Drama Queers!

by Frank Anthony Polito

  “Frank’s wife and kids lived in Nebraska,” says Audrey, exhaling smoke thru her nose like a fire-breathing fire-haired dragon. Her mane’s even redder now that she spent Spring Break down in the Florida sun.

  “How many did he have?” I wonder, interrupting for the final time.

  “One wife, three children,” she answers curtly. “Two boys and a girl. Anyhoo! That 4th of July, he invited my mom up to see the fireworks.”

  Every year the Hazel Park Raceway puts on this huge display. Last summer, a bunch of us Band Fags piled in Ava’s blue Citation, and drove over to the driving range on Dequindre and Woodward Heights behind Kmart’s. We spread out some blankets, sat on the grass, taking in the skyrockets in flight. (“Afternoon delight.”)

  Thinking about it now, it’s hard to recall the way I felt back then. I remember being sooo bic-cited about Senior year starting. All the things me and my Best Friend since 7th grade were gonna do together. And we did for a while. Until I realized I’m a Total Fag and so is Jack, but he’s too ashamed to admit it. So for the last six months we’ve done nothing but avoid each other.

  How come nothing ever works out the way we imagine?

  “Earth to Brad…”

  Audrey snaps her fingers in my face, startling the fuck outta me.

  “I’m listening.”

  She says, “No you’re not,” sounding just like my mom.

  “Am too!” I declare, realizing I just wasted an entire cigarette daydreaming.

  Audrey grins. “You’re thinking about The Sophomore.”

  “Am not!” I insist, because for once, I wasn’t. “Now finish your story.”

  “If I can remember where I was.”

  “4th of July…Fireworks.”

  She stubs out her smoke. “My parents started dating—more like fucking, I should say.” She laughs to herself. “Get this…He tells her he’s had a vasectomy, so it’s all cool—not! Six weeks later, here comes Audrey.”

  Poor Pat…I can just imagine the expression on her face when she goes to the doctor for a checkup, and hears the rabbit’s bit the dust.

  “So what happened?” I need to know how everything all worked out.

  Audrey scowls. “Let’s just say, not only did he enjoy the drink, Frank liked to hit things…Mom dumped his sorry ass while I was still a bun in the oven.”

  Now she’s cracking herself up. “Can you believe the bastard actually offered to buy me for ten grand!”

  “You’re kidding?” I reply. “What was he gonna do with a baby?”

  I could just see this guy trying to explain to the wife and kids back in Nebraska why he’s returning home with a little bundle of redheaded joy. In a way, I feel sorry for the man, and I never even knew him. I mean, imagine realizing you have a child, but you can’t be a part of its life. Unlike my own father, who chose to walk away.

  “Mom ended up going back to Mike’s dad,” Audrey reveals, “I always assumed he was my father…He did too, till the day he died when I was seven.”

  “So what happened to Frank?”

  Aud forges ahead. “Fast forward to age ten…Mom is reading the obituaries one evening and she’s crying. I ask her who died. ‘A friend from the track,’ she tells me. We knew a lot of people from up there so it could be anybody.”

  Ever the Drama Queer, Audrey picks up a Precious Moments figurine from a shelf above the sofa filled with knickknacks. You know, thimbles, glass bells, spoons from Vegas and other tourist traps like Mount Rushmore.

  “She sits me down,” Aud says, placing the porcelain doll upon her lap. “‘Audrey dear, I need to discuss something with you.’ She tells me the story…I freak out.”

  I could just imagine a 5th grade Audrey in her Catholic School girl get-up ripping Mrs. Wojczek a new a-hole. Lemme tell ya, I would not wanna be on the receiving end of that.

  “I’m like, ‘You’re a liar!’” Aud continues, “and storming out I go, next door to my nana’s. I tell her what mom said, and she confirms the entire story. Then she gives me this old picture of my parents taken on the night of their first date.”

  This would be the one sitting on the shelf next to #63.

  “So what happened with your mom?”

