Praise for Frank Anthony Polito and Band Fags!
“For those of us who came of age in the ’80s, reading Frank Anthony Polito’s novel is like being teleported back to high school. Filled with pop culture references that will have you saying, ‘I remember that!,’ this is a love letter to a time when happiness was a pair of Calvin Klein jeans, and every heartbreak could be fixed by listening to your Bonnie Tyler or REO Speedwagon albums. Most important, though, it is a portrait of a friendship between two boys struggling to find themselves without losing each other.”
—Michael Thomas Ford, author of Last Summer
“Sweet and funny.”
—Publishers Weekly
“With the Motor City running on empty in Reagan’s America, Frank Anthony Polito’s characters dance their mystery dance of teenage longing as if Motown never left for California. Sexy, funny, and wiser than it wants to be, Band Fags! pulses with a ragged beauty and bounces to its beat. I give it a 98.6.”
—Thorn Kief Hillsbery, author of What We Do Is Secret
“This heartfelt valentine to coming of age in the 80s shows that the right jeans, a decent production of Grease and discovering a true friend do offer some consolation.”
—The Advocate
“More than just a novel, Band Fags! is a virtual time machine that transports you smack dab into the cheesy heart of the ’80s. It’s like a queer Wonder Years as it follows Brad and Jack’s memorable journey through high school hell. Screamingly funny, surprisingly charming and, ultimately, truly moving, it’s a fresh take on the importance of friendship during the worst/ best years of your life.”
—Brian Sloan, A Really Nice Prom Mess and Tale of Two Summers
“Polito’s refreshingly personable characters leap from the page with a flavorful magnetism that will leave you craving for a sequel, or better yet, a TV or film adaptation.”
—Dayton City Paper
“The dialogue sparkles throughout the book. And his characters and situations are all quite authentic.”
—Between the Lines
“Polito has perfectly channeled the voice of a closeted teen.”
—Bay Windows
“A consistently hilarious story of the best-friendship we all seem to have had, set in a time we can never seem to forget—the totally awesome ’80s—Band Fags! never misses a beat in its affectionate, moment-by-moment chronicling of the complicated journey we take from cradle to closet to what lies beyond.”
—Matthew Rettenmund, author of Boy Culture
“Sexy and funny and filled with charm and sensitivity. The dialogue is perfect, the characters are loveable and the story cannot be beat for a light read that will make you forget the heat of summer and remind you of the warmth of first love.”
—Eureka Pride
“Explores the difficulties of growing up gay in the 1980s, all told with a sense of humor and affection for its characters. Band Fags! shines with its clever dialogue and witty comments.”
—AfterElton
“Polito does a good job of recreating the insecurities and rivalries that characterize relationships between high school students.”
—Bay Area Reporter
“Band Fags! is like the gay teen flick John Hughes never got around to making. Let’s face it, there’s a Band Fag in all of us and Frank Anthony Polito has his on speed dial. This book is a sweet, funny, deeply felt valentine to the wonder/horror of coming of age in the 1980s. You might just pee your parachute pants.”
—Dennis Hensley, author of Misadventures in the (213)
“If the words Dallas, Dynasty and The Go-Go’s resonate with you, get this book.”
—In Los Angeles
“These Band Fags march to their own quirky beat in a timeless tale delightfully syncopated against an ’80s soundtrack. This surprisingly tender story of best friends locked in a tug-of-war of self-discovering is booby-trapped with Polito’s pitch-perfect wisecracks and hilarious observations.”
—Steven Sorrentino, author of Luncheonette
“A fun and quick read.”
—Out Smart
“This former 1980s band fag declares Band Fags! totally wicked awesome. With pitch perfect dialog, and high stepping charm, Polito hilariously shows how not all hearts beat to the rhythm of the same drum major.”
—Josh Kilmer-Purcell, author of I Am Not Myself These Days
“Hilarious…snappy dialogue drives the story, much more so than in most novels.”
—Echelon Magazine
“Frank Anthony Polito’s Band Fags! plays like an ’80s after school special; it feels like dropping right back into the oh-so-important questions of who sits where in the lunchroom, who ‘likes’ who, and which friends might be ‘fags.’ Polito absolutely captures the voice of a not-ready-to-be-gay-teenager in the ’80s, and spins characters who face real problems, ridiculous concerns, and the meaning of friendship over the years.”
—Alex MacLennan, The Zookeeper
“Band Fags! is one of those rare books you may want to read not once, but like, totally a bijillion times.”
—H/X Magazine
“Hugely enjoyable.”
—Dallas Voice
“Polito makes you think, breaks your heart with the pain of having to ‘hide’ who you are and tosses in a whole lot of fun while showing ‘us’ how it is for gay teens.”
—Armchair Reviews
“Enjoyable.”
—Edge (Boston)
Books by Frank Anthony Polito
BAND FAGS!
DRAMA QUEERS!
