A CHRISTMAS CAROL
—CAST—
Happy fucking Friday the 13th!
Thank God I made a point to get to school early so I could check the cast list in private. If anybody saw the expression on my face when I discovered Richie—I mean, Rich—Tyler’s name above mine and next to my role, I would’ve diiieed! I mean, what the hell is Dell thinking? Casting a Sophomore in the lead when he’s never acted a day in his life.
What the fuck?
“Mr. Dayton!”
When I enter the auditorium for 5th hour Advanced Drama that afternoon, Dell attempts to greet me with his usual smile and sparkling personality…But I ain’t having it! In fact, I don’t even say as much as hello. Instead, I take a seat in one of the furthest rows away from the stage, and keep my mouth shut the entire class.
“I’m sure most of you saw the Christmas Carol cast list on your way in,” Dell says, all happy and shit, as if nobody has a right to be irked about anything. “For those of you in the show, congratulations. I think it’s going to be a good one.”
He tries catching my eye, but I look down at my spiral.
I begin doodling Richie Tyler sucks! Because it’s totally true…God, I hate him!
Call me a bitch, but what can you expect? Here it is my Senior year. I got two chances left to perform on stage at this fucking school, and I’m stuck playing Bob-fucking-Cratchit to Richie-the-fag-Tyler’s Ebenezer Scrooge? I don’t think so.
I’d be lying if I didn’t admit the guy gave a damn good audition, but still…Everybody knows you gotta pay your dues.
When I auditioned for my first play during Sophomore year, I didn’t get cast as Curly in Okla-homo!, even though I was the one with “natur-al-ly curly hair,” à la Frieda from Charlie Brown. There’s no way in hell a Senior like Jake Czyzyk would’ve settled for second billing below a Sophomore.
I don’t think I pointed out the final name on the cast list belonging to Billy Paterno, Jack’s baby brother. I guess I shouldn’t call him a baby. He’s nine-going-on-ten, which makes me feel sooo old!
I still remember Billy as this chubby little 4-year-old dragging around a Cabbage Patch doll, getting in mine and Jack’s way whenever I’d spend the night at their house back in junior high.
When Mr. Dell’Olio told us he wanted to find a real kid to play the part of Tiny Tim, I immediately thought of Billy. Back when me and Jack were still Best Friends, I went with him and his mom and his sister, Jodi, to see Billy in this play called Stone Soup over at Longfellow. He played the part of the Narrator and he was totally awesome.
So many Drama Queers just memorize their lines, get up on stage, and say them. Billy Paterno isn’t afraid to act. Plus he looked sooo cute hobbling around on his tiny Tiny Tim crutch at auditions.
I spend the entire weekend telling everybody who’ll listen (my mom, my sisters, my manager at work) about the travesty that’s occurred, coming to the conclusion that I am not gonna waste my time working on a play I’m barely in…Therefore, I Q-U-I-T, quit.
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
I don’t know what I thought Mr. Dell’Olio would say when I break the news to him on Monday afternoon. I sure as hell hoped he’d put up a fight to keep me in the show. I mean, I didn’t expect him to take away Richie’s role and give it to me. But how about trying to convince me why I shouldn’t walk?
I guess what I wanna know is…Why did Dell cast the show the way he did? Does he think I’m not good enough to play the lead? Have I not proven myself in all the other plays I been in? And if he honestly lacks faith in my ability, why’s he so gung-ho about recommending me for Juilliard?
“Not every actor can play every part,” Dell tries explaining when I work up the nerve to confront him. “There are some roles you’re going to be right for, and others you’re not…Because of who you are.”
I don’t get what he’s saying. “Isn’t that why they call it acting?”
“Yes, but…” He shakes his balding head, totally at a loss. “Rich Tyler’s a different type than you are.”
“But I’m older,” I reason. Shouldn’t that count for something?
Dell nods. “But Rich is taller.”
“So…?”
“So on stage, he plays older.”
Da-dah da-fucking-dah.
