“Great rehearsal, Mother,” I answer. Then I pull the phone into my room and shut the door. A while ago I installed a long cord on the phone so I could have privacy when I talked to Lisa. But tonight, there will be none of Lisa’s prattling. I have to call Jeep.
I dial his number. He answers, “Who be callin’ this late, interruptin’ my beauty sleep?”
I almost hang up, but I realize this is just Jeep’s way. And I have to talk to him.
“Jeep, it’s me,” I say quietly.
“What’s up, Dew?” He’s back to old Jeep, friendly Jeep, goofy Jeep. “Did I fool you with my after-ten phone voice?”
“Yeah, you did.” I’m still quiet.
“Dewey?” He draws out my name. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.” But I guess that answer is too soft, too noncommittal.
“Now, I know you wouldn’t be calling if everything was right. Spill it, cowboy. Did something bad happen at that rehearsal you were going to?”
“No.” I take a deep breath to gather courage to talk to Jeep, to be honest, to be serious. “Something good happened.”
“Well, great, Dew!” I can hear the smile in his voice. “So what’s up? Tell me about it.”
I tell him about the entire evening, about the people, about the show. When I finish, I wait for his reaction.
“That’s f-ing fantastic, Dew. People will stand up and take notice for a change. Your show could really change some attitudes about this f-ing war. Shit, if some redneck policeman sees it, he might change the whole force, you don’t know. I’m proud of you, Dew, for taking this on.”
“I just hope I can do justice to the part. He’s gay, Jeep.” I say the word with distaste.
“So?”
“Well, how do I know how to play that? The script says he’s ‘effeminate.’” I say the word like it’s foreign, French or something.
“Shit, Dew. You can do that. I know you can. I’ve seen little things you do, the way you say some words—well, hell, just ramp it up some, and you’ll be perfect.”
“Are you saying I act that way?” I almost spit that out.
“No—nonono,” he quickly backtracks. “What I’m saying is everyone acts gay in little ways, so you just have to figure out what those are—a walk, the way of saying a word here and there, a hand movement—and exaggerate a little, and you’ll have it. But don’t do too much unless you think this character Randy needs it. You don’t want to come off as a nelly queen.”
“Nelly queen?”
“You know, those guys who are all ‘girl’ this, and ‘girl’ that. The ones who swing their hips and move their arms like they’re dancing all the time. Queens.”
I guess I’ve lived a sheltered life ’cause the only person I’ve seen like that is the piano guy on TV, Liberace, and that’s just show business. He’s not that way.
“How do you know that?”
“Come on, Dew. Shit, when you’re in a band, you see all kinds of people, all over the place. We drive through a lot of different neighborhoods to get to our gigs. I’ve seen queens swishing around. And some even show up at our sets. I know some of them, actually.”
“Well, aren’t you a man of the world.” I don’t say it to be mean or to be funny or anything. I just say it.
Jeep laughs. “Surely am, Dew. Surely am.”
Feeling a lot lighter, talking to Jeep, I remember his audition. “How did the audition go? Did you get the gig?”
“Listen to you. You got the lingo down, Dew. Shit, before you know it, you’ll be talking like a show biz pro, hanging out with old Jeep and rehearsing every night with those theater pros.” He laughed again. His laugh is infectious, joyful. And I love it. “As a matter of fact, we did get the gig. We’re going to play one of Fort Worth’s premier teen clubs, the Box. That means you can come see us.” There is such pride in his voice.
“Shit! That’s great, Jeep.”
He laughs.
“What are you laughing at?”
“You said shit.” He sings it like a little kid, taunting.
“Stop it, Jeep. I’m glad you got the gig, and I can’t wait to hear your band.”
“Thanks, Dew. Anything else good happen today?”
“I broke up with my girlfriend Lisa. For good, this time,” I say, feeling proud of myself.
“That is good,” he exclaims, a bit more emphasis on the is than I expected. We hadn’t talked about Lisa at all. How does he know our breakup is a good thing?
“Now you’re free, Dew. Free as a bird. Free to try new things. New people.”
“What’s that supposed to mean, Jeep?”
