Drama Queers!

by Frank Anthony Polito

  I’d be lying if I didn’t admit most everybody appears shocked when I open my mouth and actually start singing the song. Like I said, I never knew Drag Queens faked it. That’s why I asked Mr. Fish to make me a tape using the vocal-eliminating machine he’s got. Since his piano playing skills are severely subpar, everything we ever sing in Chorale is accompanied by a click-track.

  The next four minutes and thirteen seconds swirl by.

  In my mind, I become Alexis Winston circling the rink at the Mid-Western Sectionals in St. Louis, Missouri, the little blind skater who could. At number’s end, I lean back with a flourish, arms splayed at my side, reminiscent of Lexie’s final routine pose.

  “The flowers!”

  From somewhere, somebody throws me a single red rose. Like Alexis, I receive a standing ovation—initiated by my mother, of course. By the time I finally spot her, just left of house-center, her eyes sparkle with tears of joy.

  Too bad I do not win the $500 prize.

  That goes to Miss Honey and her pet boa constrictor, Bobo.

  To help pay for her fake boobs, no doubt!

  Is there no justice in this world?

  Always on My Mind

  “Tell me, tell me that your sweet love hasn’t died Give me one more chance to keep you satisfied…”

  —Pet Shop Boys

  On the last episode of Brad ’s Richie…

  Richie scan-jul-ously appeared at Brad’s back door, wielding a four-pack of Bartles & Jaymes wild berry.

  “What’s up?” asked Brad, fresh from the shower, wearing nothing but a dirty towel.

  Slyly, The Sophomore grinned. “I was just about to ask you the exact same question.”

  Brad let the towel drop.

  Richie fell to his knees.

  At last, the moment these boys had been waiting for was about to arrive…

  I wish!

  I suppose I should come clean with the real story.

  “Where ya goin’?”

  Richie entered my room, slipped off his coat. From the way he slurred his words, I could tell he already had a few.

  “To put some clothes on,” I replied, heading for the door.

  He cracked open a cooler, kicked off his shoes, making himself comfortable—on my bed. Richie took a swig from his bottle, licked his berry lips. “Don’t take too long.”

  I hate to be blunt, but this damn dick of mine! It would not go down.

  Maybe it’s because I’m seventeen and perpetually horny.

  Maybe it’s because I didn’t get a chance to beat off that day.

  Maybe it’s because, no matter what I say, I’m still totally in love with The Sophomore.

  “Be right back.”

  I grabbed the first thing I could find: a pair of ratty old sweats and my Blue Lake Fine Arts Camp sweatshirt. Why was I surprised the sleeves came up to my forearms once I finally slipped it on? In my mind’s eye, I haven’t changed (or grown) a bit since the summer of ’83. I can’t believe it’s been almost five years since me and Jack set off on our first Summer Band Camp adventure together…Where does the time go?

  “I’ll be waiting.”

  Seeing Richie at that moment, sprawled out on my bed, sucking down his wine cooler made me wanna…I won’t even tell you what it made me wanna do! Luckily, my mom left a copy of Ladies Home Journal in the bathroom. There’s nothing like an article on toxic shock syndrome to stifle a gay boy’s burning desire, you know what I mean?

  Fifteen minutes later, I returned to my room…

  “Sorry about that.”

  Upon entering, I almost killed myself tripping over the empties Richie left strewn across the tannish-gray carpet. I guess he got tired of waiting, drank his wine coolers, and passed out. But not before taking all of his clothes off.

  Like breadcrumbs, he scattered them about the floor…First a sock, then another, followed by T-shirt, jeans, and finally, his Fruit of the Looms. Laying facedown on my bed, head upon the pillow, Richie looked like an angel—a naked one.

  It killed me to wake him. Not because I’m a perv and I was enjoying the view, even though I was. There’s just no way Richie Tyler could stay over my house on a school night. Mom would flip if she woke up in the morning and found a boy in my bed.

  “Time to go home.” I gave him a gentle shove on the shoulder.

  Richie groaned. “I’m sleeping…”

  You know what they say about two ripe melons? Or a fuzzy peach? Or whatever other ass-related metaphors are out there? At this moment, all applied.

