I love the way your shirt is unbuttoned to your sternum, so that I can see the rise and fall of your chest. Would that I were an oxygen molecule (also known as O2 , as we discovered today) and lucky enough to be swallowed by you! Oh, to be swimming down, down your throat into your circulatory system, paddling to your lungs. IMAGINE BEING INSIDE FLIP KELLY! Imagine the pure pulmonary bliss! Yes! Oh! And the platelets of LOVE! Happy, happy, I would be happy at last.
Now imagine homeostasis with Flip. (Homeostasis being the state of maintaining constant blood composition.)
Oh, Flip, my love, my honeysuckle hunk, we could be so happy together.
I see something in you. . . .
Something the others don’t see.
A softness.
A sweetness. A delicate innocence. Yes!
I see a sensitive little boy who tries to hide his “hugginess” from the other Backseat Boys. BUT NOT FROM ME! NOT FROM ME!
You’re really just a little bunny-boy, aren’t you? Aren’t you?
You’re my little pocket-poodle, huh?
So, now you know how I feel. I am quite confident that very soon you will get a special visit from the Bluebird of Bisexuality, and you will realize that I am the one for you, too. And from then on, everything will be picnics and plum pudding. And won’t that be heaven?
XXVII
ESCALATION
Can you feel it?
Everywhere. Everywhere.
Hostility mounting. Anger building.
Signs go up around the school: GOD HATES FAGS!
FAGS GO TO HELL!
AIDS IS GOD’S SOLUTION TO HOMOSEXUALITY!
Some are more pointed, as if there’s a plan afoot. And that’s more worrisome:
HOMO GO HOME!
REPENT OR REGRET!
And: CONVERT THE PERVERT!
In what can’t be a coincidence, Dottie Babcock, the high priestess of the God Squad, has begun leading a morning prayer group to rid the school of THE RECENT HOMOSEXUAL SCOURGE that has been threatening the good, decent, Christian values of the Eisenhower student body, of late.
Ladies and Gentlemen, I present to you, your Scourge of One!
BOO!
HERE I COME! I’m coming for your decency! YES, I AM!
It seems rather ironic, to me, when THEY are the ones chasing after ME.
Yes, yes. They hound me. Harass me. Hunt me down.
The Sinister Ministers, I call them.
The Cruci-vixens.
Sisters of No Mercy.
With their eerie perma-smiles (holy molars!), excessive eye contact, and sticky-sweet messages of hate, THEY SCARE THE CRAP OUT OF ME!
“Sinner!” they scream at me the second I step off the bus in the morning.
“Sodomite!” they shout.
I smile and wave and try to say something pleasant: “Not today!” or “Don’t I wish?”
Then come the bible quotes.
“First Corinthians chapter six: verses nine through ten:!” one of them will scream. “Know ye not that the unrighteous shall not inherit the kingdom of God? Be not deceived: neither fornicators, nor idolaters, nor adulterers, nor effeminate, nor abusers of themselves with mankind . . . shall inherit the kingdom of God.”
I give them a cheery thumbs-up. “Wow! Great! Thanks! I’ll be sure to tell all my idolater friends about you guys. Bye, now!”
But they aren’t finished with me yet.
They gather oh-so-sweetly around me. They smile and take my hand. (I hiss and snatch it back—“It BURNS!”)
“Deuteronomy chapter twenty-two: verse five,” another will call out, and the chorus responds: “A woman shall not wear anything that pertains to a man, nor shall a man put on a woman’s garment, for all who do so are an abomination to the LORD your God.”
“Good to know!” I say. “Thanks so much!”
“Leviticus chapter twenty: verse 13,” another calls out, and in unison everyone says, “If a man also lie with mankind, as he lieth with a woman, both of them have committed an abomination: they shall surely be put to death; their blood shall be upon them.”
And they continue to multiply, and their prayers for me become increasingly hostile until I am, suddenly, literally under siege, surrounded by five, then seven, then twelve determined little soldiers, all angrily praying for me and at me, telling me the horrible fate that awaits me in the next life. And all the while, their smiles never slip.