“Nothin’. I’m just a big believer in freedom, my man. Leads to opening new doors, new experiences.”
He’s sounding a little too philosophical. Not like the Jeep I’ve grown to know and like in… has it only been three days?
“Well, I’m not a taking chances kind of person, Jeep, so don’t push me out of that nest just yet.”
“Bird, you’ve already pushed yourself out of the nest. You ditched your girlfriend, and you’re acting a new part—gay, at that.”
Chapter 4
“MAN, DEW, this is gonna be the chance of a lifetime. The Box. The f-ing Box. We’re gonna be famous.” Jeep’s babbling started as he got in the car this morning, and he hasn’t stopped for a minute. “Yeah, I know it’s a teen club, but who made the Beatles? The Stones? Us. People our age. Shit, even people younger than us—those f-ing screaming thirteen-year-old girls. Playing at the Box is the greatest thing that’s ever happened to the Red Menace.”
“Red Menace?” I say. “I thought you were the Bloody Cheetahs. What gives? Besides, the Red Menace sounds like a disease.”
He slaps his thigh. “I knew it. I told the guys that. But they like it. We gotta think of a new name. Red Menace. Sounds like some Communist thing, if you ask me. Disease? Communists? Why did I agree to that? I liked the Bloody Cheetahs, but the guys keep changing the name. But this new name’s out. Gone. Banished forever.” He waves his arms in the air like he’s throwing away garbage. “Thank God we told the Box we might change our name before Saturday night.”
I grab one of his arms. Pull it down. “Whoa. If you rip the headliner in my daddy’s car, we’ll both be in hot water. Calm down, Jeep.” He puts his hands in his lap and flashes an “I’m sorry” smile.
I answer with a smile of my own, then I say, “Changing the band’s name now would probably just screw up their publicity. You know—posters, ads.”
“Yeah, right. We’re the opening act. It’s the Madmen they’re coming to see. But we’re gonna steal their f-ing thunder. I tell you whut!”
“I like your enthusiasm, Jeep.” The boy can make me smile—that’s the truth.
“So, you don’t like the Red Menace either? Throw out some names. Come on, Dew. You’re smart. What band would you go see?”
“Uh, the Beatles. The Raiders. The Hermits.” I deadpan the words.
“Funny, funny.” He bops me up the side of my head. “I mean what new name would catch your attention? Of course, you know what I mean, smartass.”
I smile at him wickedly. “Okay.” I stop to think a minute. “How about the Shakers?”
“Sounds like those religious freaks.”
“The Bangers.”
“Rapists. Shit, that would never fly.”
“I know—the Mislabeled.”
“Weird. But I like it. Kinda like you don’t know what to expect. I’ll run it past the guys. Thanks, Dew. ’Preciate it.”
“Glad you like it. But don’t get too attached. I have a feeling your band members aren’t going to like it. Too ambiguous.”
“Am-big-you-what?”
“Jeep, Jeep, Jeep. Open a book every once in a while. Means hard to figure out.”
“Oh.” He pauses like he is absorbing the word and its meaning. And if I know Jeep, that’s just what he’s doing. He may be undisciplined in his studying, but one thing I’ve learned in the last few days I
’ve known him is he’s not dumb. Mind like a steel trap. When he’s finished musing, he says, “Tell me more about last night.”
“I said just about all of it on the phone.”
“No, you didn’t. What about the people there? Tell me about them.”
“Well, the cast has about twenty people, but not all of them showed up last night because some just play nonspeaking roles. The director’s name is Ben Klein.”
“Klein, huh? Jewish guy?”
“How would I know? I’ve never met a Jew.”
“Well, it’s a Jewish name’s all I’m saying. We played a Bar Mitzvah over in Ridglea once. Those Jews are different.”
“Bar What’s vah?”
“Mitzvah. It was this big party for a kid who turned thirteen. We figured out from all the speeches; they give the party because at thirteen, the boy becomes a man. The party comes after a big church service. Only they call their churches synagogues.”
“Wow. What God do they worship?”
“Same one as us. Only without Jesus. Think Moses. Old Testament. Led the Jews out of Egypt.”
