Freak Show

by James St. James

  II

  ALONE IN MY HOSPITAL ROOM

  Alone in the dark.

  Lying on a mattress stuffed with gravel. Trying not to cut myself on the sheets. (Estimated thread count: three.)

  Listening to the wails of what could only be the LEPER WARD next door. Very NAUGHTY lepers, by the sound of it. Obviously having their noses pulled off by the evil night nurses.

  I mean, my God, listen to them: howling like the damned! Their anguish is almost unbearable!

  What to do? What to do? Concentrate, instead, on the buzzing fluorescent light just outside your door.

  Yeah, that’s nice and soothing.

  A real lullaby.

  And what’s up with all the fluorescent lighting, anyway? SO UNFLATTERING! And why? It’s the sick and disease-ridden that NEED forgiving light, for God’s sake.

  And of course, the Gatorade-colored walls don’t help either.

  Hospitals. Ech.

  And nurses! Don’t get me started! I mean, what is it with those mannish hairdos of theirs? I can think of no other profession where looking like HANK HILL confers status on a woman. Ladies, why not consider a flattering Anna Wintour bob, instead? I beg of you!

  So. What now?

  Still can’t sleep.

  I started taking inventory of my injuries, isolating each body part, beginning with my toes.

  I said each boo-boo out loud: “Two broken ribs . . . bruised collar-bone . . . ruptured spleen . . .”

  On and on. What I could feel, and what I could remember.

  “Hematoma . . . hairline fracture . . . extensive bruising . . .”

  I touched what wounds I could, finger-exploring their defining characteristics.

  I pushed at each bruise. Felt under every bandage and Band-Aid. Sometimes when I came across a particularly big and painful sore, I would wiggle my index finger around in it a bit and make myself cry.

  I isolated my legs, pelvis, hips, chest, arms, and face.

  I discovered: a full cast on my left leg, a cast on my lower right arm, a neck brace, splints on four fingers, and some sort of body support thing, like a body corset, probably for the broken ribs.

  Until finally:

  Sleep. Sleep.

  Swirling, sweeping,

  Streaming, screaming,

  Full of fever and fear,

  I dreamed of faceless assassins, and fists that never stop pounding.

  III

  I was a bit wifty yesterday, when I first regained consciousness, and well, who wouldn’t be? In my fog, though, I just accepted everything I was told and thought it was all perfectly natural, perfectly normal.

  WELL—OF COURSE I was in the hospital, where else would I be?

  OF COURSE I had been in a coma. I hear they’re all the rage now, darling.

  OF COURSE Flip and I had become best friends while I was asleep. I’m sure I was a scintillating companion.

  It never occurred to me to question what was going on. I was just thrilled to be ALIVE. When last I checked, it was all over but for the worms.

  In the light of a new day, though, and with a much clearer head, I was looking at the bigger picture. The bigger mystery. The real story.

  And that would be my new FLESH-AND-BLOOD FATHER—I mean, what was THAT all about?

  Who was this Suddenly Smiling Dad—and smiling with his TEETH, no less! I’d never seen THAT before.

  FREAKED. ME. OUT.

  Some sort of robodad, obviously.

  A Pod-Poppy.

  It was just TOO BIZARRE. I couldn’t get over what the hell my father was doing here!

  I know we haven’t talked about him much, and really, why bother? One thing you can be sure of, though, that was not his usual demeanor. OH NO, NO. NO. Not by a long shot.

  USUALLY he’s about as pleasant as pickle pie.

  USUALLY he’s about as compassionate as a cattle prod.

  It’s a fact: My father is a thundering bully, a gristly old goat, and a bellowing boogeyman.

  Harsh words? Well, these are harsh times, my friend.

  Up until now, remember, he’s shown precious little interest in me. I’ve yet to even see him more than half a dozen times since I got here, and when I do, it’s usually just for a quick:

  “TAKE THAT OFF THIS MINUTE!” or, “BY GOD, THERE WILL BE NONE OF THAT IN MY HOUSE!”

  Lots of, you know: “NO SON OF MINE, GODDAMN IT! . . .”

  And so on.

  I can’t win with him!

  He hates everything about me! It’s always something!

  He doesn’t like my poodle perm, say. Or nail polish color. He has a problem with the fishnets under my jeans. And the JLo perfume I’m wearing. He doesn’t like when I do my AbFab imitations at the country club. And hates it when I perform songs from Rent for visiting relatives.

