“What are you doing here?” I asked, still not sure how she and her other junior high cohorts managed to crash.
“Jodi’s with us,” Angela Andrews informed me.
“Isn’t she a little young to be partying with the Seniors?”
Lynn Kelly answered, “All the Parkerettes were invited.”
Parkerettes are the junior high equivalent of Vikettes.
Sure enough, I looked around the room and saw a bunch of very young, very drunk girls being hit on by a bunch of wasted older guys. Thank God my sister, Nina, is (quote-unquote) special so she’s not friends with any of the girls in this crowd.
And that’s the precise moment when Jodi Paterno completely lost her cookies…
Splat!
“Sorry,” she sighs, slobber dripping down her chin.
Immediately, I go into big brother/Florence Nightingale mode, leading the girl down the hall to where I’m assuming I’ll find the bathroom somewhere.
“Coming thru, coming thru,” I warn the crowd, doing my best Marty from Grease impression…’member when the Pink Ladies are at the drive-in and Marty thinks Rizzo’s prego? And she’s like, “Lady with a baby.”
Nobody gives a shit, least of all the couple I find making out in the tub once I flip on the light, seashells and sea foam green surrounding us.
“Excuse me…”
This I say to Jamie Good and Jeff Rhimes, closing the door behind me. Did I mention Jeff graduated in ’87 with Luanne Kowalksi, and used to be a Band Fag baritone player back at Webb? Until he got to HPHS and gave up instrumental music because it was no longer cool.
Jamie tries to pull away, looking a tad embarrassed at being caught, but Jeff forges ahead cramming his tongue down her esophagus. I pull the shower curtain shut, just in time to situate Jodi in front of the toilet, and lift the lid before she blows chunks.
“You’re all right,” I coo, gently patting her back the way my mom does whenever I ralph. “Can I get you some water?”
Have I mentioned the way I say water sounds more like wa-dir, and how much I hate it?
Jodi shakes her head, down on her knees, both fists full of porcelain.
A quick check of my Swatch informs me it’s 11:44 PM. Only sixteen minutes till 1988. The last place I wanna be when the ball drops at midnight is holding back the hair of a drunken 13-year-old girl while she literally spills her guts!
“Stay here.”
Praying Jamie and Jeff don’t take things any further than second base behind the plastic curtain, down the narrow hall I go, hoping Sean is okay talking with Max in the French room—I mean, front room. I’m sure Mr. Wilson is rambling on about some stupid movie he saw on Skinemax with some big-boobed broad in it…Why is Max sooo lame sometimes?
“Yo, Dayton!”
The door to what I’m guessing is Shellee’s bedroom opens. The sweet fragrance of something familiar seeps out from the dark.
“Hey, Bobby.”
Billy Idol Jr. offers me the burning joint he holds between middle finger and thumb. “Wanna hit?”
“No thanks,” I decline. Not because I don’t entertain the idea of getting high, I just have no desire to do it with Bobby Russell.
“C’mon!” he implores, pulling me inside, totally against my will.
The only thing worse than arguing with a drunk is arguing with a high-on. I really don’t wanna get into this right now. In fact, if I knew there was the slightest chance Bobby was gonna be here tonight, I wouldn’t have even come to this par-tay.
I guess I didn’t realize Shellee and Bobby were still friends. Back in 7th grade they went together for something like six months. I’ll never forget the time Mr. Grant (the babe Civics teacher) got a hold of one of Shellee’s Dear Bobby love letters, and read it aloud in the cafeteria in daily installments during lunch.
“What are you doing?” I ask my classmate, my eyes adjusting to the lack of light.
“What’s it look like?” Bobby replies, taking a toke. “Want some?”
The glow of the waning moon shines thru the slats of the vinyl blinds, and I try not to sigh too audibly. “I already told you…I don’t wanna get high.”
Bobby extinguishes the joint, slipping it into the front pocket of his hospital scrubs. I can’t believe he still wears them things.
“’s not what I’m talkin’ about,” he says suavely.
