He grins, taking a good long drag. “That’s why I play drums.”
“I’m a Flaggot,” Audrey reminds us. “My lungs got nothing to do with twirling.”
By the time the festivities kick off, I can barely feel my feet. I knew I should’ve worn my snow boots! Instead, here I am looking all stylish in my brown faux-leather deck shoes sans socks.
“Brrr!” I tremble. “Fucking Michigan weather.”
“Body heat,” I hear somebody mutter.
When I look over, Audrey and Rob, Ava and Don, and Carrie and Curt are all paired off in couples, huddled together keeping each other toasty. Meanwhile, me and Richie stand shivering like that girl Karen from Frosty the Snowman before they finally find that greenhouse…’member? Karen’s sneezing her head off, so Frosty takes her inside to get warmed up, but then that mean old “messy, messy, messy” magician, Professor Hinkle, comes along, closes the door, trapping them in. Leaving poor Frosty to piddle away into a puddle. Until Santa shows up on his sleigh all “ho, ho, ho” and saves the day.
Finally, I’m like, Fuck it! Next thing I know, me and The Sophomore are clinging to each other like Saran Wrap on leftovers…He smells fucking delicious!
“What are you wearing?” I ask, attempting to sound oh-so nonchalant.
“Cologne,” he states, staring straight ahead as the NBD float floats by. “Drakkar Noir…Does it stink?”
“On the contrary,” I disagree, blushing.
Richie gives me a look like I’m outta my mind. “Who the fuck says ‘contrary’?”
Oh, my God…He’s totally flirting with me!
Well, I am not gonna fall for it.
Like I said, I hate Richie Tyler.
Don’t I?
If that’s the case, why do I find myself writing him the following note the following evening?
November 28, 1987
Hey Rich,
What’s up? Not much here. It’s Saturday night and I just got home from work. I’m smoking a cig (sorry!) in my room and trying to relax.
How was the rest of your Thanksgiving? After the parade, I went to my Grandma’s for dinner in Highland Park. All in all it was an okay time. I ate a shitload of turkey, yams (yum!), cranberry sauce, green bean casarole, and pumpkin pie. I thought for sure I was totally gonna puke!
Thank God I finally got a day off tomorrow. I’m thinking about going to see “Dirty Dancing” up at the Berkley. I hear it’s pretty good. It’s got that guy from “North and South” (miniseries) and the chick from “Ferris Beuller’s Day off.” The one who played the sister with the schnoz. It’s only $1.50. Give me a call if you want to come.
Brad
398–5836
Before I can change my mind, I get in my car and drive the almost two miles over to the Tyler’s house on Brickley, two blocks south of 10 Mile and two blocks over from where the Paternos live on Shevlin. Only on the opposite side of John R.
What the hell am I doing?
When I see Burgers & Kreme on the corner, I almost do a U-y right in the middle of the two-lane road.
It’s only a fucking letter, Bradley.
I write them to my friends all the time. No biggie!
Except if that’s how I really feel, why do I start freaking out the second I slip the sealed envelope inside the Tyler’s mailbox?
Oh, my God…I just asked The Sophomore out on a date!
I Think We’re Alone Now
“Look at the way
We gotta hide what we’re doin’…”
—Tiffany
“Strawberry waffle.”
Have you ever seen the episode of Laverne & Shirley where Lenny hires L & S to run the greasy spoon diner he inherits from his dead Uncle Laslo, and he and Squiggy rename it Dead Laslo’s Place? Only for whatever reason, Laverne (the cook) takes to calling Shirley (the waitress) by the name Betty.
It all starts when Miss DeFazio’s manning the grill. She’s cracking eggs onto it, and throwing the shells over her shoulder, all the while wearing this white poufy chef’s hat. Every time she gets an order, Laverne leans over and talks into this silver microphone attached to this bendy microphone stand-thingie.
“Betty, please…”
She drones this over and over, till finally Shirley’s like, “Why are you calling me Betty?”
And Laverne’s like, “I don’t know…Betty sounds so much better than Shirl.”
