, Mary had started to limp and couldn’t be on her feet for too long before having to sit. We parked ourselves one afternoon in the Four Seasons hotel lobby and nicked a half-smoked cigar out of an ashtray. I lit it with the Zippo that Pete had given me for Christmas, and we attempted to smoke it. We went and saw The Adventures of Priscilla, Queen of the Desert. Mary liked to sit two seats away whenever we saw movies. At night we got drunk and made each other blow booze out our noses from laughing. Chattering and cackling, we were a team. All our musings were hilarious, to ourselves at least. She loved Seattle so much, she talked about moving there.

  “I don’t see why you couldn’t,” I said. But the thought of her moving to another state seemed like a long shot.

  “It’s not a super-easy city for biggies,” she said. “I probably wouldn’t have a car.”

  “Maybe you’re not always going to be so big.”

  “Oh, please.”

  “Anything’s possible.”

  Mary rolled her eyes. “If you’re Gwyneth.”

  For spring break, my mom and dad wanted some family time, so we flew to Las Vegas. I had never been, and as I wandered through the vast casino of the MGM Grand hotel, I was unable to even pause and have a look because I was underage. I thought, What are we supposed to do here as a family? I had no one to hang out with, and while my mom and dad played slots on the floor, I roamed around the hotel, desperate for something to do.

  It was a huge fixed-perspective Wizard of Oz diorama in the front lobby that changed everything. It depicted Dorothy and her crew, skipping down the yellow brick road, their lifelike faces filled with frozen wonder. I marveled at the detail, circling it slowly as if it were some sort of holy shrine. The Emerald City tower’s glistening phalluses seemed like they had been put there just for me, filling me with a queer reverence. The jangling sounds of the slot machines faded as I squared off with Dorothy. The room dimmed, her ruby slippers a gentle blur in my unfocused gaze. It must have been the boredom of the trip, or maybe I just felt like, again, I wasn’t getting enough attention, but standing there in front of Dorothy, I knew what I had to do, and it had to be now.

  Keeping my sexuality from my family was eating away at my happiness, just as those shitty kids had feasted on me in Arizona. The layers and compartments to which I tended, the juggling of selves—it was wearing me out, rubbing all sides raw. I was sick of hiding magazines under my bed, sick of sneaking boys in through the window, sick of announcing in the school hallway anytime my mom came to visit, “You guys, my mom is outside and she’s coming in. I’m NOT GAY. OKAY?” I wanted to feel like a complete person, to be ashamed of nothing and apologize to no one.

  That evening, the burnt smell of a curling iron and hair spray permeated the small bathroom as my mother and I put the finishing touches on our hair. She had always been so pretty. But it wasn’t because of the spunky clothes she wore or her trendy hairdos. It was her smile, which made it seem as if she had two open arms extending from her face. And right then it was breaking my
heart.

  “Which earrings should I wear?” She displayed a conservative pearl-colored option and then a gaudy rhinestone waterfall.

  “The glitzy ones. It’s Vegas.”

  She placed the more tasteful earrings back in her bag. “The show’s in an hour. I need to hustle.” We were attending EFX, a new Michael Crawford spectacular that was playing in a theater downstairs. “How was the amusement park?”

  “Pretty quiet, but there were a few good rides.” I had ridden a river rapids ride alone in the park behind the hotel. Staring at the empty seats around me in a circle, I had spun under a huge downpour of a waterfall. I walked away soaked, my outlook grim. “I’ve had fun,” I lied. “But I’ll be ready to leave tomorrow.”

  “When we get back to Seattle, I want to talk to you about something.” She adjusted her lip liner.

  I froze, one hand covered in gel, coaxing my strands to stand. What was something? Did this mean she suspected? She looked over at me and must have known I was going to ruin any chance of us coming out of this vacation happy. Christ, who cares? I thought. Here we go.

  “Is it about me being gay?” There, I had said it. Boom. The pale yellow tiles in the bathroom looked the color of sick. I felt nauseous. It was over. Out of the bag. Neon lights. Phase two. Lady, it’s official, your boy is a big fag.