Sure enough, I look down to find Bobby Russell standing before me—holding his crotch.
Oh, God!
Next thing I know, Bobby whips it out. Totally flaccid, he begins tugging on himself. “I could sure use some help.”
Not from me.
With my right hand, I reach for the doorknob.
With his left, Bobby blocks my way. “What’s your rush?”
“It’s almost midnight,” I remind him. “I gotta get back to my friend.”
Bobby sneers. “The faggot?”
I’m about to declare, He’s not a faggot…Yet if I do, I know I’d be lying. Instead, I simply state, “His name’s Sean.”
Bobby presses himself up against me, his breath a sickly combination of booze and weed.
“’s Sean your boyfriend?”
Like I told Shellee Findlay when she asked me: I been spending a lot of time with Sean over Christmas Break. Still, I don’t know where we stand exactly relationship-wise. I guess you could say we’re (quote-unquote) dating. I mean, Sean’s the first guy I ever made out with on more than one occasion, so maybe that does kinda make him my boyfriend.
Well, this sucks!
Not because I don’t want Sean to be my boyfriend, I do. He’s a totally great guy. Not to mention a totally great kisser. He does this thing where he sucks on my tongue, kinda hard, like it’s some kinda life-saving drug and he’s gotta swallow every drop. And sometimes, he’ll stick his own in my ear, which you’d think would feel totally bogue, like somebody’s giving you a Wet Willy or something.
But it doesn’t—it’s totally hot.
Now that I think of it, I could totally get used to having him around.
Brad + Sean.
TLF.
True Love Forever.
Yeah, right!
How the hell is that gonna happen when, just the other day, Sean informed Brad he’s high-tailing it to LA on account of he can’t cut the cold, and dwelling in Detroit for another day will totally depress him?
This is why I tell Bobby, “Sean’s not my boyfriend.” Because obviously he doesn’t want to be. Or else he wouldn’t up and abandon me without considering our (quote-unquote) relationship.
“Liar.”
Bobby leans into me, so close I can feel the tickle of his tiny mustache on my nose and the weight of him growing against my leg.
“Knock it off.”
I try to sound casual, even though in actuality, I’m a tad freaked out.
Bobby forces his eight-incher into my palm. “You knock it off,” he slurs. “Like ya used to.”
No, he’s not making shit up. What Bobby said just now is totally accurate.
As all “To thine ownself be true” as I’m trying to be, I still haven’t come clean about me and Bobby Russell. As in what happened between us back in 9th grade—as in sexually.
To make a long story short…
One day at the beginning of Freshman year, Bobby asked me if I wanted to spend the night over his house. It’s not like we were friends or anything, but we knew each other from the swim team and we spent the last two years together in Band.
Bobby played trumpet and sat right next to Jack, so I suggested we invite him along since Jack lives just on the other side of John R from where Bobby lives on Morehouse. Or is it M-O-O-R-house? I always get it mixed up. In Hazel Park, it’s spelled one way, in Ferndale, the other.
For whatever reason, Bobby didn’t want me telling Jack anything about his invitation, even though he knew I been Best Friends with the guy since 7th grade, and I told him everything…Well, not everything.
At the time, I never told
Jack how hot I thought Bobby was. He used to wear these skin-tight Sergio’s with white Nike hi-tops and, he had this one black and gray striped shirt from like Chess King he wore unbuttoned to his navel…And he was always going around school talking about what a big trout he had in his trousers.
Of course, I was like, “Hell yeah, I’ll spend the night!” Especially when Bobby informed me there was mari-ju-ana (do you wanna?) to be had.
I guess this explained why he didn’t want Mr. Persnickety-Persnick Paterno tagging along.
Or so I thought.
The first time, I couldn’t believe what was happening…There we were, sitting around Bobby’s basement in our underwear, smoking a doob and listening to Quiet Riot. Due to the bagginess of his boxers, I couldn’t tell if Bobby had a big one or not. The fact was finally confirmed when he started stroking it thru his shorts—right in front of me!