Published by Kensington Publishing Corporation
DRAMA QUEERS!
Frank Anthony Polito
KENSINGTON BOOKS
http://www.kensingtonbooks.com
To Craig Bentley,
my favorite Drama Queer
Acknowledgments
Once again I must thank my editor, John Scognamiglio, for insisting I not become a One Hit Wonder and allowing me to expand upon this story. As always, to everyone at Kensington—from the Bull Pen to the Mail Room—for making me feel welcome and like part of the crew.
To my family back in Michigan, I love you all.
Thank you to Steven, Nanci, and Donna at Barnes & Noble for hosting my first book signing ever, and to Rich for taping it. To Keith and Martin at Common Language in Ann Arbor, and to Phil, Paul, and the members of the Great Lakes Pride Band who entertained us. Gary at Five15 in Royal Oak, Suede and the staff at Pronto!, and all the Hillbilly High alumni and other Detroit-area friends who turned up on June 12, 2008. To Jeffrey and Ryan, my personal PR posse, and Bonnie, my slave—I mean, webmistress. Also Chip and Ron of Spin Cycle for throwing my “1984” book launch bash…Jon-Erik Hexum, we will never forget you!
Others I must include: Kenneth in the (212), Matthew and Lee at Meefers, Marle at WBAI, Larry, Keith, Cynthia, Diana, James, and Kara at Sirius OutQ, the fabulous Sweetie, aka Daniel, for sharing Detroit Drag secrets, Leo at Live Out Loud, Amy and all the HPHS GSA members, and James at B & N, Royal Oak.
The writing of this book would not have been possible without the generous input of the following friends: Don at Between the Lines, my fellow ex-Detroiters, Mark of Fraser, and Mary Beth of good old Hazeltucky, and my brother, Shawn, director of Thespian Troupe #4443.
Last, but certainly not least, I thank my Best Friend since 7th grade, Grat Dalton, for loaning me his life and allowing me to embellish it.
This one truly is fiction—at least 98%.
Contents
—1987—
TRUE COLORS
LET’S HEAR IT FOR THE BOY
NEVER LET ME DOWN AGAIN
PLEASE, PLEASE, PLEASE, LET ME GET WHAT I WANT
KISS HIM GOODBYE
THE FIN
AL COUNTDOWN
DRESS YOU UP
WHO’S THAT GUY?
HEAVEN IS A PLACE ON EARTH
LOOKING FOR A NEW LOVE
I HATE MYSELF FOR LOVING YOU
I THINK WE’RE ALONE NOW
HUNGRY EYES
LAST CHRISTMAS
I’M FALLING IN LOVE TONIGHT
NEW YEAR’S DAY
—1988—
HIDEAWAY
WELCOME TO THE JUNGLE
HOT CHILD IN THE CITY
WHAT I AM
FADED FLOWERS
DIDN’T WE ALMOST HAVE IT ALL?
ONLY IN MY DREAMS
MAGIC CHANGES
CONTROL
THROUGH THE EYES OF LOVE
ALWAYS ON MY MIND
SHATTERED DREAMS
FOREVER YOUNG
NEVER GONNA GIVE YOU UP
A READING GROUP GUIDE
DISCUSSION QUESTIONS
—1987—
September–December
True Colors
“Oh I realize
It’s hard to take courage…”
—Cyndi Lauper
“To thine ownself be true.”
Wanna know what bugs the shit outta me?
When somebody tells me something they think I don’t already know.
Case in point…
This morning during Miss Horchik’s 3rd hour World Shit—I mean, Lit—we’re studying the English Renaissance, even though we already covered it last year with Mrs. Malloy during English Lit. I guess maybe we’re having a refresher course or something.
Anyways!
So Miss Horchik is reading to us aloud from Hamlet. You know, by William Shakespeare. Act 1, scene 3.
“‘Neither a borrower nor a lender be / For loan oft loses both itself and friend / And borrowing dulls the edge of husbandry’…”
Da-dah da-dah.
She gets to the part when Polonius turns to Laertes, and tells him, “‘This above all: to thine ownself be true.’”
Well, I don’t know why, but Miss Horchik looks right at me when she says this. Pageboy haircut perfectly parted down the middle, hand to heart, beady eyes opened extra wide.
I’m thinking, What’s that supposed to mean?
“To thine ownself be true.”
I mean, I know what it means: be yourself, don’t give a fuck what anybody else thinks, do what you wanna do. This is exactly the way I always live my life. I don’t need some middle-aged, former-nun-turned-high-school-teacher giving me advice, you know what I mean?
“What the hell was that?”
Like horses outta the starting gate at the Hazel Park Raceway, the entire Hazel Park High student body bursts into the halls the second the bell rings.
“What the hell was what?”
Textbooks resting against his hip, Max Wilson stares straight ahead as we fight our way thru the throng of hungry Vikings on their way in search of sustenance.
“Why did Virgin Velma single me out when she said what she said?”
