Freak Show

by James St. James

  It’s on account of the weird DOOMSDAY SCENARIO planted in his head:

  He thinks if he gets just ONE bad grade on just ONE pop quiz, then CRASH!—there goes his final grade, and with it his GPA, and then he’ll lose his scholarship, and the whole house of cards will come tumbling down. Suddenly, he’s disappointed everyone who’s ever believed in him. The school. The team. The coach. The fans. His teachers. His parents. And, I don’t know, Santa Claus, Oprah. . . . Doesn’t matter. The end result: He’s a loser and a fake, and he’s responsible for sending his parents to the poorhouse.

  I think it’s kind of sweet, and I just want to chew that lip for him, LORD, but it must be paralyzing inside his head.

  X

  MONDAY EVENING

  I was working on an oral report for American lit about Zelda Fitzgerald—the talented but tragically unstable wife of F. Scott Fitzgerald—and having a perfectly marvelous time. WHOOO! Who knew she was such a loon! A gorgeous, fabulously doomed loon! I think I’ve found a new role model!

  “Hey! Listen to this!” I yelled over to Flip, reading from my book. “It says here, she spiked her Coca-Cola with spirits of AMMONIA ‘to give it a slight kick’! That’s HARD CORE, right? LOVE THAT. Let’s try it sometime!”

  He looked up, all Bambi-eyed and quiver-lipped. Clearly, he wasn’t having as much fun with his “Teapot Dome Scandal” paper.

  “Oh my God!—Listen to this!” I said.

  “Billy! I can’t!”

  “Just this one thing: Guess how she died?”

  “Stabbed by her study-buddy because she wouldn’t shut up?”

  “NO. The mental institution she was in caught FIRE, and she was locked in her cell! CAN YOU IMAGINE? Crazy AND on fire? That’s like being allergic to your shark bites! It just makes your death ten times worse!”

  “Yo, yo, yo, from now on, you are only allowed to discuss things related to Warren Harding, is that clear?”

  “Warren Harding thinks Zelda Fitzgerald and I sort of look alike. What do you think? Same fiery red hair! Same impertinent nose! Same devil-may-care hauteur!”

  “Were both of you clobbered with a teapot dome? Because I’m THIS CLOSE—”

  “Are you threatening an invalid? JEEZ. Buzzkill. Okay, give me what you’ve done, Flipper. Let me take a look at it.”

  “Thanks, Billy-boy!”

  XI

  Sometimes when we’re together, I forget time and place.

  I pretend that we are man and wife, living peacefully in the hills of Northern Ireland. He is a shepherd. I am his plain-but-sensible wife, who stays at home all day making meat pies. He has a ruddy complexion from so much time spent on the moors. I have wobbly jowls, common to the women of our region.

  He is gruff and drooly, and smells of sheep.

  “I love you,” I tell him, and we live happily ever after.

  Sure I loved him. That was the easy part.

  But I fall in love at the drop of a hat. At least a hundred times a day: I love the fry cook at McDonald’s. I love Kelly Clarkson. I love balsamic vinegar on my vanilla ice cream. . . .

  Love is easy; it’s when you actually start to like someone that it gets difficult. Putting up with their odd little idiosyncrasies. The way they suck their teeth after dinner, say, or the way they change perfectly good lightbulbs. It’s when you like somebody despite the fact that they have every season of Reba on DVD—that you know it’s something special. It’s about liking someone in spite of the gaping flaws in their personality. . . .

  And that’s how it all started with Flip. It’s when I actually started to LIKE him—as a person—despite the fact that he’s a bit of a mouth-breather, possibly an idiot, and is waaaaaay too enthralled with Charmed—that I realized how much I cared.

  It’s true! He was soft and sweet, and my eyes went blurry when I looked at him. A friendship began. And it was like an old half-forgotten song. It started quietly, and I couldn’t quite place it; but with each refrain, each time we saw each other, it became clearer, and the tempo picked up. Suddenly, we were both singing along, and it was sweet and natural. There was a rhythm that was full-bodied and exciting. And a robust chorus that added layers and textures. When we recognized it, we felt good. We were friends.