  “Wake up, little sleepy-head…”

  I sounded just like my mother singing in my ear on a Sunday morning.

  “Don’t wanna,” The Sophomore muttered, like a little boy.

  Sooo cute!

  But I wasn’t falling for it. I called out his name, forcefully.

  Richie rolled over, curled up in a ball ignoring me, face against the wall.

  “You can’t stay here,” I informed him.

  “Why not?”

  “Because…” I couldn’t think of anything else to say. Other than: “You’re drunk.”

  “I know,” he whimpered. “My mom’s gonna kill me.”

  I seriously doubted that. I only met her once, after Opening Night of A Christmas Carol, but Richie’s mom seems like a Total Sweetheart. She’s a tad on the heavy side with helmet hair, and works as a secretary up at the Hazel Park Rec Center.

  “You should’ve thought of that before you drank yourself into a stupor,” I berated him, sitting down on the bed, trying a more direct approach.

  “No stupor.”

  “You sucked down four coolers in fifteen minutes,” I recalled, as if he couldn’t count.

  He mumbled, “Three…Saved one for Opie.”

  Sure enough, laying on its side next to my bed remained one solitary beverage bottle, fully intact in its colorful cardboard carrier.

  “Let’s go!”

  I tugged at his arm. He wouldn’t budge.

  If I could just get Richie onto his back, I could lift him up and carry him out to my car. Of course, I’d have to dress him first. Being mid-March in Michigan, I couldn’t just wrap him in a blanket and hope he wouldn’t freeze.

  Big mistake!

  ‘member what I said about Bobby Russell having a big one? Let’s just say, The Sophomore may be shorter, but it doesn’t mean he’s smaller…And I thought I was prone to things popping up at the most inopportune moments.

  Tempted as I was to stare, I had to get that boy outta bed before something happened I was not gonna be responsible for.

  “Easy does it…”

  One summer, I worked as a lifeguard at Cedar Point. Originally, they hired me as a performer. Well, not a performer per se, like in one of them cheesy variety shows. I walked around the park wearing one of them costume-character costumes. You know, like at Disney World. Only the CP version was more like a nondescript dog. Or a bear. Or some other animal with fur and short ears. After all of two days, I literally couldn’t take the heat. So I asked for a transfer. Lemma tell ya, I much preferred spending my days half-naked in a bathing suit on the beach. So long as nobody drowned…Lucky for me, they never did.

  Using the skills I acquired, I stood at the foot of my bed, took hold of Richie’s upper limbs, and gave him the old heave-ho. By some miracle, he made it to his feet.

  “What are you doing here?” He opened his eyes, giggling like a girl.

  “I live here,” I told him, in no mood for his drunken antics.

  “What am I doing here?”

  “You’re drunk,” I repeated. “Now get dressed.”

  Richie looked down at his nakedness. “I’ve got a woody,” he whispered, as if I couldn’t feel it poking against my torso. “How’d that happen?”

  For the third time I told him, “You’re drunk…You need to go home.”

  Richie grabbed my hand. “Touch it.”

  I yanked my arm away, squealing, “I don’t wanna touch it!”

  Maybe secretly I d
id.

  He stuck out his lower lip like a pouty 6-year-old. “You don’t like me.”

  Hearing him say that broke my heart. “Richie…”

  This time I tried the gentle approach.

  “I love the way you say my name,” he murmured. With his right hand, he reached up to brush my cheek.

  “Please don’t,” I begged. The last thing I needed was to fall under his spell. “It’s late…We got school in the morning.”

  He looked up at me with tear-filled eyes. “Why don’t you like me, Brad?”

  I took a deep breath. “I do like you.”

  Richie took this as a sign, trying to kiss me.

  I pulled away.

  “I told you…” I swallowed hard. “I’m not a fag.”

  Hearing myself say these words made me sick to my stomach. Wasn’t it just a few months ago when I told Jack I couldn’t be his Best Friend anymore if he kept denying who he really is? Now here’s me, doing the exact same thing.

  “Whatever…”

  I wanted him sooo bad. Not just in a sexual way, it was more than that. I wanted to lie down beside him, tickle his back, run my fingers thru his hair. To hold him in my arms, and make everything better.

