“And what will you be doing for us today?” asks Baldy #1.
Something about the glint is his eye makes me wonder if he, too, is gay.
Clearing my throat, I launch into my spiel. “Hello, my name is Bradley Dayton…”
Duh!
Before I can continue, I’m interrupted by Baldy #2. “Where are you visiting us from today, Bradley Dayton?” he wonders, in a voice reminiscent of Paul Lynde, who I adore as Uncle Arthur on Bewitched reruns.
“I live in Ferndale, Michigan.”
Jane Hathaway’s face lights up. “I love Michigan!” she cries, adding, “Are you at Interlochen?”
“I’m afraid I’m not,” I reply, trying not to let it show on my face how humiliated I am. “I go to school in Hazel Park.”
“And where is that?” Baldy #1 wonders.
Holding up my right hand, palm facing out, I point to the base of my thumb on my Michigan hand-map. “It’s a suburb of Detroit.”
“Ah, yes…Detroit.” Paul Lynde sighs. “I’ve got good friends who live in Bloomfield Hills.”
Of course you do!
“Well, welcome,” Jane Hathaway says warmly, concluding the small talk. “Whenever you’re ready…”
Now I’m totally thrown off!
Taking it from the top, I begin with, “Hello, my name is Bradley Dayton…My selection is—”
Fuck, I forgot there’s two!
“My selections are…Romeo from Romeo & Juliet.”
I never start with the classical!
Why I went there, I don’t know.
“And…”
Wanna know what I say next?
“Bob Cratchit from A Christmas Carol.”
From the expression on the judges’ faces, I get the impression they weren’t expecting that one to come outta my mouth—and neither was I. Especially since there isn’t the slightest thing resembling a monologue for Bob Cratchit in the entire play.
Now I’m gonna have to ab-lib—I mean, ad-lib.
I don’t know why, but in the moment, I kept hearing Christopher’s voice inside my head: “Don’t be gay.”
I mean, that’s not exactly what he said, but he implied it, didn’t he?
“If you’re a homo, you’ll never become a famous actor.”
Despite the fact I’m almost positive the three middle-aged folks sitting behind the brown metal table, holding the fate of my future in the palms of their hands, are all Friends of Dorothy (i.e., Judy Garland—Christopher explained it), I can’t take a risk by giving them the slightest indication that I might be, too.
“To thine ownself be true.”
Fuck that shit.
Faded Flowers
“We had some good machines, but they don’t work no more
I loved you once, don’t love you anymore…”
—Shriekback
2–2-88
Dear Brad,
I was this close to coming up to Big Boy’s last night to stalk you in person, but I decided to be civil and write you instead. If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were avoiding me. Unless Laura’s losing it and keeps forgetting to tell you I called. Three times since you got back from NYC on Sunday, but who’s counting?
What’s up with you quitting Faded Flowers? I walked into rehearsal yesterday after school and saw Joey Palladino sitting in your seat. Rakoff and Claire told us he’s taking over your part and I want to know why.
There will only ever be one Ryan for this Noel. Is there some way I can change your mind and get you to come back? (I can think of one or two!)
Richie
I suppose I don’t have to tell you why I dropped outta the film.
But I will.
Two days ago, I got back from New York, and immediately got Rakoff on the phone…
“I hate to break this to you,” I said casually. “I can’t do the movie.”
“You mean Faded Flowers?” he asked from the other end of the line, totally outta breath. I didn’t wanna think about what I might’ve interrupted…Bogue!
“No, Sherlock…Doctor Who Meets Monty Python.”
Rakoff scoffed. “Claire’s not gonna like thith.”
“Tough shit!” I responded, trying to sound like a Total Bad Ass.
I honestly didn’t mean to be a jerk. I just knew I had to get myself as far away from this fag-movie as I possibly could. Of course, I didn’t wanna admit the real reason why.
That’s exactly what Rakoff asked me about next.
“May I athk why you’re quitting?”
“I’m not quitting” I answered defensively. “I’m dropping out.”