  Isn’t that nice?

  XII

  Father is, of course, just beside himself with this new friendship of mine. BY GOD, it seems I did something right for once! Never in a million years could he have hoped for such a thing!

  This is what he said to me today: “I’m proud of you, son. Flip Kelly is a very good friend to have.”

  This is what he was thinking: I’m shocked as shit somebody like Flip Kelly would even give you the time of day.

  Here’s what he’s hoping: That somehow just the sheer proximity to a manly man like Flip will knock the sissy out of me, and maybe now I’ll join the football team and give him grandchildren.

  Strange enough, but then it was FLIP who brought DAD back into MY life. Like, in a major way. No more absent dad. No, sir. Now he’s almost always around.

  Always somewhere, always underfoot.

  He’s constantly “just checking in” and “seeing how you are”—passing off stale clichés as fatherly advice. “Now, don’t overdo it, son,” he’ll say. “Think positively.” I guess he’s trying, bless his heart. He’s just seventeen years out of practice.

  I find it all painfully awkward. Our conversations always seem so stilted. So forced. Full of uncomfortable silences. There’s still so much that remains unsaid. For example: We don’t discuss the beating AT ALL. We also don’t discuss the dress, the wig, or the tentacles. And we certainly don’t talk about the big gay elephant in the room that started it all.

  And with no common interests, and not much of a shared past, either, all we talk about is—Flip.

  And this is the weird part:

  (Whispers.) It’s really all about him. Yes! He seems happy for HIMSELF! It’s like HE has this great new friend, Flip! It’s like HE has a crush on this guy, Flip!

  IT’S WAY CREEPY.

  And when I noticed THAT, well—DING! DING! DING!—everything just fell into place. Suddenly, that confusion over the Suddenly-smiling, Suddenly-hangin’-out dad was solved. This new-and-improved Billy-buddy dad (now 90 percent less shouty!) is due to the Flip Effect.

  Apparently, it happens to a lot of otherwise normal, heterosexual, middle-aged men when they find themselves around FLIP KELLY: ALL-AMERICAN. Reflected in Flip’s glory, they see the boy they once were, the life they let slip away, the son they wish they had, and hope for the future of America.

  So, yes, my dad has Flip fever.

  He’s been Flipified! Flipperized! Flipinated! (It’s so Flipical!)

  Now whenever Flip is around, he turns into this gushy, girly, fan-man, instead of the growly old goat of yore.

  As soon as Flip arrives, he’s all gaga, rah-rah, Go! Flip! Go!

  It’s all: Sis boom bah! “Ring the bells!” and “Isn’t Flip fantastic?”

  Naturally, I’m mortified.

  I can’t believe my father is such a total spaz.

  The first time I saw him transform into this stammering, yammering FRESHMAN GIRL, I thought: Who IS this freak? Why does he insist on embarrassing me in front of company! It’s just TOO WEIRD.

  But then, after a while, it just became standard operating procedure.

  And now you can’t escape it. You can’t escape HIM. He’s everywhere, remember?

  So there’s lots of THIS:

  “Hey, fellas! Thought I’d just check in, see how you’re doin’?”

  And: “Stayin’ for dinner, Flip? Flossie made her famous Alabama fried chicken!”

  And most embarrassingly: “Hey, Flip, if you got some time later, maybe we could toss the ball around out back?”

  I usually roll my eyes loudly when Dad does this, but Flip is always charm personified. He gets it a lot, he says. He gives a little groan that only I can hear, and promises he’ll be back as soon as he can. Then he�
��ll go out and rock Dad’s world by letting him catch a (supposedly) difficult pass or two and telling him how good he was a dozen or so times.

  “No, really, Mr. Bloom, that was amazing!”

  “Still got it, huh?” Dad wheezes and puffs.

  “Oh, yeah. You must have KILLED back in the day!”

  Then Dad blushes and stammers and kicks at the dirt.

  And between you and me, it’s wearing a bit thin.