  I mean, I could end world hunger, and he’d bitch about my mango lip gloss. I could pull him from a raging river, and he’d say I tug like a sissy.

  “Hey, Dad, I just won the Nobel Peace Prize!”

  “DID YOU PLUCK YOUR GODDAMNED EYEBROWS?”

  “Look, Dad! I can make diamonds from old potato peelings!”

  “WHAT DID I TELL YOU ABOUT WEARING WOMEN’S JEWELRY, BILLY?”

  Papa don’t preach, indeed!

  And this little attitude problem isn’t new. Not by a long shot.

  It all goes back to when I was twelve and announced at the family barbeque that I really didn’t care for the stuff. “None for me, thanks,” I said. “It’s too messy,” and I made an unpleasant face. “I’ll just have myself this little piece of quiche, here, that I brought with me. . . .”

  It was the first time I stopped a room cold.

  DID HE JUST SAY . . . ?

  I THOUGHT I HEARD . . .

  DOESN’T LIKE BARBEQUE?

  Why, you’d have thought I said, “The hog ate Grandma,” the way they reacted.

  I mean, the earth’s rotation skipped! Ocean levels surged! Gravity spiked! The tectonic plates shifted!

  People gasped and choked and coughed up perfectly good bites of food.

  “WHY—THE BOY’S NOT RIGHT IN THE HEAD!”

  “IMAGINE A BLOOM BOY NOT LIKING BAR-B-QUE!”

  “I’VE ALWAYS SAID THERE’S SOMETHING ODD ABOUT THAT BOY!”

  While my father clutched his chest and fought for air I blithely yammered on: “In fact, I don’t believe in ribs, at all. LIFE’S TOO SHORT FOR BONES, I always say. You won’t find ME sucking the gristle off some sparerib, no siree. I have better things to do. Just give me a nice filet mignon, thank you very much. Anyway, Muv says barbeque was invented so the lower classes could cover the taint of their spoiled meat.”

  Several of the women fell to the floor. The men had to be restrained from whuppin’ my butt on the spot. “HE CAIN’T SAY THAT! NOT ABOUT RIBS! I WON’T LET HIM!”

  Father never recovered. You know how Southerners are about their barbeque. It was a mortal wound. And after the first death there is no other. He never treated me the same after that. It was a hurdle we could never get over.

  Any chance for a father-son relationship was gone. Poof. In the limp of a wrist. I dashed his every dream.

  Ever since that day, he’s always had SOMETHING to criticize me about. He can always find SOME fault to pick on.

  So, to recap: my dad.

  Bad dad.

  Not really a nurturer, if you know what I mean. Lacks a certain parental warmth. Doesn’t much like “the gays,” I suspect.

  He’s a dream squasher, a style assassin, and a spoiler of the arts.

  He scares me, you see. And that’s not unusual—“For fathers are disturbing,” wrote the poet Rimbaud.

  IV

  So then, who the hell was that guy last night?

  Why wasn’t he upset? AT ALL?

  This should have sent him careening over the edge! Spiraling into a whirling vortex! He should have absolutely blown a gasket! Cartoon steam should have shot out of his ears!

  COME ON! Think about it
: His son—that blazing Technicolor faggot, the SHAME OF HIS LOINS—was taken to the hospital in a sparkly and freakishly accessorized dress the size of a small gazebo. COME ON! RIGHT THERE! STOP! I mean, never mind the leafy green wig and glowing tentacles on his face. How can he even get past the dress? And NOT ONLY was I wearing a DRESS the size of a HYUNDAI, but I WORE IT TO SCHOOL, for Christ’s sakes! WHERE PEOPLE COULD SEE ME!

  COME ON, DAD! STEP UP TO THE PLATE!

  I DON’T UNDERSTAND. Isn’t there enough to work with there? Not one detail to get all shouty-crackers about? You’re just going to let this slide? And SMILE about it?

  WHO ARE YOU?

  “We’re just glad you’re better,” he said yesterday. With a THUMBS-UP!

  Somebody has kidnapped my father and replaced him with a look-a-like.

  I don’t necessarily want the real guy back, but if some group cares to step forward and take responsibility, I’ll send him a care package of fresh underwear, good scotch, a dozen of Flossie’s pecan sandies, and some clean tennis whites, just in case y’all have a court.