And this is just what happens BEFORE school begins. . . .
XXVIII
So, yes, tensions are mounting.
In biology the terror continues to escalate.
Look: The jackals are circling ever closer, ever bolder. Their shouts and taunts are louder. The violence is now flagrant, even casual. Bruises are commonplace. As is blood.
Lord help me: I am under attack!
The great Homo Jihad has begun!
It’s a Freak Hunt! (Say THAT five times fast!)
Open season on wispy fashion fops and gender-blurring glitteroids!
I try to wear protective gear—extra layers of clothes, you know, in shock-absorbing fabrics—but that can only take you so far. I wrap Ace bandages around some of the frequently favored parts of my body, but that, too, has its limits.
Sometimes during the pummelings I close my eyes and think: If I had only thought to bring my flaming chain saw today! Yes! Or my Orc sword! That would do the trick!
Or maybe if I wore a dapper dinner jacket with retractable meat hooks, THEN they’d treat me with a little respect!
But no, I have no choice but to ease back into it and hope it ends soon.
I really don’t think I can take another day of it!
It’s too much! And I’m not a well woman!
And yet, here we are, and here we go.
(Sigh.)
I KNEW it was going to be one of “those days” when I walked in to the room and found the anus of a fetal pig neatly clipped and taped to my chair—a gift from the Biology II class. (“Enjoy it with a little corn oil, Butt-munch!” read the accompanying card.)
Well, that must have taken some effort!
Before I can even sit down, Tiff Tarbell leads the Alpha Debs in an unscheduled Q and A.
“BILL-EEEEE!” she calls out.
And the girls immediately start shouting out their questions.
“Do you have AIDS?”
“Do you know Miss Jay from America’s Next Top Model?”
“Do you pee sitting down?”
“Do you perform as Cher anywhere?”
“Biiiiiilly? We’re all just so curious to know: Are you the man or the woman in bed?”
And the girls all tee-heed over that one, and buried their faces in their hands. They’re so delicate, you know.
“Oh, please!” Violet Beauchamp purred wickedly, “Like he could ever be the man! Look at how he sits! No. The real question is: Hey, Billy, are you one of those men who are women who are trapped in men’s bodies?”
More shocked giggles.
Lynnette Franz was suddenly excited. “Oh! Oh! I’ve got one! Are you wearing women’s panties right now?” she asked.
Sigh. Life would be better, I decide, if stupid hurt. And as I banged my head on the desk some more, she was screaming to the back row: “Boys! Whoo-oo! Hey, Bo-Bo! Or Buster! Someone go ‘pants’ Billy! We want to see if he’s wearing his mommy’s underwear.”
“You are a freakin’ CREEPY dude!” Buster shouted as he dutifully lunged at me and held me tight (but not too close) while Bo-Bo deftly yanked my pants to my ankles. (Sigh.)
Here it was only 9:04, and I’d already hit rock bottom.
Witness the class just HOWLING at my Wild West-themed underwear.
“OH, EVERYBODY, HEY LOOOOOK! BILLY’S GOT BROKE-BACK BOXERS! EVEN HIS UNDERWEAR IS GAY!”
“Sweet cowboys,” Bernie lisped, and oh, I just about died of shame!
Mr. Reamer looked up from his desk, where he had been correcting papers, and said, “Pants back on, please, Mr. Bloom! This
is not a nudist colony! I’ll only say it once.” Then went right back to work.
Oh, I give up. That is the last straw.
I tell myself that this, too, shall pass. The school year will end, of course. It always does. I will graduate. Move on. Live. Then die. And someday all this warp and woof will be forgotten forever. Isn’t that a nice thought? Because everything comes to an end and is eventually forgotten. Why, sometime in the future, nobody will have ever even heard of Bernie Balch.
Which will be lovely. But for right now . . .
I CAN’T GO BACK.
I CAN’T TAKE ANOTHER DAY.