  Yes, Flip is fantastic. Yes, it’s nice having him around. I’m president of the fan club. But, JEEEZ. He’s just a kid! A high school kid! I mean, you’d think it was the LORD GOD, TOM BRADY himself, who had dropped out of the sky to admire dad’s old trophies and give him a backrub.

  (Well, OF COURSE I know who Tom Brady is, ding-dong! Give me SOME credit. He’s only the dreamiest Visa spokesman EVER!)

  XIII

  Flossie, on the other hand, was suspicious from the start.

  “What do you really have in common with a pretty-boy football hero from South Florida? What can you even talk about?”

  That really burned me up.

  “Well, if I want intelligent conversation, I’ll talk to myself.”

  “I don’t know,” she said ominously. “Doesn’t seem right, is all.”

  (Which sounded like a curse.)

  Flossie, of course, knows everything about everything. Oh, yes, she’s quite a sage, that maid of mine, lecturing to me from her ironing board. Always SWIMMING with insight. Not this time, though.

  “Oh, but Flossie, we’re just friends, and I’m not miserable,” I said with as much conviction as I could muster.

  “Really,” I explained, “it must just be a heavy gravity day in my room—that’s why I’m stuck to the floor.”

  And: “I don’t need there to be more to the relationship,” as I confidently polished off another Entenmann’s double fudge chocolate cake. My third one that day.

  “Really, I don’t need sex. Or love. Or physical attention.” (This I confided to the rubber tree plant as I dry humped the banister.)

  “I’m very happy with things as they are, thank you,” I said as I lit some black candles and spit three times at the moon.

  Okay, so maybe I was lying to myself. And maybe I wasn’t that happy. But what could I do?

  XIV

  I am sometimes secretly convinced that he was raised in a cage, possibly by Frankenstein monsters. Or that he’s a time traveler from the Dark Ages. How else to explain why he’s so new to so many experiences that the rest of us take for granted?

  EXAMPLE:

  Often while doing homework, I’ll intercom Flossie and have her send up some of whatever is in the fridge. Usually it’s Southern stuff. Dad stuff. High WASP stuff. Broiled grapefruit. Melon with tomato ice. Eggs with crab sauce. Salmon Wiggle. Nibbly things to get us through till dinner.

  WELL! Flip looks at whatever she brings us as if an enchanted fairy pulled it out of her ass. Why, you’d think the boy had never seen a pickled walnut before!

  To his credit, he tries everything, though, and takes his tasting very seriously. Very solemnly, he brings each new morsel to his mouth and chews thoughtfully, carefully, really trying to discern each individual flavor. Then his eyes go all golly-gosh, like Orphan Annie, and he either shouts with alarm or groans with bliss.

  ANOTHER EXAMPLE (AND THEY DO PILE UP):

  We watch old movies, classics mostly, that he’s never heard of. What Ever Happened to Baby Jane?, Sunset Boulevard, Breakfast at Tiffany’s, —You know, camp standards. Well! He is transfixed. Hypnotized. Mouth slightly open, saliva pooling in the corners. Doesn’t even blink.

  One afternoon we watch Gone With the Wind, and it affects him to his very soul. “How could Rhett just leave her?” he asks over and over again. It’s a genuine shock. I think he cried in the bathroom. Days later he’s still upset: “Does she get him back? Is there a sequel?” Sometimes in the middle of school, he furiously texts me at home: “Ashley Wilkes—what an ass hat,” or “Melanie died! ☹”

  AND THIS:

  He’s endlessly fascinated with my room and the various odds and ends he finds. When I couldn’t move around as much, he would bring me various wigs and feathered bed jackets, and help me into them. Now that I’m starting to get up and about, he leads me around the room, asking me to explain and try on various things. “What’s that?” he’ll say, and point.

  “Surgical adhesive.”

  “What for?”

  “If you want to glue something metal onto your skin, then regular spirit gum won’t work.”

  This genuinely perplexes him. “Why would you want to glue metal to your skin?”