“Forgive me for thaying tho,” Rakoff lisped, “but I don’t thee much of a differenth.”
“Well, there is!” I spat, sticking to my guns. “If you must know, Rakoff,” I continued, emphasizing the F’s, “some of us gotta work for a living. We can’t take time off just to shoot a stupid student film.”
What did he possibly know about anything? Rakoff’s an only child whose mommy gives him whatever he wants…Even if it is just a dumb old mayonnaise cake!
“Is it the thcript? I can rewrite it,” Rakoff volunteered. “I just want you to be happy.”
No amount of rewriting could save that piece of shit.
I came this close to saying that, but knew I couldn’t. Talk about bogue! In fact, just thinking it, I felt so ashamed I had to turn away from myself in the mirror.
“The script is fine,” I said sincerely. “It’s a great opportunity for an actor to show off his talents…But that actor isn’t me.”
“Well, I’m thorry you feel thith way,” Rakoff replied, disappointed.
“Yeah…Me, too.”
After I hung up, I went in my room where I found a note on my bed.
Welcome Home!
Love, Mom
PS—Call Richie
Normally, I’d pick up the phone and be over the Tylers’ faster than a sorority girl can spread her legs, but I knew that just wasn’t possible. Not anymore, at least.
All the way back to Detroit on the plane, I dreaded the conversation me and Richie were bound to have once I got home. So I conveniently forgot about Mom’s note, and opted for a night over Janelle and Ted’s watching the Super Bowl (Redskins vs. Broncos), followed by the premiere of some new TV show called The Wonder Years.
Set in the suburbs during 1968, the story focuses on 12-year-old Kevin Arnold, played by some kid I never heard of, Fred Savage. It totally made me think of being that age, growing up with Max and Jack, doing all the things we did together: playing Pac-Man at the party store, ordering pizza from Randazzo’s, looking at Playboy. Five years later, we’re not even friends anymore…Why does growing up suck so bad?
You can bet Audrey was pissed when she got the news.
What do you mean you’re quitting the movie?
The next morning during 2nd hour Consumer Ec she slipped me a note.
I wrote: Can’t do it. Then I folded up the piece of notebook paper and passed it back.
Because my last name starts with D and Audrey’s with W, and Mrs. Ireland makes us sit in alphabetical order, this wasn’t an easy feat as there are three rows of desks between us. We had to use several go-betweens, namely Marie Sperling, Fay Keating, and Tom Fulton.
Audrey wrote: Why the fuck not?
I wasn’t about to get into this via a note that could possibly be intercepted at any moment by one of my asshole classmates or our crazy teacher. So I wrote back: We’ll talk about it later.
Just when I thought the discussion had ended, I felt another tap on my shoulder.
“Dude…From Ostrich.”
Tom Fulton passed the note my way. I can’t believe he was even taking part in my scheme, let alone talking to me. And how did he know Audrey’s nickname from back in kinny-garden—I mean, kindergarten? My guess was Jack told him since he’s the one who told me.
I read the note: When?
Hunching over my desk, I scrawled out my response: Lunch?
Tom waited to make his next move. Despite hating me since we were in elementary school, he seemed to be enjoying himself. Anything to put one over on a teacher, I’m sure.
Audrey wrote back: Going to BK with Rob.
Not my problem.
If she wanted to know why I dropped out from the movie, she needed to make the effort, you know what I mean? Not that I was gonna tell her the real reason I quit is because I can’t be “tempted by the fruit of another” (man) anymore.
Unfortunately, I knew I couldn’t avoid Richie forever. Sure enough, Monday night when I got home from work, I found another note on my bed.
Richie called.
Love, Mom
Again, I ignored it.
The next morning before Wind Ensemble is when I find Richie’s letter stuck inside the slats of my locker. Thank God he’s only a Sophomore. I don’t have to deal with having him in any of my classes.
By the time I get to the Band room, all the Band Fags have already started warming up. Luckily, the bell rings just as I’m slipping safely thru the double doors. But that doesn’t stop Mr. Klan from crying out, “Mr. Dayton…You’re late!”