  It’s the least I can do.

  V

  THE NEXT MORNING . . .

  The nurse told me I had a visitor, but that she couldn’t catch her name.

  “Did it sound like Blah Blah Blah?” I asked.

  “That’s exactly what I heard.”

  “Send her in.”

  My only friend, Blah Blah Blah, bustled in, arms spread, voice full of concern: “Billy!” she cried.

  “Buttercup!”

  “I brought you some cold mush. My own recipe. You’ll love it.”

  Why, I was just craving mush, too! How thoughtful!

  She couldn’t stay but a minute. Her friend Mumble Mumble was outside in the car. She just wanted to say she was SO SORRY, it was TOO TERRIBLE; but rest assured, EVERYONE WAS TALKING. I was a hero and a “martyr to the cause.” (Of what? Swamp Zombies?) There was even talk of giving me some sort of award or medal. (“Most Loathed!”)

  She pulled up a chair and began furiously whispering all the news from school. Such an odd duck, right? Always whispering. Always scurrying about. But God bless her for it. She knows everything about everyone.

  Of course, I had probably heard all about the assembly they had recently, right? (UM . . . NO.) Well, it was about the “hate crime.” Although my name was never mentioned. Anyway, a “sensitivity speaker” was brought in, and he showed a filmstrip about tolerance. (THAT’LL SHOW ’EM!) And the upshot of everything is that the school now has a zero-tolerance policy on hate crimes of any kind. So that’s progress, huh?

  And what most people didn’t know, she whispered, was that Flip BEAT THE CRAP out of Bernie the day after I was attacked! It’s true! KNOCKED HIM OUT COLD. It caused quite a rift with the other Manatees, and now he and Bib aren’t getting along, either. They practically tackled each other to death during practice the other day, and ended up wrestling in the locker room afterward. The coach is frantic, what with the big game coming up . . .

  Then, quickly, quickly, what else? What other gossip did she know? Well . . . seems Lynnette Franz broke up with Bo-Bo Peterson, but nobody knows why. (I DIDN’T EVEN KNOW THEY WERE GOING OUT!) Oh, and you know Sesame Blixon’s monster snoobs? TOTALLY FAKE. A seventeenth birthday present from her dad. EW, RIGHT? And apparently, word on the street is she got the boob job specifically to get Flip’s attention. In fact, she’s planning on asking him to homecoming next month. Ten-to-one odds he doesn’t accept. Of course, he never accepts. He never even seems interested in any of the girls at school. HE’S SO MYSTERIOUS.

  Once she had exhausted her gossip supply, she was off and running.

  “Kiss, kiss,” she said as she scooted out the door. “Feel better!”

  “Yeah, thanks, I feel much . . . better. Yeah.”

  VI

  DISCHARGE—THE GOOD KIND

  After five more days I was discharged from the hospital and sent home to finish my recovery on sheets NOT made of sandpaper. WHOOOO! I must have the most exfoliated bedsores in town.

  Before I left, though, I had Flip steal one of those wildly erotic back-less hospital gowns, some needle-free hypodermics (to make a punk-rock tiara), a commemorative bedpan, and enough tongue depressors to finally build that detachable stegosaurus spine I’ve been dreaming of.

  There was not a lot I was going to miss about this place. CAN ANYONE SAY: SPONGE BATH? My God! The final indignity!

  Once home, it took the combined efforts of Flip, Dad, and Flossie to get me up the stairs and into bed. We finally figured out that if I sat in a chair and they lifted it, rickshaw-style, they could carry it up, one step at a time. It would still be a slow and jiggly process, taking almost FORTY MINUTES, but finally I was home and back in the safety of my own room.

  Thank God.

  VII

  And true to his word, Flip has come by EVERY SINGLE DAY. We’ve gotten to know each other quite well, in fact.

  And based on my keen observational skills, my vast knowledge of human behavior, and incorporating the new data I’ve been able to gather, I’m revising my opinion of Flip. I’ve learned something shocking.

  Lean in.

  (Whisper.) He’s not cool AT ALL.

  WHAT? WHAT? HOW CAN THAT BE?