  “Well, why WOULDN’T you?” I ask. “Now, let’s say you want to wear these antlers here. They have a metal base. Now I can attach them to my forehead, like SO. Or maybe I want to do a ‘robo-tranny’ look tonight. Well, that calls for three or four dozen little mirrors on my face, like a disco ball. . . .”

  “Yo, do it! Do it!”

  My hands are shaky, and I get tired easily, but I do it, and it’s fabulous, and now he’s a world-class expert on adhesives and robo-trannies. Sometimes I give him some Vulcan ears or glue a fake wart on his nose to keep him entertained. And, oh! if that isn’t just the living end! Have you ever? HE LOVES IT. No, really. He’ll stare at that wart in the mirror for absolute hours, unable to believe how realistic it looks, checking it out from different angles, posing with different expressions, wondering how his life would be different if it were a real wart. “Should I wear it to school?” he asks about everything.

  It’s hard to believe he is so easily awed. I mean, was he not invited to many masquerade balls as a child?

  One day he came LEAPING and BOUNDING into the room, fresh from football practice, proud as a pup and bearing a mysterious package. He had gone to the costume store on Sunrise and gotten me a little something to wear around the room.

  “I hope you like it. . . .”

  It was a tiara! “Oh, Flip, it’s FABULOUS!”

  “I thought you could wear it today, right now.”

  OF COURSE! YEA! And I was Queen for the Day.

  XV

  Alone in the cupboard, I let the sticky black darkness drip over me and dream that I am inside a giant cut-glass perfume bottle, like the one my mother had on her dressing table. With me is my husband, Flip Kelly, and together we roll around the world, secure inside the crystal ball. We safely tumble off mountains, roll down hills and into the ocean. Nothing can touch us; no one can hurt us; the glass is unbreakable. We see the world pass by through a dazzling prism of colors. And as we roll around, we are thrown together right side up, upside down, always into each other’s arms, over and over again until the ball stops and we rest, lying like spoons on the smooth, cool floor of our home. And then the ball will move again—somebody will push us, or a wave will wash us away, and we are off again, tumbling into the future. Me and Flip Kelly.

  XVI

  In the meantime, have you noticed? I am healing, healing . . .

  Up and moving around!

  Bruises gone!

  Swelling down!

  Leg cast off!

  Tomorrow? The arm cast!

  Every day I am more myself.

  Every day I am more aware, merciful heavens, that this room is an absolute boar’s nest! I can’t believe that Flip has seen me living in such squalor! WHAT must he think?

  XVII

  FRIDAY—

  Flip was coming over, possibly to spend the night, so it was vitally important that I scrape the dried bugs off the windowsill. AT LEAST THAT. I didn’t want him to think I was always this unclean or anything. Being an invalid gave me an excuse to be a slob. But now I needed to show him how together I was. That meant I needed to change my underwear, deodorize myself, and take down the Chad Michael Murray posters I had posted around my bed.

  There was a strange smell coming from the northwest corner of the bedroom. I made a mad, impetuous dive into the pile of clothes there and prayed
it wasn’t a family of possums, or something even more sinister. (Monster slugs? Fresh body parts?) Thank goodness, it was just a couple of fossilized hamburgers and a plate of old moo goo gai pan. From last summer.

  I only had two hours to make up. Not much time. I was going for that difficult “real girl” look . . . you know, subtle and pretty . . . a whisper of bisque here, a touch of russet there. And maybe just a soupçon of ecru eye shadow. When the doorbell rang, I answered it in a seductive cream-colored camisole and a pair of Seven Jeans that gave me the ASS OF DOOM. My hair just happened to be in a gorgeous cascade of “natural blond” curls. My complexion was flawless, as usual. God had blessed me tonight.

  “Oh, Flip, I look just terrible!” I lied. “You caught me off guard!”

  “No, man, you look good. If you was a girl, I’d get busy wit choo,” and we both laughed uproariously at his joke.

  (Flip: impossibly hot in baggy jeans, faded tee, and bangs way too long in that “I’m too cool to see” way. He did a little pimp roll up the stairs and into my room. “Wassup?” )