My church experience has been nil. My parents don’t go to church, so I’ve never crossed the doorstep into a prayer meeting. But I did see The Ten Commandments on TV. And hearing Jeep say Moses, I picture Charlton Heston, and it all comes back to me. “I know him. Charlton Heston. The astronaut in Planet of the Apes. Good movie.”
“Which one, Apes or Commandments?”
“Both, actually. I liked Planet of the Apes better, though.”
“Me too. That ending was a gas. Totally unexpected.”
“Yeah, I know. I was blown away when I saw… wait a minute, how’d we get from my rehearsal to Planet of the Apes?”
“Bar Mitzvah. Moses. Charlton Heston. Apes.” Jeep’s hand flies through the air, like he’s pointing to a timeline on a blackboard.
“Right. My director’s a Jew, or so you say. I’ll tell you something else. He’s also a… you know.”
“I know?” He pauses. Long pause. “No, I f-ing don’t know.”
“Yes, you do. Think about it. What I told you about my character.” I do a little limp-wristed motion toward him.
His eyes widen, and he explodes. “Gay? No shit. How do you know that? And don’t do that gesture. It’s offensive.”
Since when did he get so sensitive? Especially to people that way? I ignore him and plow on. “Had his friend with him. Intro’d him as ‘the love of my life.’ That’s what he said. Didn’t know they were so obvious.” I do a quick shake of my head to clear my brain, add, “Shit, that f-ing open. Kinda freaky.”
“You said f-ing,” he sings out, that little kid bursting from him once again.
“Jeep,” I say matter-of-factly, “you’re a bad influence. But enough about me; did you know they don’t mind other people knowing about them?”
“They do mind. A lot of them. Life can be really tough—dangerous, even—when someone finds out a person they know is gay. But as the great God Dylan says, ‘The Times, They Are A Changin’.’ Your guy’s different. A pioneer. I read about something called the Mattachine Society. Group of gay guys who don’t care who knows. Maybe your director is part of that.”
“I doubt there’s a group like that in Cowtown, USA.”
“Still, he made it pretty clear he doesn’t care if your cast knows about him and his lover, at least.”
“Lover? That sounds a little dirty.”
“What’s dirty about it? He loves the guy, so they are lovers. Perfectly good term, I’d say.” My wildly crazy, off-the-wall friend has a very serious side to him, it seems.
“Jeep, you amaze me. My daddy would go ape-shit seeing those two guys together, even if they weren’t holding hands, much less kissing or doing whatever they do in bed. Just knowing they were that way would freak him out.”
“Well, the world’s changing, Dew. And I, for one, think that’s a good thing. Takes all kinds of people. And speaking of your daddy…. What’s he going to say about you playing one of those?”
“Good question. I’ll answer it when I know. If I play my cards right, he’ll never see the show.”
“Yeah. Good luck with that.” He pauses to let his words sink in. Or at least that’s what they do. Even if Daddy doesn’t see the show, he’ll find out. That’s for sure. Then I’m dead.
I’m lost in dread when Jeep’s next question registers. “Who else from the group is worth talking about?”
LuLu banishes my dread. For now. “A black girl. Our age. Goes to I. M. Terrell. She’s a hoot. Had me going for a minute. Asked me if I would kiss her.”
“No shit!” He laughs. “What did you say?”
“I kinda choked. Then she said she meant in the play, not right there.”
“So you have to kiss a girl in the play? I thought your character was gay.”
“He is.” A tiny, sour bubble escapes my stomach. I swallow and continue talking. “She was just raggin’ me on. She’s a character, that she is. Complicated, though, I think. I’m going to like working with her—and getting to know her. Who knows? She might replace Lisa. Wouldn’t that chap my daddy’s ass?” Where that came from, I don’t know. But the thought settles my stomach. It hits me—better a black girlfriend than an any-color boyfriend, I’m sure, is the way Daddy would look at it.
Jeep looks at me and doesn’t say a word. I can’t read the expression on his face. And he immediately switches topics.