  Audrey rolls her eyes. “She took me to McDonald’s for a hot fudge sundae.” She pinches her thunder thighs. “No wonder food is a comfort to me, huh?” Then she says, “Mom, being spiteful, goes to the wake with bastard 10-year-old in tow…I sit with my half brothers and sister who have no clue who I am.”

  “No wonder you’re so fucked up.”

  And I thought I had it tough. While I might be ashamed to admit it, at least I know who my father is and always have.

  “Your turn, Dayton…Spill.”

  How am I gonna get outta this?

  “You wanna know my Deep Dark Secret?”

  “Don’t tell me you don’t got one,” Audrey warns. “Everybody does.”

  After the way she just bared her soul to me, how can I not comply?

  Here goes nothing!

  “I’m gay.”

  Wanna know what Audrey Wojczek says to that one?

  “Now tell me something I don’t already know.”

  Bitch.

  Shattered Dreams

  “Woke up to reality

  And found the future not so bright…”

  —Johnny Hates Jazz

  “No g-news is good g-news.”

  At least that’s what I always used to say.

  Not anymore.

  ‘member The Great Space Coaster? Me and my sisters used to watch it every morning before school at like 7:30 AM on channel 50. Well, I didn’t so much watch it as I listened from beneath a blanket, laying on the couch trying to wake up. I particularly enjoyed the animated opening. Baxter the clown picks up Fran, Roy, and the boring blond guy whose name escapes me in the Great Space Coaster (“Get on board!”), and takes them to his planet. Or wherever they went to put on the show.

  It had to be somewhere out of this world because most of the other people were puppets, like the loud-mouthed Goriddle Gorilla, and the turtleneck-wearing newscaster, Gary Gnu. I should probably say, “g-newscaster,” since Gary pronounced gnu and news with a hard G.

  Hence his catchphrase: “No g-news is good g-news…With Gary…Gnu.”

  Now that I think of it, Baxter wasn’t so much a puppet, more like a guy in a suit, à la Big Bird. I remember he played this instrument, the baxophone that looked like a piece of black rubber tubing bent in the shape of an S.

  On another note: GSC first introduced me to Mr. Marvin Hamlisch, composer of such Broadway classics as They’re Playing Our Song and A Chorus Line, and the film score to (drum roll, please!) Ice Castles, among others.

  Anyways!

  Three months have passed since my Juilliard audition. Surely the Powers that Be have made up their minds by the end of April as to which twenty actors they’re gonna grace with their presence for the fall of ’88 incoming class, also known as Group 21. I guess what Juilliard’s been doing since the Drama Division’s inception in 1960-something is numbering each class in chronological order. For example, Patti LuPone, the original Eva in Evita, began training at JSD during the first year, so hers became known as Group 1.

  Ergo…

  Class of ’88 = Group 17.

  Class of ’89 = Group 18.

  Class of ’90 = Group 19

  Class of ’91 = Group 20.

  This brings me to my class…

  Class of ’92 = Group 21.

  That’s providing everything goes according to plan.

  “There’s a letter for you, Brad…”

  When I got home from school this afternoon, I found my 14-year-old sister, Nina, sitting alone at the kitchen table stuffing her face.

  “What smells good?” I asked, moving in for a closer sniff.

  “‘Parts is parts,’” Nina muttered, chomping away on a piece of mystery meat.

  I didn’t know what the hell she was referring to. No offense, but with Nina
’s learning disability, I have a hard time deciphering when she’s trying to be funny or when she’s just plain being slow.

  “Chicken McNuggets.”

  She dipped what looked like a deep-fried golf ball into some ketchup and popped it into her hungry mouth. I knew they couldn’t be real McNuggets from McDonald’s. Not only can’t we afford fast food, Mom highly disapproves of us eating it. Sure enough, the box of Banquet frozen nuggets sat out on the table, totally defrosted.

  Lemme tell ya, having a sister like Nina can try your patience. Like I said, I love her to death, but sometimes she’s a handful. The other day, I discovered her sitting in the family room eating a bowl of ice cream. Meanwhile on the kitchen counter, the carton sat melting all over, the freezer door wide open right next to it, and everything inside—thawed.

  “Where’s Mom?”

  Nina didn’t respond, off in La-la Land somewhere.