  But I couldn’t.

  With only three months left of school, my future would soon begin. For as long as I remembered, I had everything figured out. Falling in love with a boy wasn’t part of the plan…Not anymore.

  Richie got dressed and I drove him home.

  Friday night during Grease, he refused to speak to me—not even on stage. During the “Hand Jive” sequence, there’s a spot where Vince Fontaine (Richie) turns to Doody (me) and ad-libs something about being disqualified from the dance contest for being too vulgar. All thru Act One, I anticipated this moment. How it would feel to have those beautiful blue eyes focus on me, if only for a second.

  The Sophomore totally skipped the bit.

  After the show, Richie couldn’t be found once I changed out of my costume.

  “He went to Ponderosa with his parents,” Ron Reynolds, aka Johnny Casino/Teen Angel, informed me.

  Same thing happened with Closing Night on Saturday.

  “He’s gotta get up for church in the morning,” Michelle Winters, aka Patty Simcox, announced when I asked why The Sophomore wasn’t at Ava Reese’s post-show party.

  Ron and Michelle might both be Richie’s classmates, but neither of them knew squat.

  Richie hates Pondegrossa, and he never goes to church.

  His avoiding me was obviously intentional.

  “What did you do to piss that boy off?”

  Audrey asks me this question, almost six weeks later…

  It’s Tuesday night, we’re over her house watching the premiere of some new TV series on channel 7, China Beach. I haven’t been totally paying attention, but from what I gather, the show is set during ’60s Vietnam, and it’s all about a group of women from the Red Cross helping the soldiers and such. The only actor I remotely recognize is the woman who played Nancy in Sid and Nancy, Chloe Webb.

  “I didn’t do anything,” I insist, even though it’s totally not true.

  “Are you sure?” Aud asks, giving me her famous furrowed-brow gaze.

  What am I supposed to say? Richie is in love with me, and I’m in love with him. But we can’t be together because the world is cold and cruel. So I spurned his affection and now he hates me.

  I don’t know why I just don’t tell Audrey what’s up. She’s practically my Best Friend now that Jack is all buddy-buddy with Max again. Believe it or not, I heard he almost got arrested when they were down in Daytona. Something about a girl named Gwendy, a bottle of Baileys, and a Cuban cop.

  Instead, I say, “Janelle’s working up at Nick’s,” even though she’s eight months prego. “Wanna order a pizza?”

  “I’m not hungry,” Audrey states flatly. “And don’t change the subject.”

  For this I called in sick to work?

  I’m supposed to be at The Gas Station helping Lady Z host the wet-Jockey-shorts contest. She’s been super sweet ever since I got my ass kicked in the amateur drag contest, and keeps encouraging me to give it another try. I might. I don’t know.

  As much fun as I had, as nice as everybody treated me, there’s something sorta depressing about the life of a Drag Queen I can’t quite put my finger on. It’s like nobody gives them the respect they deserve for what they do. It’s an art form, really. Just not one I wanna practice on a professional level, you know what I mean?

  Aryc is gonna be pissed at me for not showing up tonight, but he’ll just smoke a doob or do some coke and get over it, I’m sure. Truth be told, my days are numbered working at the bar. Don’t get me wrong, the money is awesome. In the three weeks I been working, I managed to save close to $1,000. But recently, I came to the conclusion: I don’t wanna work anywhere other people come for fun.

  “There’s no subject to change.”

  This I declare, getting up to pee, even though I don’t gotta.

  Where I should be is at home practicing for tomorrow night’s Band concert. I can’t believe it’s the last time me and all the other Band Fags will play together as Wind Ensemble. I mean, there’s still the Memorial Day parade at the end of May, but this is the last concert we’ll be giving on the HPHS stage. As much as I may complain about it, I’m gonna miss being a Band Fag come June 16th when we officially graduate.

  “Did you fall in?”

  When I return from doing my doody, I find Audrey in the exact same spot I left her, riveted to the television. For a show about a beach, where are all the hot lifeguards? That’s what I wanna know!

  “What’s your older brother’s name, again?”