“Kiss it.”
This I mumble from the storage room, matching his tone. The last thing I need this early on a day like today is Mr. Klan’s shit. This is why I take my sweet old time locating my trombone case in its place on the designated shelf.
The tinny tap of Mr. Klan’s wood baton against metal music stand emanates from the Band room proper, and all the Band Fags suddenly fall silent.
“Sweetheart,” Mr. Klan says to Ava Reese. “Would you give us a B-flat, please?”
Sliding my slide into place while Ava does her 1st chair clarinet duty, I sneak into my seat in the middle of the third row of risers, next to Will Isaacs.
“You trying out for Grease next week?” he whispers.
“You bet I am.”
After months and months of begging, me and Audrey convinced Dell to let us put on the musical of our choice for once. Tuesday Gunderson pushed for South Pacific, but we pretty much convinced her she’ll never get cast as Nellie Forbush. Besides, there’s a perfect part for her in Grease as Jan, the Twinkie-eating Pink Lady.
“Quiet, please!” Klan sings, not looking at me and Will, but we both know he’s barking at us. Then he concludes, “A hair flat,” with regards to Ava’s pitch being monitored by the trusty tuning machine poised on the trapezoid table behind his podium.
“I disagree,” Will sniggers, eyes focused on Ava where she sits beside Carrie Johnson in the row beneath us. “Nice sweater.”
Ava gives it another go, holding her note (rock) steady.
This time, Mr. Klan practically wets himself. “That’s it! Now everyone all together…” He gives a wave of his magic wand, uniting each and every Band Fag in the quest for the perfect B-flat concert note.
Fifty-five minutes later, the bell finally rings…
Quickly, I spring to my feet, beating a hasty retreat back to the storage room where I toss my T-bone in its case and fly thru the double doors like a bat outta hell.
“See ya!”
Knowing that Richie is now on his way to 2nd hour Sophomore Symphony, sax in tow, I’m hoping to avoid any confrontation that might occur in the hallowed halls of Hillbilly High. Instead, I plan to write him a note during Consumer Ec, which I will ask Audrey to slip into his locker on her way to Mr. Thomas’ 3rd hour Chemistry. Only because it’s right there in the exact same hall.
February 3, 1988
Dear Richie,
Sorry I haven’t written back sooner. I been super busy since I got home from NYC. I’ll call you tonight, I promise.
Brad
“You can’t avoid The Sophomore forever,” Aud warns, ever the voice of reason.
“I know…”
We move down the front hall past the library, where I feel the slap of harsh reality at the handiwork of Shellee Findlay once again on display, taped to the doors outside Principal Messinger’s office.
Don’t forget to buy your tickets!
VALENTINE’S DAY DANCE
February 12, 1988
7:30 PM
The original plan was for me and Richie to go together, a trial run for the filming of the Prom scene in Faded Flowers. Chances are we’d get our asses kicked. Or at least made fun of, but it would all be for the sake of Art.
“I can’t believe it…”
Rounding the corner by the junk-food stand, the roll-up metal window pulled down and padlocked till lunch, Audrey continues with her train of thought.
“What can’t you believe?” I wonder, clutching my books tight against my chest. The second I see some Total Jock coming our way, they find their proper place at my side, resting against my hip.
“Oh nothing…”
We pass by locker #1427. I almost forget to think of Jack, it’s been so long. I don’t know why I even care, but I pray he’s not falling for Tom Fulton the way he did Joey Palladino once upon a time.
Tom, I can’t speak for, but Joey, I still suspect is gay. Especially now that he enthusiastically agreed to take over my role in Faded Flowers.
Wanna know how that whole thing came about?
Basically what happened was…Once I quit the movie, Rakoff and Moody got it in their heads to ask Joey to play my part. I guess he’s in their 5th hour Mass Media class this semester, and he mentioned he did some acting when he was going to school out in Clarkston. The last thing I want is Joey Palladino kissing Richie Tyler during those hot and heavy love scenes. Too bad there’s nothing I can do about it.