Well, eventually the place becomes packed. Laverne’s in the kitchen, boiling spaghetti and flinging it against the wall before drenching it in ketchup. Out front, Shirley’s bopping between tables taking orders from a gang of bikers. When she gets one for chicken tetrazzini, Laverne doesn’t know how the hell to make it, and ends up cramming an entire plucked poulet into a pot!
But the pièce de résistance has gotta be the pancakes.
Not realizing what she’s done, Laverne douses the entire grill with batter. She leans over into the mic and croaks, “Lucky, lucky, lucky…For the next ten minutes, everything comes with free pancakes.”
Meanwhile, the male customers start groping Shirley. She’s screeching and screaming, and getting totally pissed because everybody keeps calling her Betty—including Laverne, who uses a dustpan to flip the flapjacks prior to loading Shirl down with a dozen plates, shoving one directly in her mouth.
One by one, the natives get restless. They’re banging on the tables, brutally chanting, “Betty…Betty…Betty.” Until finally Laverne gets on the horn and begs them, “Please don’t harass Betty, please.”
Now for my point…
At Big Boy’s, we have a similar microphone system, complete with bendy microphone stand-thingie. Whenever I have to use it, I can’t help but think of Penny Marshall as I call out my order to Tony (the cook) in the kitchen.
“Strawberry waffle.”
Picture a guy with fat forearms, wiry whiskers, two teeth in his head, and you’ll get Tony. I’m sure he’s got a MOM tattoo somewhere. Lemme tell ya, the guy thinks he’s Mel Sharples from Alice. All he needs is the beanie. Any day now I expect him to bang the bell with his spatula and shout out, “Dingy!”
Plopping a side of fries onto a plate, Tony bellows, “Couldn’t hear ya!”
Oops! I forgot to hit the ON switch.
So I repeat the order, using my best stage speech. “Strawberry waf-fle.”
The menu may read: Our scrumptious Belgian waffle made with farm fresh eggs, served with succulent strawberries and creamy whipped topping. But when you boil it down, strawberry waffle says it all.
“Somebody sure could use a drink.”
Around 7:00 PM, me and my manager, Shir, pop into the back room to take our break together.
I ask, “You or me?” thinking how fun it would be to knock back a few fuzzy navels right about now.
All day at work I haven’t been able to concentrate. Richie’s parents went to Chicago for the weekend to bowl in some tournament. So he invited me to spend the night.
“What are we gonna do?”
This I asked him yesterday when he asked me yet again if we were still on for our Saturday sleepover.
“I don’t know,” he replied sheepishly. “Play pool, watch a movie, hang out.”
I been giving The Sophomore a ride home from play rehearsal since the Monday after Thanksgiving, two weeks ago. I figured it was the least I could do to pay him back for keeping me from freezing my ass off at the parade. Plus I feel terrible for being such a jerk to him these past few weeks. It’s not Richie’s fault that Mr. Dell’Olio gave him my part in the play, you know what I mean?
By the way, we didn’t end up going to see Dirty Dancing. Nobody in Richie’s family bothered to check the mailbox because it was a Sunday, so he didn’t even get my letter till that Monday after he got home from school.
“I gotta work till ten.”
I reminded him this, thinking it might be too late to play pool, watch a movie, and hang out by the time I finally got over his house.
Richie replied, “So…? I’
ll be here all by my lonesome waiting for you.” Did I mention he looked totally cute all bundled up like an Eskimo about to brave the December cold?
Like me, The Sophomore’s got three sisters, but his are all older and either married or moved out. He claimed it’ll be a Total Blast having the whole house to ourselves. I think he’s a Total Baby and is terrified of staying home alone.
“Sounds cool.”
This I concluded after realizing I been wanting to see what the inside of Richie’s house looks like and not just the front.
Back in the Big Boy’s break room…
“Fuck!”
I fish into my shirt pocket, and discover I’m totally outta cigarettes.
“Have one of mine,” Shir offers, extending her half-full pack in my direction.
Normally, I admire the fact that she partakes in the Virginia Slim Menthol Light 120. ’member, I had those exact same ones (minus the menthol) on Halloween night when I dressed up as Columbia and went to see Rocky Horror? But right now, I can’t bear the thought of accepting such a girlie gift. Instead, I get a pop from the vending machine.