  Oh, he’s many, many things, don’t get me wrong. All of them wonderful. He’s wildly exciting. Wildly attractive. He’s so handsome, he’ll burn your retinas. He’s got that white-hot white blond hair, with those killer bangs . . . a nose like a ski slope . . . those blazing, dragon green eyes . . . and a smile so white and so bright, it guides Santa’s sleigh in dense fog! It’s true! He exudes charm and charisma and sex appeal like no one else in the world. Go on, I dare you not to fall in love with him! I dare you!

  And NICE! Whooo-eee! You’d think he was running for office. Why, he’s on friendly terms with EVERY SINGLE STUDENT at the Eisenhower Academy, even Stinky Jo Blunchly, who wets himself if anyone get too near. Anyone but Flip, that is. For Flip he stays dry! That boy gets RESPECT.

  So he’s all of these things, ON TOP of being Flip Kelly: football hero, local saint, and role model.

  But cool?

  Nah. He’s a dork. Too wide-eyed. Too earnest. Too easily impressed.

  ALSO—and I mean this kindly—HE’S A BIT OF AN IDIOT. A lovable idiot. A saint among idiots. He makes idiots look hot. But an idiot all the same.

  Look into his eyes. I know. It’s hard. You get so dazzled by their size, color, and clarity. You could get lost in them. Sometimes you swear you could see forever.

  That’s because there’s nothing behind them! It’s true! It’s an empty cave in there! Not a thought in his head. Not one. Those eyes shine so brightly because there are no brains in the way to block his inner glow. They are, then, just very pretty curtains.

  So in summary: Flip Kelly, not cool. Not smart. . . . Instead, sensitive moron. Dashing dork. Yummy bumpkin. . . . And I love him even more because of it.

  VIII

  SOMETHING ELSE: The more time we spend together, the more I get to know him, the more I begin to think that MAYBE BEING FLIP KELLY isn’t all it’s cracked up to be, either. WHAT? I know! Pretty bold statement. It’s true, though! I’m beginning to think it’s all just surface sparkle and twinkle-twaddle with him. And that underneath that whole swoon-doggy-surf-hunk exterior, he’s really pretty dark and cloudy. Troubled, even.

  What makes me think that?

  For one thing, he sure spends a lot of time here. With me. Don’t get me wrong. I’m not complaining. Hubba-Hubba, right? But it makes no sense. I mean, this ain’t no “Big Rock Candy Mountain,” I can tell you THAT. And I’m no Fipple Flute Fairy, if you know what I mean. . . . (Just go with me here.)

  And HE’S FLIP KELLY!

  Why isn’t he out being a superstar? Why isn’t he out partying, and getting laid, and doing all those cool things that cool kids do? You know. Like . . . um . . . illegal drag racing . . . and break-dancing battles . . . oh, I don’t know. You’ve seen t
he movies. Whatever cool kids do when I’m not around.

  My point: If it’s so great being Flip Kelly, why does it seem like he’s hiding here?

  Here’s a clue, perhaps: He doesn’t talk about his parents or home life. At all. When I ask, point-blank, he gets all monosyllabic and changes the subject. Word on the street (by that I mean, Blah Blah Blah) is that his father rides his ass, really pushes him hard, like, to the point of abuse. He demands absolute perfection. And doesn’t seem to recognize it when it’s right in front of him!

  So THAT sucks.

  Then factor in the whole hero-saint-role model complex, and the expectations everybody places on him, and the inability to deviate from his image . . .

  Yes, yes—all things considered, I’m thinking it’s probably pretty difficult being Flip Kelly, the boy king.

  Heavy is the halo, you know.

  IX

  HOMEWORK

  Every day after football practice he brings me my homework, as well as his own, and we tackle it together. I help him as often as I can because he struggles, I mean REALLY STRUGGLES, bless his heart, with most subjects. And remember, his teachers are BEYOND generous when grading his work.

  Now, it’s not that he’s totally hopeless. Not exactly.

  From what I can tell, he just panics, easily—like with each new question. Give him a simple true and false, and he’ll go statue-still and stare at nothing with those big, boiled-egg eyes. He’ll think and think, and think some more. He’ll chew on his bottom lip. He’ll furrow his little brow. He’ll make a bunch of sucking-saliva sounds. He’ll be so quiet and so tense that you’ll think he’s bending spoons with his mind. Then a full ten minutes later, he’ll scream out: “FALSE!” Then: “NO, TRUE!” Then: “NO, WAIT, FALSE!” Then he’ll punch himself in the face and call himself an idiot for the rest of the night.