At first, I didn’t think anything of it. Sometimes a guy’s gotta adjust himself, you know what I mean? Until he accidentally-on-purpose let it fall out. It totally touched his belly button when he leaned back.
“Oops.”
Next thing I knew, I had mine out, and we were totally beating off together. I couldn’t take my eyes off Bobby doing his thing. I never seen another guy do that before, you know what I mean? The look of intensity on his face, the way his forearm flexed, and he held his breath…Totally hot! But something tells me Bobby wasn’t nearly as into it as I was. Once he finished, he just sorta sat there with his eyes closed, acting like I wasn’t even in the room.
So the next time, I decided to give Bobby Russell something to remember me by. Just as he was about to burst his bubble, I reached over and took him in my hand. Boy, did he respond to that!
Then I was like, Okay…My turn.
But Bobby was like, “I’m hungry” Like nothing even happened.
Watching as he wiped himself off with his Def Leppard T-shirt, I was like, “Wow…I can’t believe you’re a fag, too.”
And Bobby was like, “Just because I let a guy beat my meat doesn’t make me a fag.”
This might explain why he never did anything back to me…Ever.
But I didn’t care, because I was finally having S-E-X.
Even if it was one-sided.
So began what became a weekly ritual, lasting the majority of our Freshman year and thru most of the following summer. Until we got to HPHS in the fall and Bobby dropped outta Band. Then me and Jack met Luanne and Alyssa, and started hanging out with them all the time…The rest is history.
“You know you want it.”
Finding myself once again faced with Bobby and his big one, I’m thinking, I really don’t. And I haven’t for a long time. The last thing I want right now is to be used by somebody who doesn’t give a crap about me in the least little bit.
“To thine ownself be true.”
Thank God there comes a knock on the door.
Knock knock!
“Who is it?”
“Open up…Police!”
Sure enough, this party is O-V-E-R.
Turns out, Shellee Findlay’s neighbor lady got sick of listening to a bunch of high school (and junior high) kids partying like it’s 1999, and she called the cops. Of course, Bobby would be totally busted if the fuzz caught him all high on reefer. So being the kindhearted soul I am, I help hoist him out the window before following happily ever after…
How’s that for a narrow escape?
–1988–
January–May
Hideaway
“One day the boy decided
To let them know the way he felt inside…”
—Erasure
What the—?
Imagine my surprise the first Monday back from Christmas Break when Zack Rakoff approached me after 1st hour Wind Ensemble. Beaming like a Monty Python freak in awe of the Holy Grail, he handed me twenty-six typed, mimeographed pages, bound together with shiny brass fasteners.
“Here ya go…”
FADED FLOWERS
a short film by
Zachary M. Rakoff
&
Clarissa Moody
© January 1988, Fish Below The Ice Productions
I couldn’t figure out why Rakoff was talking to me, let alone giving me a gift.
Then I remembered…
“Claire and I are writing a thort film thcript…”
“For second semester Mass Media…”
“…we were wondering if you wanna be in it.”
It all started that day I was desperately seeking Dell’Olio to ask if he’d write a letter of recommendation for my Juilliard audition, which is coming up two weeks from tomorrow. But I’m not thinking about that right now.
“We’ll get you a script by Christmas.”
“We thoot over Winter Break.”
I didn’t think they were serious about making a movie. You know how many times Rakoff’s come up with some crazy scheme and never followed thru? Back in 7th grade, he asked me and Jack if we wanted to be in a New Wave band with his friend, “Dragon Horce,” called either Third Triple Three or Say Saying Said…And did that ever get off the ground?
N-O!
In 9th grade, he made me and Jack help him haul all this camera equipment over his grandma’s house in Sterling Heights so he could shoot establishing shots for a videotaped production of Sorry, Wrong Number…And did he ever finish it?
N-O!
Why should this Faded Flowers thing be any different?
“I totally forgot about this,” I told Rakoff, who stood there like some Trekkie waiting for Scotty to beam him up.