Shir lights her smoke and takes a seat. “Somebody’s got something on their mind.”
Sure enough, Shir is right.
All evening I been wondering what is gonna happen once I get over Richie’s. I mean, I won’t assume anything will happen, but let’s face it…Why is he so keen on having me spend the night at his house while his parents are away if he doesn’t have something planned?
Tempted as I am to bear my soul to Shir about my man troubles, I decide I’d rather not get into the whole Richie thing.
As all “To thine ownself be true” as I’m trying to be, I still haven’t told anybody I work with that I’m gay. Not even Shir, who’s like my second mom. I mean, I know she’d totally be cool with it. I just haven’t found the right time, and refilling the Heinz 57 bottles with Del Monte at Big Boy’s certainly isn’t the right place. Besides, I don’t even know if there is a whole Richie thing to get into.
Looks like I’m about to find out…
Ka-thunk!
The second the time clock strikes 10:00 PM, I punch my card. As quickly as I can, I make my way to the men’s room where I wash my pits, put on some Speed Stick spice, and a splash of Lagerfeld. Next, I change outta my black-and-white waiter uniform into a pair of Downy-fresh Guess? jeans, along with my new favorite Gap sweater. Did I mention I applied for a part-time/over-the-holidays job after all?
Wish me luck getting it because I am B-R-O-K-E!
Nauseous is the word to describe the feeling I feel fumbling with my keys out in the parking lot, trying to open my car door. I don’t know why I bother locking it, the piece of shit!
“Sorry, Val.”
Once inside, I apologize. Nope, nobody’s with me riding shotgun. Val is what I call my car—short for Valiant, get it? Originally I thought about calling it Prince, as in Prince Valiant, but I feel that she’s a girl. Plus people might think I’m talking about Prince, as in The Revolution, and get confused.
Truth be told, Val’s a bit temperamental, but what can you expect? She’s almost twenty years old! In the months we been together, I found she responds better when I give her a little love and affection. And if I wanna make it the almost-mile over to Richie’s, I know I better treat her right.
Pulling outta the Big Boy’s parking lot, I cut across the 1–75 overpass before making a “Louie” on the northbound Chrysler service drive, taking me past the Holiday Inn. I can’t believe I lived in Hazel Park/Ferndale my entire life, and the first time I set foot in the joint was just last year. “Call me Hal” booked a Chorale gig in the banquet room for some club of some kind—Elks, K of C, Kiwanis, maybe? I don’t know what I was expecting, but it sure as hell wasn’t fancy.
At the 9 Mile stoplight, I think of Jack. Probably because of the Farmer Jack’s on the corner where his dad works. The other day, my mom made me run in to pick up some milk, and I totally avoided cutting thru the Produce department just in case Mr. Paterno might happen to be chopping broccoli or something. I don’t know what I was afraid of. It’s not like Jack’s dad is gonna be rude just because me and his son are no longer friends, you know what I mean?
In a way, I sorta hoped I would see Mr. Paterno. If I did, I could’ve inquired as to how Jack is doing. Last I heard he’s been hanging out with Betsy Sheffield and Tom Fulton in all his free time.
Whatever…
Knock knock!
I guess I should’ve called first before coming over The Sophomore’s, but I didn’t wanna waste any more time than I already did fucking around with my hair in the bathroom. I swear every time I take a shower, the drain is more and more filled with my locks. Lemme tell ya, the day I go bald, I’m shaving my head.
Peeking thru the tiny cut-out window in the Tyler’s front door, I see a cozy room, complete with couch and matching love seat. A leather La-Z-Boy rests in one corner, a Windsor rocker in the other. Except for the light coming from a small lamp on the table between the two, the house looks dark.
Great!
I bet Richie got sick of waiting for me and decided to go to bed…So much for our sleepover!
This time I ring the bell.
Ding dong!
Thru the archway separating the family and dining rooms, I catch a flash of something furry leaping from the pedestal table onto the oval-ringed rug below.
I coo, “Kitty-Kitty,” thinking that the Tylers’ cat might actually open the front door and let me inside.
Wanna know what the stupid Siamese does?