  Sitting on the sofa, I see the framed picture of #63 down on one knee in his HP Vikings football uniform. Every time I take it in, I can’t help but think how familiar the guy looks…This time, I think I finally figure out why.

  “I only got one,” answers Audrey. “Mike.”

  “He doesn’t by any chance have a mohawk?”

  I try my best to picture the jock from the photo with his head shaved, save for a six-inch dyed-blue strip running down the center.

  “He does now.”

  I knew I recognized him from somewhere!

  All this time, I been hanging out with Aud’s totally hot ex-football player brother at the bar, and I didn’t even know it. Talk about “it’s a small world after all!”

  I wonder if she knows her brother’s gay. It might just behoove me to ask. Depending on Audrey’s response, I can gauge whether or not it’s safe to reveal my own Deep Dark Secret.

  “What’s Mike do?” I ask curiously, even though I already know the answer to the question. “For a living, I mean.”

  “In case you haven’t noticed…I’m trying to watch TV,” Aud whines. “Would you stop your blabbering?”

  Attempting to get her attention, I position myself square in front of the set. “‘Just answer the question, Claire.’”

  Audrey picks up a pillow and pelts me. “He’s a bartender…Now get the fuck outta my way!”

  Dodging the bullet, I ask, “What bar does he work at?”

  Frustrated, she exclaims, “One down on Woodward.” Then she adds, “What’re you asking for? You don’t know him…Or do you?”

  Now she’s got me!

  “And who’s this?”

  I opt for the easy way out: changing the subject again.

  Next to Mike’s football picture, there’s a smaller framed snapshot of Audrey’s mom looking nine months pregnant, and a man I assume must be her father.

  “My parents, who do you think?” she confirms.

  I take a closer look at the photo. The man looks exactly like Audrey with the exact same space between his two front teeth. But not so much like her hunk of a brother.

  Wanna know her response?

  “That guy isn’t Mike’s dad.”

  I do a double take. “Isn’t Mike’s last name Wojczek?”

&n
bsp; “It is,” she nods.

  “Isn’t your last name Wojczek?”

  This time she shakes her head. “Not technically.”

  Now I’m confused.

  At this point, Audrey shares with me her Deep Dark Secret.

  “I like to refer to myself as a love child,” she begins. “My parents were married…But to other people.”

  For this I better sit down!

  “Do you mind if I smoke?”

  Aud reaches for an ashtray. “Not if you share.”

  “I thought you quit.”

  Since Grease ended six weeks ago, I haven’t seen Audrey touch a single cigarette. And even in that instance, Principal Messinger forbade Mr. Dell’Olio to allow her to French inhale on stage for real, so she had to fake it. Talk about totally stupid!

  “You wanna hear my story or not?”

  We make ourselves comfortable on the couch. I shake two Marlboro Lights from the crinkled pack, and light them—both at the same time. You know, the way they do in those old movies from the ’30s and ’40s. I feel like Humphrey Bogart to Audrey’s Kate Hepburn. Or maybe it’s the other way around.

  “It was the summer of ’69,” she continues, calling to mind the Bryan Adams song of the same name. “My mom was getting a divorce from my brother’s dad—”

  “Mr. Wojczek?”

  “No…Mr. Rogers.”

  I start to say, “I thought—” Until I realize I should probably just sit here and smoke in silence. Save my questions for the end, you know what I mean?

  “Mom moved back to Hazel Park from Minnesota. My father…” She pauses a moment to inhale before clarifying. “My real father, his name was Frank Hines—”

  “Like the ketchup?” I wonder what makes for a worse surname: the one she’s ended up with or her original? “I’m sorry, but I can’t picture you as Audrey Heinz.”

  “H-I-N-E-S,” she spells, a tad annoyed. Then she growls, “You made me lose my train of thought!” She scrunches up her face, concentrating hard. “My real father, Frank…He was a boarder at my nana’s. He worked at the racetrack.”

  I assume she means the one here in Hazel Park, but I don’t inquire. In all these years, I find it hard to believe I never been. I know Jack’s dad used to take him all the time when he was little, but my dad does not condone gambling—among many other things.