Maybe I’m wrong, but I was always under the impression that being an actor means I can be whoever I wanna be. I don’t have to settle for being just Bradley James Dayton, 17-year-old gay-boy. I can be a nerd like Seymour Krelborn. Or a cowboy like Will Parker. Or an old man like Ebenezer Scrooge. All thru the magic that is Theatre.
“Besides,” Dell concludes, “You know what they say: ‘There are no small parts, only small actors.’”
What’s that supposed to mean?
“There are no small parts, only small actors.”
I mean, I know what it means: no role is insignificant, a character wouldn’t even be in a play if it wasn’t important, be a team player. This I am and have always been. I don’t need some middle-aged, failed-Off-Off-Broadway-director giving me advice, you know what I mean?
“How do you think I feel?”
Ultimately, Audrey is the one who convinces me to stay in the show.
Later that night, I call her up to ask her opinion. I have to give Dell an answer ASAP so he can recast my part if necessary.
“At least you weren’t beat out by a Sophomore,” I remind her.
Poor Audrey…She desperately wanted to play Belle, Young Scrooge’s love interest. But once again, Dell decided to go with a blond, namely Liza Larson. Unfortunately, I can totally see where he’s coming from. Even in Mr. Magoo’s Christmas Carol, this is the way it was drawn. Yet another case of typecasting.
All the way across town, I hear Audrey sigh. “Well, if you quit, I quit.”
“Please…Don’t let my humiliation stop you from having fun.”
This is what it comes down to: what a loser everybody is gonna think I am when they come see the play in December, and there’s me (a Senior) bowing before Richie Tyler (a lowly Sophomore).
Audrey does her best to be the voice of reason.
“It’s bad enough my own boyfriend’s not doing the play…” Rob’s new job flipping ass burgers at Bray’s conflicts with rehearsals, and therefore his dad decided making money is more important than playing pretend. “You’re my Best Friend…The least you can do is share in my suffering.”
“But Bob Cratchit,” I whine. “He’s a Total Wuss!”
All the guy does is say, “Yes, Mr. Scrooge,” and “No, Mr. Scrooge,” with the occasional, “Very good, sir,” thrown in for good measure. Plus the last thing I want is Claire Moody playing my wife.
Ever since the day I ran into her and Rakoff in Dell’s room, she’s constantly bugging me about whether I know if Jack Paterno’s gay or not, and what a great scoop it would be for her column in The Hazel Parker. I keep telling her she should stick to fashion and leave the investigative reporting to somebody else. Besides, it’s none of her fat fucking business!
“Yes, but…” Audrey considers my argument a moment, coming up with: “In the Disney version, Mickey Mouse played Bob Cratchit.”
I’m like, “So…?”
“So…Everybody knows Mickey Mouse is the star of Disney, and even he took a lesser role for the good of the show.”
“Yes, but…” I consider Audrey’s argument a moment, coming up with: “You think Scrooge McDuck would get cast as anything less than Ebenezer Scrooge?”
I can’t believe we’re having this conversation.
“Please!” Audrey pleads. “You can’t leave me alone with Will Isaacs and Keith Treva.”
Notorious for their backstage antics, those two are “trouble with a capital T,” as Professor Harold Hill sings in The Music Man. Like last year during The Miracle Worker, they booby-trapped the set and the poor girl playing Helen Keller almost fell right off the stage into the orchestra pit. Thank God it wasn’t a musical or she would’ve gotte
n a bassoon up her butt.
“And Tuesday Gunderson,” Audrey adds. “I’ll fucking kill her!”
This much I know is true.
Despite them being so-called friends, I can tell Audrey can’t stand Tuesday. Any day now, she’s gonna do something drastic. Like telling her to take a fucking shower. Or at least wash her fucking hair. Lemme tell ya, that girl put the BO in BOD—what we call Student Council here at HPHS, aka Board of Directors.
“Fine…I’ll do the fucking play,” I reluctantly give in. “But the second anything else comes my way,” like the opportunity to pick up an extra shift at Big Boy’s or God willing, I meet a hot guy at the bar and he asks me out after school, “I’m skipping rehearsal and Dell can deal.”
And no matter what, I am not being nice to Richie Tyler!