She (he?) sits there in the middle of the floor, licking her/himself inappropriately.
“Go tell Richie that Brad’s here,” I whisper, not wanting to wake him, but also not giving up the fight just yet.
The cat turns and bolts in the direction from whence it came.
Down the block, bright headlights from a passing car. I’m sure I look totally suspicious standing on the Tylers’ porch, peering inside. It’s only a matter of minutes before the HP PD will arrive to arrest me for B & E, you know what I mean?
In the words of Shellee What’s up, Fox? Findlay: Looks like I won’t be “getting some gravy” anytime soon.
Jesus!
From outta nowhere, a face pops into frame, scaring the bejesus outta me.
“It’s about time…”
Richie flings open the front door, giving me a heart attack—and a hard-on.
‘member how much I’m into bare ankles? There he stands in nothing but a skimpy pair of Champion short-shorts. His practically hairless legs lead down to white Adidas hi-tops worn with matching footies.
“I thought you were never gonna get here,” says The Sophomore, beckoning me inside.
I explain what a nightmare my entire day has been, and how it took me forever to get the fuck outta Big Boy’s and over here. “Sorry…”
“That’s okay,” he replies. “I just didn’t hear the door…I was downstairs lifting weights.”
As if the sweat dripping down your totally bare-chested bod didn’t tip me off!
Richie leads the way thru the family room, dining room, and kitchen to the basement where he’s got a black aluminum weight bench set up. A plethora of plastic donuts in various sizes clutters the carpeted floor. From a boom box sitting atop the billiards table, I recognize the voice of former Wham! front man, George Michael, belting out one of my new favorite tunes.
“I swear I won’t tease you
Won’t tell you no lies…”
Richie picks up a dumbbell, plops down on the bench. Holding the weight in one hand, he lets his forearm rest against his meaty thigh, proceeding to crank out a set of twenty reps. Meanwhile, I try not to gawk at the blue vein bulging from the center of his bicep. Lemme tell ya, for somebody I once considered to be thin, Richie is pretty ripped.
“You look like you could use a drink,” he observes.
Thinking I couldn’t agree more, I reply, “What’ve you got?”
&n
bsp; Continuing his silent count, Richie jerks his head towards the far end of the room.
An assortment of bottles and other paraphernalia adorn the counter top: a set of frosted “Down the hatch!” shot glasses, a miniature street lamp with the word BAR printed across its globe, a strong man sporting a handlebar mustache and a red one-piece bathing suit holding up a pint of Beefeater. On the brick wall behind, a framed mirror advertising Stroh’s as America’s only Fire-Brewed Beer.
Let’s see…Vodka. Rum. Whiskey. All the Usual Suspects.
Something in a Mrs. Butterworth’s-shaped bottle looks interesting: Frangelico.
I read the story of its legend printed in Olde English on the label. Something about some guy living three centuries ago in a hilly area by the right bank of some river. So long as it tastes sweet, and it does (like hazelnuts), that’s all I care about.
“I need a beer,” says The Sophomore, toweling himself off. Much to my chagrin, he throws on a “Who’s that Girl?” ’87 World Tour concert T-shirt and some sweats.
“Oh, my God…. Did you see Madonna at the Silver Dome?” I gush.
“Fifth row center,” he boasts, reaching into the circa 1950s Frigidaire for a bottle of Black Label…Bogue!
Lucky bastard. I been dying to see Motown’s own Material Girl since the tour of the same name in ’85, but still haven’t had a chance.
Richie lets out an “Ahhh!” like his hops totally hit the spot.
Personally, I don’t know how anybody can stand that shit! Whenever I used to hang out with Jack and Max back in the day, that’s all they ever wanted to drink. Me, I always preferred sloe gin and orange juice. Or at least 7-Up.
Richie calls me, “Sloe poke,” sipping my liqueur from a snifter. “Wanna see what’s on cable?”
The Tylers’ basement isn’t exactly what you’d call finished, with exposed beams on the walls and ceiling overhead. Past the pool table, there’s a color-console TV, sorta like the one the Paternos have downstairs at their house, with a tan two-seater sofa in front.
Drama Queers! Page 14