  “Nina!” I snapped before repeating my question softly.

  “I don’t know…She took Brittany somewhere.” Then Nina repeated, “There’s a letter for you.”

  Every day for the past month, I been checking the mailbox, like poor Charlie Brown waiting for a Valentine. Amongst a stack of bills, I noticed an envelope addressed to me, postmarked NEW YORK, NY. Sure enough, the return label read Juilliard School of Drama. You can bet my heart started beating a mile a minute. That is, after I picked it up from the pit of my stomach and put it back in my chest.

  “I’ll be in my room,” I said, taking my mail with me.

  And now, the moment we’ve all been waiting for…

  Closing the door behind me, I sat down on the bed, staring at the envelope for five minutes, if not more. It took everything I had in me to muster up the courage to open it. Slowly, I flipped the letter over, preparing to slide my finger beneath the flap. Only it wasn’t sealed!

  “Ni-i-i-na…”

  Back in the kitchen, I watched her squeeze a spot of ketchup onto her plate the size of a saucer, even though only two chicken McNuggets—I mean nuggets—remained.

  “Huh?”

  “Did you open my letter?”

  “What letter?” my sister asked, crumbs caked in the corners of her mouth.

  The sad part was I could tell poor Nina didn’t realize what I was referring to.

  “The letter I got in the mail today,” I explained. “Did you read it?”

  Nina looked at me, her expression rivaling that of a lost deer wandering about the side of the road. “I don’t think so…Maybe.”

  There was no real harm done. Even if she looked at my letter, I seriously doubted she’d comprehend the contents contained therein. I did my best to remain calm.

  “Why did you do that?”

  She admitted, “I wanted to know if you’re moving away,” totally taking me by surprise.

  In all the time I been going on and on (and on) about wanting to get the fuck outta Ferndale, I never took into consideration my own family. At that moment, I felt like a Total Shit. Sure, I couldn’t stand living here. There’s nothing for me to do career-wise, but there is my mom and my sisters, and my grandmas and grandpa—even my dad.

  Could I just up and leave them all behind, for the sake of some selfish dream?

  I decided to cross that bridge when I came to the toll both.

  The envelope, please…

  April 21, 1988

  Dear Bradley,

  The Juilliard School counts itself among the most prestigious Drama programs in the United States, if not the world. The thousands of hopefuls who audition for us each year are some of the most talented individuals, making our final decision all the more difficult.

  Unfortunately, it is with deep regret that we are unable to grant you a place among our actors in Group 21. I want to personally thank you for sharing your talent with us, and wish you the best of luck wherever your dramatic studies may take you.

  Sincerely,

  Michael Langham

  Director, Drama Division

  The End of Today Is the Beginning of Tomorrow.

  For some, the HPHS Class of ’88 motto might hold true.

  But not for all.

  Case in point…

  Right now, I feel like the biggest loser on the planet since Judy Tenuta’s roommate, Blowzanne. Why am I having the single most shittiest year? I mean, seriously!

  Okay, so maybe I made “Top 5” back in the fall, but it’s been downhill ever since. First I don’t get cast as Scrooge in A Christmas Carol. Then I don’t get to play Danny in Grease. Now this.

  How am I gonna face my family and friends?

  What am I gonna tell my teachers?

  My life is over!

  The biggest letdown comes from the fact that it totally looked like a form letter. I mean, sure the signature was authentic. It’s not like they stamped it on or anything, the ink’s smudged. But does Michael Langham even know who the hell I am? I certainly don’t recall ever meeting him. Unless he was either Baldy #1 or Baldy #2 and I was so nervous at the audition that his name didn’t register.

  You’re sooo talented.

  You’ve got what it takes.

  You’re gonna be famous.

  For as far back as I can remember, this is what I heard from everybody.

  Maybe it’s all just bullshit they been feeding me.

  Maybe I suck and they’re afraid to tell me the truth.

  Maybe this is the reason I didn’t get the lead in either play we did this year.

  Like poor Charlie Brown, I’m a fucking Failure Face!