“Firtht read-thru is tomorrow after thchool in Dell’s room.”
As much as I wanted to back out, I knew I couldn’t. I needed all the experience I could get, and having a short film under my belt would look good on my resumé.
So I said, “I’ll be there.”
Rakoff let out a sigh of relief. “Thorry it took us tho long to get you a thcript…We used the break to make thome latht-minute changes.”
“Whatever…I said I’ll do it.”
That night, I crawled in bed beneath my reading lamp, and gave the script the once-over.
—CAST—
Oh, no!
I was not getting myself involved with anything that would put me in close proximity with The Sophomore. Especially when the new love of my life (Sean) was about to abandon me by moving to Los Angeles the following weekend, leaving me alone and feeling vulnerable.
Maybe I was totally overreacting.
Maybe it wouldn’t be as bad as I thought.
Maybe unlike in A Christmas Carol, me and Richie wouldn’t have any scenes together.
Fingers crossed!
I’d be lying if I didn’t admit it shocked me to see Ava Reese’s name amongst the cast of characters. Sure, she came to see every one of mine and Audrey’s plays, but not since Miss Norbert made us put on a production of Gilbert & Sullivan’s The Mikado for our parents back in 4th grade had I known Ava to have any interest in acting.
Unfortunately, I was totally wiped from my shift at Big Boy’s to get past page one. This boy needed his beauty rest. Faded Flowers would have to wait till tomorrow…
Lemme tell ya, the next day after school, I regretted not staying up.
“Welcome cast and crew!”
Claire Moody greeted me, Audrey, Ava, Richie, and Rakoff, who I guessed must be the aforementioned crew.
“Thank you for giving up your time and talent to work on this project with us,” added Rakoff.
All of us actors sat around nodding and smiling. Except for Ava.
“I didn’t give up anything,” she groaned. “I was drafted.”
Turns out, Dell decided it would be good for Miss Reese to stay in school an additional semester and take Mass Media, as opposed to graduating in January, which I guess she had more than enough credits to do. Regardless, it made me happy to have her on board.
“Please open your scripts to page one,” Miss Moody said,
ignoring Ava’s wisecrack. “Zachary, would you mind reading camera directions?”
Like a bumbling fool, Rakoff fought with his script. “What page?”
Claire gave him an icy stare. “I said page one.”
“Thorry…” Rakoff adjusted his tortoiseshells, clearing his throat. “Faded—” His voice cracked, à la Peter Brady singing “When it’s Time to Change.”
“We’ll wait,” droned Claire, à la Total Bitch.
Rakoff read the title page before moving on to the synopsis: “Thet in a thmall thuburban town, Faded Flowers focuthes on a group of high thchool thudents, and what happens when one of the girls finds out her ex-boyfriend is homothexual.”
What the—?
“Nobody said anything about me playing a gay guy,” I piped up.
Claire regarded me with the same cold look she gave Rakoff only moments ago.
“Didn’t Zachary tell you we made some last-minute changes to the plot?”
I nodded. “Well, yeah…”
“And did you read your script?”
“Not all of it,” I lied, knowing I didn’t read any of it.
“It’s all there in black and white,” Claire stated emphatically.
Zack chuckled, a dopey grin on his chubby face. “Actually, it’s purple and white.”
“Don’t correct me,” warned Claire.
Put in his place, Rakoff turned to me. “Is there a problem with your character, Bradley?”
What was I gonna say? Of course, I don’t mind playing a fag because I am one.
Talk about an easy gig!
Claire attempted to justify the alterations she made to Rakoff’s original story. She explained how she felt making the lead male character gay would heighten the controversy factor of the script, thereby garnering attention when submitted to the festival circuit…That’s not all she had planned.
“Shall we begin?”
FADE IN:
INT. RYAN’S BEDROOM–DAY
Ryan and Noel lie together in bed, torsos bare, bodies entwined, after a passionate session of love-making.
Drama Queers! Page 19