  She paused, set down her brush, and extricated herself from the bathroom. I followed and sat next to her on the stiff bed. My father lay on one side, silent and watching TV.

  “Is that what you meant?” I said. “Is that what you wanted to talk about?” Her eyes were seeing atrocities on an invisible horizon. “Mom, I’ve always been like this.”

  “Jason,” she said, just under her breath. “Your father is trying to watch the news.”

  We sat through the overblown Michael Crawford show, none of us able to focus on the stage. My parents ordered a bottle of wine at the table; it was the first time I saw either of them have a drink in about ten years. Dad was quiet and went back to the room after it was finished. Mom and I walked “to get ice cream.” We paced and hissed, raising our voices in front of a buzzing food court. “It’s a death sentence,” she said. “What did we do to make this happen?” At one point: “I’m never going to have grandchildren!”

  “People do that now sometimes,” I said between spoonfuls of Häagen-Dazs. “Mom, I can totally have kids.”

  “Over my dead body!” she shot back.

  We all flew back the next day and didn’t speak. On the way to drop me off at my dorm, we stopped at a gas station and my mom went inside to pay. My father faced forward as the car idled and the wipers swiped off the drizzle. “Dad? Are you okay?”

  He glanced at me in the rearview mirror and gave one small shake of his head, eyes back on the windshield. “We’re simply devastated, Jason.”

  That evening when I returned to the dorm, I had two hours to get ready for a queer-youth dance my outreach group was throwing. My warm room was a refuge from the rain, from my parents. The thought of having to turn on my charm and pass out condoms to people was enough to send me under my bedsheets until the last possible minute. As I lay there, watching the endless shower of the dark evening, I remembered that we had a guest of honor that evening: Dan Savage.

  It wasn’t hard to pick him out of the crowd, standing about a foot and a half taller than everyone else. He was in drag: six-inch heels and a gargantuan sprayed wig. My own purple latex minidress, despite the baby powder, was too tight and pinched my skin. All the volunteers were wearing them. It made me feel unsexy and self-conscious. I approached Dan and his boyfriend, Terry Miller, as I tugged at my hem and ripped out leg hairs in the process.

  “Dan?”

  “How can I help you?” he hollered, over the blaring music.

  “My name is Jason.” Yelling back, I felt dispirited by all of it—the crowd, the bowl of condoms in my arms, this fucking purple latex dress. But somehow I knew, in that moment, my best hope for getting through high school lay in this man’s hands. There was suddenly a lump in my throat. “I’ve been calling in to your show? I’m the kid who was talking about coming out to my parents?”

  “Hey!” His painted face lit up with recognition and he tapped my shoulder. “So that’s you! Nice dress, I’ve never met anyone your age who’s into rubber.”

  “The volunteers have to wear them.” I raised my condom bowl. “I’m part of the team throwing this. So thank you. For coming.” I was about to turn away but instead blurted, “I told my mom and dad I was gay. Last night.”

  Dan’s face scrunched up and then didn’t move.

  Terry leaned over. “What’d they say?”

  “My dad says they’re devastated.”

  “Oh. Jesus. Christ.” Dan looked to Terry. “What have I done?” Then back to me. “Don’t tell me they’re going to throw you out. Are they going to throw you out? God, this is terrible.” He looked back at Terry again. “I feel terrible.”

  “I’m living at school at the moment, but I don’t think they’ll pull me out.”

  “Oh yeah, that’s right, you’re at boarding school. That could actually be a good thing, you know.” His face was still twisted with concern as he wrote his number down on a piece of pink construction paper. “Look, just call me. This is my fault. Fuck. Do you think I can do anything? Wait—don’t answer that yet, just call me.”