The following Monday…
At our first read-thru, The Sophomore comes rushing into the auditorium all hot and sweaty and totally pumped up, after an intense workout during Miss Phelan’s 6th hour Gym. Did I mention she may or may not be a lesbian, but who cares because she’s totally cool? Back in 10th grade, she used to let me and Jack hang out in her office instead of forcing us to play volleyball or run laps around the track with the rest of our classmates.
“Sorry I’m late,” Richie huffs and puffs, totally outta breath.
But does Dell’Olio get pissed and give him the old, “If you’re not fifteen minutes early, you’re late” spiel that he got from his playwright friend in New York, David Mamet?
N–O!
He simply says, “That’s okay, Rich…We were just about to get started.”
In actuality, the entire cast had already assembled on stage in a circle of chairs, filled out our contact sheets, and finished hi-lighting the scripts given to us by our SSD, Miranda Resnick.
“Have a seat next to Brad,” she tells Richie, indicating the empty metal folding chair on my right.
He plops down beside me. “Hey, Brad…What’s up?”
Doe he really have to lift up his shirt, exposing his happy trail, in order to wipe the sweat from his upper lip? And what’s he doing wearing a fucking tank top in the middle of November? How about putting on some real clothes?
Jesus!
For the next week, I do everything in my power not to so much as look at Richie, let alone talk to him. If it’s not Bob Cratchit interacting with Ebenezer Scrooge, I want nothing to do with the boy.
Even if we’re taking a break between scenes and he says something like, “Nice sweater…It totally matches your eyes,” all I do is accept his compliment, but pay him none in return. No matter how hot his ass looks in his new Girbaud jeans!
It doesn’t take long for The Sophomore to get the hint that I’m a little peeved.
“Are you pissed at me?”
The day before Thanksgiving Break is about to begin, he corners me backstage by The Cage. There’s literally this caged-in area stage left with this totally ancient light board with all sorts of switches and giant levers, like something outta Young Frankenstein. Every time I’m back there I just wanna scream, “It’s alive!”
“Not at all,” I lie, avoiding Richie’s piercing blue gaze. “I’m just wiped.”
We spent the last hour working on the final “God bless us, every one!” scene, and having the entire cast up on stage at the same time can be totally chaotic.
“Well, that’s good to know…”
“What?” I ask, suspecting something’s up.
“Oh, nothing…”
“What?” I repeat. “Tell me.”
The Sophomore flashes me a devilishly dimpled grin. “Audrey invited me to come with you guys to the parade,” he confesses. “I wanna make sure you don’t mind.”
Audrey what?
A few weeks ago, Audrey and Rob, Ava and Don, and Carrie and Curt decided they wanna go downtown to see the Hudson’s Thanksgiving Day parade. Of course, I felt a tad envious. My dad used to take me and my sisters all the time when we were little, and I haven’t been since like 1982.
“You can totally come with,” Aud assured me.
Despite Ava and Carrie both saying they’re just friends with Don Olsewski and Curt Chaplin, I’m not stupid. The whole thing sounded like a triple date to me and I wasn’t about to crash.
I politely thanked her for the invite. “I am not gonna be your seventh wheel.”
She was like, “So bring somebody.”
And I was like, “Somebody who?”
“I don’t know…There’s gotta be somebody you like!”
Right off, I noticed Audrey didn’t say, some girl you like.
This was fine.
Like I said, my plan is to eventually tell her about me. If she figures it out first and I don’t have to say anything, I’m not gonna complain. But who the hell was I gonna bring to the parade as my so-called date?
Looks like Audrey went and decided for me.
“Thanks a lot!”
On the way out to my car after rehearsal Wednesday evening, I’m totally pissed.
“It’s for your own good,” she insists, sounding more like my mother than one of my Best Friends.
Digging thru my pocket for my keys, I pray my piece-of-shit car will start in this cold. It’s not even 6:00 PM and it’s already totally dark outside. Did I mention how much I hate it whenever we fall back in the fall?
Audrey shivers audibly. “Just hurry up and open the goddamn door!”
I do as ordered, and we crawl inside.
I jam the key in the dashboard ignition. Thankfully the engine turns over.
“Oh, my God…I love this song!”