“Has Butch bothered you any more after you said that on the intercom? I figured he’d be gunnin’ for you.”
“Funny thing. Yesterday, I brought him some cookies. He seemed to like it.”
“Cookies? Are you caving in to him?”
“Nah. I was making my lunch and just thought it might help things if I brought him cookies. Sort of a peace offering. He softened up a little bit. But I’m not looking for any long- term change. This is Butch Pollard we’re talking about, you know. Still, it’d be nice not to be called girl, not to be cuddled in the sleazy way he sits next to me, not to be called fat.”
“Wait a minute. He thinks you’re fat?”
“I listed three things there, and you picked up on the f-word?”
“Poor little, sheltered Dewey. Fat is not the f-word.”
I blush. I feel it. But Jeep doesn’t make note of it.
“You’re not fat, Dewey. Maybe you could build up your muscles a little, but believe me, you’re not fat. You’re perfect. I like how you look.”
“Well, thank you, Bert Parks.”
“Bert Parks is the host of the Miss America Pageant, not one of the judges.”
“I know. I just couldn’t think of anything else to say. You caught me off guard. Guys don’t usually say they like how other guys look.”
“Well, I’m not like other guys.”
“That’s an understatement.” I whack his shoulder. And as I do, a weird feeling overcomes me; I did that just because I wanted to touch him. Before I can analyze that to death, I speak again. “Well, anyway, I’m hoping six years of Butch’s taunts are coming to an end. He’s been on my case since the first day of seventh grade, it seems.”
“I wish you luck. But if anybody can change him, you can. Believe it or not, most victims of bullies don’t ever care enough to try to get their tormentors to like them. You’re a good guy, Dewey Snodgress.”
Finally, we’re in the parking lot. The ride in wasn’t longer than usual, but we touched on a lot of subjects along the way, and some of them were pretty deep.
We gather up our books and notebooks and head on in. As usual, Jeep rushes off to his locker. If I know Jeep, he needs to get to his first period class early so he can finish his homework. Or charm the teacher into an extension.
Like always, I head to my bench. And before long, I hear it. “Dew-ey!”
Butch saunters up and sits. But today, he is not as close to me as usual. I open up my lunch and pull out a Baby Ruth. It’s my mother’s favorite candy bar, and I snuck one out of her sta
sh this morning.
“For you, Butch,” I say, handing him the candy. I manage a tight smile. I wonder if he thinks I’m being nice or bribing him to lay off me.
He looks at me like I’m Santa Claus or his own guardian angel. That’s a relief.
“You brought me this? Why?” he says. Quiet for a change. Gentle for a change.
Is this all it takes? “Because I thought you’d like it. It’s no big deal. My mother had a bag of ’em.”
“Dewey, nobody’s ever been nice to me before.” It’s a simple declarative statement. And I don’t risk making him elaborate. I just sit beside him as he peels the candy and consumes it in about three bites. As he chews, it occurs to me he said “nobody’s ever been nice to me.” Not “nobody’s ever been so nice” or “nobody’s been nice to me like this in a long time.” No, he definitely said “ever been nice.” How sad.
I take out today’s devotional script. Not because I care about looking it over. Just to have something to fill the void. The silence.
“Dewey, does your daddy drink beer?”
“Don’t all daddies?” I say.
“How many does he drink at once?”
“Some days, not all, he’ll have one or two after work.” I think I know where this is heading, Butch’s dad being an alcoholic and all, but I feel like I owe him honest answers to these questions I’d bet he’s never had the courage to ask anyone before. “When his buddies are over, he drinks more. A lot more.”
“How much is a lot?”
“Four. Five.”
“That’s a lot?”
I don’t answer. I’m not sure where to take this.
“Dewey, the other day on TV, I saw a show where this guy was stinking drunk. Everyone laughed at him. I didn’t think it was funny at all.”
What can I say to that?
Luckily, the bell rings. We stand, and Butch says, “Thanks for the Baby Ruth, baby gir….” The last word trails off. And funny… those last two words are as nasty as ever, but somehow I don’t hear any hurt in his voice. Not toward me anyway.
All You Need Is Love Page 5