  A week later, Dan picked me up after school and took me to my first AIDS funeral. “It’s something you need to see,” he said. Over the next few months, and eventually years, then decades, Dan made himself available for coffee, took me to events, and suffered through me yammering about my problems. We discussed my baptism and theology. (“It’s all bullshit.”) He’d let me know when I was on point, and felt free to tell me when I was being an asshole. (“Don’t ever grouse about an old guy checking you out; you’re going to be old too, one day.”) And he demanded I stop seeing Pete immediately. (“This is fucked-up. What is he doing? And you messed around with him? Ew! That’s like me messing around with you. Fucking gross. Stop it.”) He started to talk about our friendship in speeches he gave, on the importance of mentoring younger people. (“How can we begin to make some headway with equality if everyone thinks that we’re trying to fuck their kids. Jason, where are you? Oh, right there. Have I ever tried to fuck you?”) Hanging with Dan and Terry made me feel smarter and cool, good about myself. If these guys wanted to spend time with me, then I must have been something special. They made me feel that one day I could be as interesting as they were.

  My mom and I were talking a little, but each conversation on the dorm’s pay phone was heavy. She was worried someone would take advantage of me, and kept saying she was so sad, knowing all I would have to go through in my life. From my dad it was just radio silence. We were only speaking if we had to. I’m sure if I hadn’t been doing so well in school, they would have yanked me out. But my grades couldn’t be argued with: I was flourishing.

  Dan told me it was important to tell my mother we were hanging out. “That guy scares me,” she said. She’d read a profile on him in the Seattle Times that talked of his leftist politics and explicit sex column. I’d try to explain that he was really brilliant and kind, but she wasn’t buying it. So Dan introduced his own mother to her. When she visited from Chicago he set the two of them up for lunch and she took my mom to her first Parents and Friends of Lesbians and Gays meeting.

  Toward the end of the school year, I was cast as Sky Masterson in my school’s production of Guys and Dolls. Dan and Terry came on opening night. During intermission I remember him walking down a long hallway, his arms outstretched. “Oh my God,” he said. “You can really sing.” He was the first person I remember ever telling me that.

  FOR MY SENIOR YEAR, MY mom decided she wanted me to spend my last year of high school with her, under the same roof. She and my father rented a two-bedroom apartment down the street from my school. My mom and I got closer, and would have lunch dates or go the movies. Dad and I were chilly; h
e’d watch TV, and I’d hide out in my room and make music. We did our best not to talk if we didn’t have to, keeping it civil for the sake of my mom.

  I often hung out at an anarchic queer-punk group house in the Central District where my friend Andy lived. He was a twenty-two-year-old blue-haired beanpole from Montana. Polite but political, he lived with a ragtag gang of brilliant and conscientious freaks. They stayed up all night in a haze of smoke listening to grrrl punk and indie pop or watching whatever VHS tapes anybody could procure. I got high on their water bong hits and was introduced to movies like Cabaret, Tokyo Decadence, and The Forbidden Zone, and the films of Derek Jarman. They called me “Bambi Continental” and encouraged my flair for the dramatic.

  One night I jumped on the mirrored coffee table and belted Wailing Betsy, a one-act musical I had written for school. It was the story of Betsy Ross, the designer of the American flag, getting in a time machine and traveling to a pro-choice women’s rights rally. It was a big hit in that house.

  Andy was sensitive in nature but staunch in his views. His opinions frightened me at times. To grasp his politics required me to reexamine beliefs I held on monogamy, gay marriage, and social work. As foreign as the ideas were, I was open to his thoughts on what it meant to be queer and on the destructive nature of assimilation. There was a drawing taped to the fridge in his house that always stuck with me: It was two smiling white men in respectable clothes, standing in front of a picket fence. The caption read: WE’RE JUST LIKE YOU! SEXIST. RACIST. CLASSIST. I realized that just because you were gay, it didn’t absolve you from enacting the prejudices and violence ingrained in mainstream society.

  It wasn’t only Andy exposing me to new ideas; music was bending my ear and instilling within me an itch that I wasn’t quite sure how or where to scratch. Of all the concerts I saw that year, there were three that affected me the most. Thrilling and dangerous, each one was influential in its own way. Nothing could have prepared me for the queer aggression of seeing the Cramps live. Lux Interior was the maniacal front man, and I was transfixed by his unpredictable energy. He loomed over the crowd with his hair dyed black, wearing PVC pants and heels, deep-throating the mic. It was like watching someone activating their own seizures and refusing assistance.