NOT ONE MORE GODDAMNED DAY.
I’VE REACHED MY BREAKING POINT.
THAT’S IT. THAT’S ALL.
BILLY GO BOOM!
SAYONARA, SUCKERS.
I AM OUT!!!
I MUST END ALL BIOTERRORISM!
BY ANY MEANS NECESSARY!
MUSTGETOUTMUSTGETOUTMUSTGETOUTMUSTGET OUTMUSTGETOUTMUSTGETOUTMUSTGETOUTMUST GETOUTMUSTGETOUTMUSTGETOUTMUSTGETOUT MUSTGETOUTMUSTGETOUTMUSTGETOUTMUSTGET OUTMUSTGET
XXIX
I linger after class, determined to get Mr. Reamer alone and plead for mercy. I want to be transferred out of his class, ASAP.
“Um . . . Mr. Reamer? Do you mind if I talk to you for a minute? I don’t know how to say this. I’ve been trying to get up the courage for a few days now. So I’ll just come out and say it. I’ve been thinking about it for a while, and I’d like to be transferred out of your class. ASAP. There’s another biology class at the same time, Mr. Feldman’s, and I could switch right into it. I thought I could take it, you know, or that it would get easier, or they would get bored, but it’s just getting worse. So, if we could just get the paperwork started. . . .”
“Oh? Hm? What kind of problem are you having in my class? I wasn’t aware of anything?” He looked in his grade book. “Your grades are fine. . . .”
When I say the CHEESE JUST ABOUT SLID OFF MY CRACKER, I’d be using a dumb southernism, but I was gobsmacked that he would continue the charade when we were alone, mano a mano, so to speak. The scoundrel! Was he really going to sit there and tell me that he hadn’t heard or seen ANYTHING? My God, it was like the Springer set in his class.
“What’s the problem, then?” he asked again.
Was he going to make me say it? “You know, the . . . um . . . teasing and stuff. . . .”
“Oh? Who’s teasing you?” he seemed honestly surprised.
“Everybody! Who ISN’T teasing me? Bernie! Bib! The Takaberrys! Lynnette Franz! All day! Every day!” (Was he toying with me?)
“I hadn’t noticed. Well, look. Why don’t we wait a week or so before we do anything? Now that I’m aware of the situation, I’ll keep my eye on things and jump in whenever I see a problem. I’m sure between us we can work this out.”
All this as he was leading me out the door. “We’ll talk again in a week or so, and see if it hasn’t gotten better. Thanks for letting me know. . . .”
SLAM!
Huh?
Justice denied?
I WASN’T ALLOWED TO LEAVE?
HE WOULDN’T ALLOW ME TO LEAVE?
THAT’S INSANE!
XXX
That’s when I had IT.
Yes, IT.
My most scathingly brilliant idea to date.
Oh, it’s quite delicious.
Bold. Daring. Decisive.
Sometimes my genius staggers even me. I’m THAT GOOD.
Here it is: a plan fiendish in its simplicity. Hold on to your wigs.
If he won’t let me leave, I’ll just make him live to regret his decision. Yes, yes, by the time I’m through with him, he’ll be begging to transfer me.
Here’s what I’ll do:
I’m going to create complete and utter chaos.
Pandemonium!
Sure!
Because: It’s the pussiest pimple that gets popped! It’s the unruly nose hair that gets plucked! You gotta be really unmanageable to get kicked out of anywhere. Remember, it’s Courtney Love that gets thrown out of all those four-star hotels and strip clubs, not Mandy Moore.
And so it will be for me.
I will commit an act of very uncivil disobedience, of guerrilla theatrics!
I’m going to go to school IN DRAG.
Why not?
It’s who I am.
How much worse can things get?
But not just any drag. Oh no. I am going to create a look that is so rococo-loco, so divinely decadent, so twisted and revolutionary, that those bo-hunks will run screaming from the building and I will haunt their dreams for YEARS!