Hello, Mr. Body Builder!
We stop at Audrey’s locker to pick up her Chemistry book.
Despite my state of irritation, I notice she’s added a couple new pictures to her Chippendales collection. I’m not too sure about the earring on the dark-haired guy (too faggy), but the blond with the hi-lights is definitely a babe!
“What can’t you believe?”
Pulling myself away from the all-male peep show and getting back to the matter at hand, I implore my friend.
“Forget it,” Audrey dismissively replies, rifling thru a mess of papers on the top shelf.
“Fine.”
I’m not about to beg.
“No skin off my ass.”
She slams the locker door shut and continues on past the office of The Hazel Parker, leaving me in her dust. Knowing Jack’s got class in there this coming period, I can’t resist sneaking a peek inside. Sure enough, there he sits hunched over his desk, red correction pencil in hand. Before he has the chance to spot me, I scurry on my way.
“Tell me!”
I catch up to Audrey, dying to know what’s got her so concerned.
Brow furrowed, she gives me a look. “Something must be up.”
“Nothing’s up,” I adamantly insist. “Why would you say such a thing?”
“Think about it…Mr. Star Thespian gives up a shot at making a movie. There’s gotta be a good reason.”
Now I’m wondering if Aud suspects something’s going on between me and The Sophomore, even though there isn’t, and yet there totally used to be.
To throw her off the scent, I say, “I already told you…I gotta work.”
“The entire break?”
“Pretty much.”
I can tell she’s not buying my excuse, even though it’s totally not one.
“Big Boy’s or the Gap?”
“Both.”
Six nights at EB’s on top of weekend mornings at the mall, and I’m still barely getting by. There’s no way I can afford to take any time off, that’s the God’s honest truth. My plan is to double my hours at the Gap over Winter Break, and if that doesn’t work, I been thinking about either selling my body on 8 Mile or getting a job as a go-go boy at Gold Coast.
“I thought you were quitting the Gap,” Audrey continues with her interrogation.
“So did I.”
“Let me guess…They shriveled up and fell off.”
I re
alize she’s quoting Pretty in Pink, but I don’t get the connection. “What shriveled up and fell off?”
“Your balls.”
I make a you’re-so-funny-I-forgot-to-laugh sound, and head to 3rd hour Government with Mr. McCain—my least favorite class of the new semester.
Talk about old school! The man is the epitome of White Southern Baptist, except he looks like a 60-year-old Oompa-Loompa. Only taller and with white hair instead of green. Lemme tell ya, something about his skin is sooo Fake ’n Bake, I’m wondering if he’s hitting the tanning booth in preparation for Spring Break, like most of the girls I’m friends with. I’m sure the guy knows I’m a Total Fag and prays every night I’ll burn in hell.
Whatever…
Four hours later, me and Stacy Gillespie are walking up Hughes, past the Blue Building, on our way back to HPHS. On this early February afternoon, it’s a balmy thirty-three degrees and sunny outside, so we hit House of Beer on 9 Mile and grabbed a pop and some Funyuns. We got Mrs. Carey’s French III Independent Study during 6th hour, ’member?
“What are you doing after class?”
Stacy asks me this, casually waving away the cigarette smoke I’m unintentionally blowing in her face.
“Working on my Grease audition with Mr. Fish.”
I decided to sing “Sandy,” even though the stupid play version doesn’t include it. Instead, Danny sings this other song called “Alone at a Drive-In Movie,” which isn’t nearly half as good. I don’t know why the play script is sooo different from the movie. The T-Birds aren’t the T-Birds, they’re the Burger Palace Boys. Putzie isn’t Putzie, he’s Roger, Miss McGee is called Miss Lynch, and there’s no “Hopelessly Devoted to You” or “You’re the One that I Want.”
Lame, huh?
“What part are you trying out for?” Stacy asks, like there’s even a doubt.
I tell her, “Danny…What do you think?”
Drama Queers! Page 24