I turn on the radio, hearing one of my new favorite tunes: “Cow Cow Boogie” by The Judds.
Audrey gives me a look like I’m outta my mind. “Since when do you like Country?”
“Since my mom’s from Alabama,” I answer, cranking it and singing along. “Comma ti yi yi yeah…”
Ever since me and my sisters were little, Mom’s always listened to WCXI and W4. Tammy Wynette, Dolly Parton, June Carter Cash. These are the songstresses we were reared on. Sure, I love Cyndi Lauper, but nobody sings a better story than Loretta Lynn. I can’t even remember how many times I seen Coal Miner’s Daughter.
Audrey reaches across the dash, lowering the volume. “How about some heat, for chris’sakes?”
“It’s broke,” I apologize. What can you expect when your car’s two years older than you are?
Audrey pulls her hood up over her head in a huff. “Your scenes are only gonna suffer.”
“Comma ti yippity yi yeah…” I continue crooning. “What scenes?”
“Would you focus here?” she demands. “Your Scrooge/Cratchit scenes!”
The one good thing about staying at school late for rehearsal is not having to deal with traffic in the back parking lot. Pedal to the metal, I pull out onto Felker in a squeal of steel-belted rubber.
“They are not gonna suffer.”
Audrey rolls her eyes. “If you keep on hating The Sophomore, they will.”
I say, “Bob Cratchit hates Scrooge,” staring out my driver’s side window. No smokers out on Skid Row at this hour.
This reminds me…I lean forward to push in the lighter.
“He does not,” Audrey insists, again sounding just like my mom.
Whatever…
The second I’m about to light my cig, the B-I-T-C-H snatches it from between my lips.
“Listen to me, Dayton…I’m in this goddamn play, too, you know? I’m not about to let it turn into a piece of shit,” she hisses, “just because you got a bug up your ass!”
I totally scoff at what I’m hearing. “I don’t have any bug up my ass…”
Do I?
Thanksgiving Day morning…
First of all, it’s fucking fuh-reezing.
Thirty-two degrees and a light snow.
Time to break out the long johns!
One thing I don’t remember from when we were little is getting up at the butt crack of dawn
just to find a place to watch the parade. It doesn’t even start till 10:00 AM, but by the time we get downtown around 8:30 AM, there’s already a ton of people lined up along Woodward eagerly anticipating Santa’s arrival.
“Coffee,” I mutter thru clenched teeth. “Must…have…”
“You wanna go and get some?” asks Richie, the only one who seems to care about my frostbit fingertips.
“Nah.”
I’d hate to lose our perfect spot in front of the DIA or risk having Richie think I’m not still pissed at him…Because I am.
“Now what?” The Sophomore asks after about all of a second of standing around.
Time for a smoke!
“We wait,” answers Ava, still half asleep.
Struggling to fish out a fresh cigarette, I take note that for the first time, Ava is actually not twirling her hair. Instead, she’s got her hands buried deep in the pockets of her Viking Marching Band Varsity jacket, complete with Drum Major embroidered across the back.
Carrie asks Richie, “Haven’t you ever been to the Thanksgiving Day parade before?”
I’m just about to rip off my gloves when Richie palms my pack of Marlboro Lights.
“Smoking kills, you know?”
I know. “But it sure tastes good…”
Giving up, he extracts a cig, slips it between my lips, and flicks my Bic.
Ahhh…Nothing like your third cigarette of the day at only 9:00 AM!
Richie winces, batting his baby blues. “I could never kiss a smoker.”
I’ll keep that in mind.
“Hey, can I bum one of them?” asks Don Olsewski, helping himself to my stash.
Audrey chimes in, “Me too, me too.”
I’m like, “Get your own, people!”
As they take turns blazing up, Richie wonders, “Does everybody smoke?”
For the first time in a while, I can’t help but notice he sounds a little faggy…But he’s still cute as fuck!
“Not me,” Carrie answers, disgusted. “Smoking is g-ross!” She gives Curt a glance that says, Don’t even think about starting!
Ava says, “We’re in Band,” in case we all forgot. “We can’t afford to go polluting our lungs.” She looks at Don.
Drama Queers! Page 13