Max looks down at me with blue close-set eyes, totally oblivious. “What did she say?”
He acts like we weren’t sitting in the same classroom mere moments ago. Maybe because Pam Klimaszewski and her tits just passed by and he’s had a thing for her (and them) since we were Sophomores two years ago…God, we’re getting old!
“She doesn’t like you,” I tell Max, hating to be a jerk, but it’s true.
“Who?”
He whips his gelled head around just in time to avoid walking into the open Auto Shop door.
“Forget it.”
When it comes to girls, Max Wilson loses all ability to pay attention. If he doesn’t get laid this year on Spring Break, I don’t know what’s gonna happen.
“Bonjour, Bradley!”
We turn the corner down the middle hall en route to my locker when my French III Independent Study advisor, Mrs. Carey, appears from her classroom wearing this circa 1968 chocolate-colored turtleneck with a wool knee-length skirt over matching tights and boots. Not sure why since it’s the middle of September. To me, she looks like a big brown blob. Maybe it’s because Mrs. Carey happens to be black.
“Bonjour, Madame!” I recite en français.
Mrs. Carey nods and smiles. “Comment ça va?”
She reminds me of that guy from the 7-Up commercials. Only female. And without the accent. You know, the one who played Punjab in the movie version of Annie.
“Ça va bien…Et vous?”
I roll my eyes at Max. He doesn’t know what the hell we’re saying. For all he cares, we could be talking about taking a poop.
“Bien, bien,” Mrs. Carey replies, thus completing the only conversation she truly comprehends. I guess her major back in college was Latin, but now that it’s officially dead, French it is!
As much as I’d love to stay and chitchat, I’m jonesing big time. I haven’t had a cigarette since this morning after Marching Band—yes, I’m a Band Fag. I only been partaking in the nicotine habit for about four years, but the thought of going without a smoke for more than a few hours makes me totally psycho…Imagine what I’ll be like when I’m thirty.
I bid Mrs. Carey “Au revoir.” Soon as she heads off to the Teacher’s Lounge, I bust open my locker, shoving my World Lit book to the back, in search of my secret stash.
Not that she’s not nice, but from everything I witnessed during my two-going-on-three years at HPHS, sometimes Mrs. Carey can be a Total Ditz. I mean, how many teachers will write you a hall pass so you can skip their own class? And during French II last year, Mrs. Carey accidentally gave my friend Stacy Gillespie her Scènes et Séjours teacher’s edition (with all the answers), and she never even noticed! I often wonder what it must be like being the only African-American in a school full of Caucasians just waiting to take advantage of you.
“Yo, Dayton…Can I bum one of them?”
Max watches as I jiggle my second-to-last Marlboro Light from its crumpled cellophane pack. Thank God I found my butts buried beneath my Advanced Grammar/Term Paper text, which I already had with Mrs. Mayer this morning during 2nd hour.
“Get your own!” I scowl.
At 85¢ per pack (plus tax) I can’t afford to be giving my cigarettes away, can I?
“I’ll be your Best Friend.”
Max follows fast upon my footsteps towards the double doors at the far end of the hall.
“You already are my Best Friend,” I remind him, even though he’s already aware of this.
In fact, Max Wilson was the first person ever to talk to me when my family moved to Ferndale…
“You like Star Wars?”
I remember Max getting totally geeked when he saw me parade my Luke Skywalker action figure up and down my desk during playtime in Miss Norbert’s 4th grade class back at Webster.
“Sure,” I lied. The movie came out years before, but I still hadn’t seen it. In fact, I had no real desire to. I just happened to think Luke Skywalker was cute from all the commercials, but I didn’t tell Max that. Instead, I said, “I seen it like five times.”
“I only seen it three,” he replied, sounding disappointed that I had one up on him. “What’s your favorite part?”
“I don’t know,” I said, not wanting to ruin my chance at making my first new friend. “What’s yours?”
Max answered without hesitation. “When Luke Skywalker and Han Solo and Princess Leia are all trapped in the trash compactor and they’re about to get smashed to smithereens!”
“That part’s pretty good, I guess.”
I tried my best feigning enthusiasm, even though I didn’t know what the hell Max was talking about.
He lifted the lid to his desk. There amongst his purple Level 4 reading book, Hooked on Phonics worksheets, and Ranger Rick magazine, Max held hostage a collection of characters I only seen in the Star Wars section of the Sears Wish Book.
“I got an X-wing and a Y-wing fighter at home,” he bragged, “but my stupid mom won’t let me bring ’em to sch
ool.”
“That’s okay…I got both of them,” I totally lied again.
Luckily, Max never found me out for the fibber that I am. Eight years later, we’re still Best Friends.
“Today!”
Making a break for the parking lot, I tuck the slightly-bent-but-still-smokeable cig behind my ear, à la my new favorite actor, James Dean in Rebel Without a Cause. Oh, my God…He’s sooo good!
Drama Queers! Page 1