  For the next hour, I bawl like a baby, biting my pillow so nobody hears my sobs. What the hell am I gonna do with my life? The fact that I didn’t apply to any other school (for Acting or otherwise) only makes matters worse. I can just picture myself living at home going to fucking community college at OCC. Or as Stacy Gillespie likes to call it, “Oc,” as in topus.

  I suppose I can always get a full-time job at Cedar Point working as a costume-character dog. Or bear. Or whatever the hell animal suit they decide to stick me in. I mean, that can sorta be considered acting. Can’t it?

  Fortunately, I fall asleep, utterly exhausted.

  Last night I didn’t get home till after 4:00 AM.

  Wanna know what I had the pleasure of doing?

  The owner of The Gas Station decided to throw an after-hours party with his harem of hunks, and figured me and Aryc had nothing better to do than babysit them. Sure, I made a shitload of money, but did I really need to witness a bunch of guys sitting around the bar in their birthday suits while Grandpa Moses felt them up and plied them with coke—and not the ca-Cola variety?

  All day in school, I felt like a zombie. In 1st hour Wind Ensemble, I practically fell asleep propped up against my T-bone. It’s a wonder I been able to stay awake thru our end-of-the-year concert this evening….

  “I wanna thank all of you Seniors,” Mr. Klan gushes, once we clear the stage and convene in the Band room, “for making the past three years ones I will never forget.”

  He wipes a tear from his cheek, and when I look around, most of the other Band Fags are mimicking the gesture. Even the Too Rad crew of Don Olsewski, Curt Chaplin, and Thad Petoskey look a tad weepy.

  “Mr. Klan rocks!”

  Don shouts this out, launching the rest of the room into raucous applause.

  I don’t think it’s hit me yet that it’s really over.

  No more being a Band Fag.

  And with today’s big news, my days as Drama Queer are now numbered.

  I better get that Thespian of the Year award!

  “You sluts need a ride?”

  Outside in the front parking lot, me and Zack Rakoff run into Audrey and Carrie Johnson. Like I said, Val is officially retired, so I been relying on the kindness of strangers when it comes to getting my sorry ass around town.

  “That’s slut puppies to you!” Audrey calls back, fanning herself with her program.

  “What’s a matter?” I ask. “You having hot flashes?�
��

  “Bite me, Dayton!” she bellows. “You know I didn’t have to come to your concert tonight.”

  She’s right. None of my other non-Band Fag friends were there. Being a Flaggot, I suppose Aud’s got some vested interest in Wind Ensemble and Sophomore Symphony. Why the hell would Jack Paterno wanna support his former friends after he up and abandoned them like a sinking ship?

  Six more weeks, I keep telling myself.

  Six more weeks and I’m outta here.

  Then what am I gonna do?

  “You want uth to drive you to Big Boyths?” Rakoff lisps, unlocking the door to his shit-brown rust-bucket Dustermobile.

  “No thanks,” says Carrie, refusing the offer. “We’re riding with Ava.”

  “Don’t forget 9 Mile’s closed for construction,” I remind the girls. “You gotta take Woodward Heights over to the service drive and down.”

  “I think we can find our way to Elias Brothers,” says Audrey, the smart-ass!

  Whatever…

  The inside of Rakoff’s car smells like pine-scented puke.

  I got news for him: the faux-velvet fir tree hanging from his mirror is doing nothing to mask the scent of mothballs and kitty litter. Truth be told, I don’t even know if Rakoff’s got a cat, but he manages to come to school every day covered in feline follicles.

  “What are we listening to?”

  The second we’re on our way, he turns up the radio.

  “Thith would be Ebn-Ozn,” Rakoff beams.

  Talk about bizarre!

  If you can even call it a song, I don’t know what the hell it’s about. Some guy sipping cappuccinos with a Swedish girl named Lola across from Lincoln Center. Of course, this makes me think of my Juilliard audition and the fact that my life no longer has any meaning.

  Forget Big Boy’s…I need an alcoholic beverage!

  “Do me a favor,” I say to Rakoff desperately. “Stop at the nearest Party Store.”

  “There’s one right by my houth,” he informs me, turning left by St. Mary’s off Woodward Heights onto John R.