It will be pure me. But more ME than I’ve ever showed anyone!
This look will be epic. One hundred years from now, people will still find it too avant-garde! There will be a whole museum built around it.
It’s got to be big. Mondo Maximus! Too much isn’t nearly enough! Over the top doesn’t come close!
I need to just open up me noggin. Let the demons come out and play. See what’s way in the back recess. Hell, I haven’t got a clue.
How do I even begin such a project?
Well . . . first: clear your mind.
The outfit is already there. It’s been waiting your whole life to be found. You know it, too. Trust your instinct. Let your hand guide you. It’s a divining rod.
Remember Michelangelo’s block of stone? Someone once asked Michelangelo how he decided what to sculpt. He said the statue is already in the block, absolutely perfect. You just have to chop off the part of the block that doesn’t belong.
You just cast aside the clothes that aren’t part of the outfit. Don’t think. Just do.
The next two hours were a blur of activity. Gathering, snipping, altering, adding, pinning, pruning. I was surprisingly efficient. I moved with purpose and confidence. Calling out to my imaginary assistants everything I needed.
“Bedazzler!”
“Glue gun!”
“Cheerios!”
“Spirit gum!”
“Hair dye!”
“Wig head!”
“Food dye!”
“Liquid latex!”
While all around me, mice in little sweaters sang, “Cinder-ellie, Cinder-ellie!” and whistling bluebirds carried garments to me from the dressmaker dummy.
A creature began to rise from the pile. SOMETHING started taking shape. A dress? A look? A statement?
Something strange and new, with its own gravity, own rules, and with possibly a brand-new power.
Big. Getting bigger. Adding layers and panels.
Mostly green, but with flashes of pink and orange and yellow.
Bags of petals and leaves and sequins and beads, all carefully sewn on. Special lights were set up to test the angle of refraction for each sequin. NO! Four millimeters to the left! Half a centimeter down!
Then, crinolines, petticoats, and more and more flowers . . .
Was it a jungle theme? Garden of Eden? Enchanted Forest?
The razor came out and began shredding madly—slashing and tearing in a frenzied rapture—freeing its parts to move individually, to lift and float and turn. No longer a dress. No longer something to wear. Shredding gave it LIFE! Let it BREATHE! Now it was something that lives ON you.
And when mud was added to the bottom of the hem, and clumps of Spanish moss were found . . .
Well, of course, of course!
I should have realized . . . !
It was a swamp bride!
Because the mind always knows.
I’ve known from the beginning.
The swamp! The swamp!
“The swamp brought us together,” I told them that first day.
I said, “Our lives will forever be changed because of it.” And now it’s true!
MAKEUP
Skin tone is SO important.
So it’s green. Look at me. GREEN.
Not a grassy green. Or lime green or pine green. Not forest or avocado or pea.
Melon? Maybe. But more
of a whipped melon, if you know what I mean.
Mint? Possibly. But not that sweet. Do they have a salty jalapeño mint?
Celery? But celery is so bourgeoisie. Unless . . . is there celery toothpaste? Well, there OUGHT to be.
So, just to be clear, it’s not the green of algae, but of the algae’s FOAM.
The color I’m thinking of is only found on moon-based extraterrestrials and lagoon-living sea monsters. Why? Because it glows.
What I need is glow-stick green base!
I went ahead and began diluting my green base with my white base, mixing them into just the right shade. It’s a science AND an art. And in the bathroom I have some glow-in-the-dark sex lotion. Don’t ask. Girl’s gotta be prepared. But I’ll bet if I mix that in with the base, it will glow nicely!
I started affixing the Cheerios to my face with spirit gum.
Five is about right. Here. Here. Here. Here. And here.
Then comes the long, time-consuming process of covering them with liquid latex, one layer at a time. As you build the rubber up around the O, it begins to look like little volcanoes or tentacles on your face! Once they’re covered with makeup, they are seamless! Little green suction cups on your face for that new-to-your-land-dwelling-ways vibe!
Freak Show Page 7