It wouldn’t kill you to watch a little TCM once in a while, you know.
Anyway, in Camille she is a nineteenth-century courtesan who dies of tuberculosis, and it’s just the saddest thing you’ll ever see. Sadder than Titanic.
SO THERE I WAS.
I had propped myself up to receive visitors, like Garbo on her deathbed in Camille, and bravely offered my hand to be held by the various imaginary friends who stopped by to see how I was doing. “Just a little lip rouge, darling,” I said, “and I’ll be just fine.”
But as the week plodded on and wore me down, I realized that no, I was not going to be “just fine.” Frankly, I was a mess. I wasn’t eating. My weight was plummeting. I weighed about eighty-three pounds (in platforms and hairdo). I was a rag and a bone and a hank of hair. I was sinking into filth and sinking into ennui. I stopped caring about Pop-Tarts, Jake Gyllenhaal, and Days of Our Lives. I didn’t sleep. I didn’t moisturize. I didn’t even bathe for a while there. Even Flossie began avoiding me. And it’s HER JOB to put up with me.
XXII
“Margaret!” I said in the thick Irish brogue I revert to in times of distress. “Go fetch Father Pete and tell him MY TIME HAS COME!”
Then I remembered there is no Margaret, and I’ve lost my mind.
“You’ve always been so good to me,” I said to my imaginary boy-friend.
“I’M DYING!” I shouted to the world, and sobbed pitifully.
With my last ounce of strength, I crawled to the phone and called Flip.
“Hello?”
“Flip!” I croaked. “Oh! Flip! Help! Please!”
“Billy! What is it? What’s the matter!”
“Just . . . get . . . over here . . . before . . . it’s . . . TOO . . . LATE!”
“OH MY GOD! I’M ON MY WAY! HANG ON!”
He arrived in less than twenty minutes. “WHAT IS IT? WHAT’S THE MATTER? DID YOU HURT YOURSELF? SHOULD I CALL THE DOCTOR?”
“This is it, Flip,” I said in a hoarse whisper. “I’m dying. DYING, EGYPT, DYING!” (And no, I’m not babbling. That’s what Cleopatra said as she clutched the asp to her breast.)
Flip sighed and sat down, realizing he’d been duped. “Okay—I’ll play along. What is it this time?” he asked.
“Um . . . I think I’m allergic to myself. Or the universe. Either way, things don’t look good. I’m afraid I’m not long for this mortal coil, old chum. I just couldn’t go without seeing you ONE . . . LAST . . . TIME. . . .”
Then I coughed and whispered, “Good-bye.”
And that’s when I died.
Or tried to, anyway. I thought I did a pretty convincing job. I rolled my eyes back into my head and spit up on myself. I wheezed and gasped and flailed about. My audience, though, remained unconvinced.
“Hey, Drama Boy, get up. Enough dying. I’m not mad at you. And if you wanted to see me, all you had to do was call.”
HUH? I came back from the dead, sat up, and asked: “You mean, we’re still friends?”
“Yes, Billy,” he said, and brushed the hair back from my face. “You are one crazy little homo, you know that?”
XXIII
BACK TO SCHOOL
Time heals all wounds.
There. I said it.
I could have done a whole tap-dance extravaganza about the passage of time, the changing of the seasons, how the world keeps spinning and nothing stays the same. Hi-ho. I could have pointed out a dozen senior-class milestones that came and went while I recovered—midterms, SATs, senior pictures, my driving test, college applications—to show the passage of time. I could have charted my physical progress, shown when each cast came off, each bone mended, each bruise healed. You could have looked at the before and after pictures—witnessed my transformation from the throbbing gob of rotting meat that arrived at the emergency room to the luminous Julianne Moore-like beauty in front of you—that would have effectively done the trick.
But, no.
I did not do that. “Time heals all wounds” just about covers it. Not every sentence has to sparkle with originality. Some just have to get you from point A to point B.
In this case: Point B being the first day back to school. Almost a month later. It’s mid-October.
And yes, I’m going back.
Back to my old boggy Gulag!
Hee-Haw High! Swampworth Academy!
I was promised things would be different, this time, though.
The principal laid down the law: If anything happened to me upon my return—any accident or threat of any kind—then I held the power to have that student suspended immediately.
The coach held a private meeting with the Manatees and told them not to screw this shit up. Personally, he didn’t care if they stuffed and mounted me on the locker-room wall—but just to wait until after the season was over. Otherwise, he would have no choice, and they’d be off the team.
The deciding factor in my return was Flip, though, who promised to be my bodyguard and personally escort me to and from every class, holding my hand if it would make me feel better. HELL, YEAH!
He would also make it very clear to everyone that I was off-limits. Flip was riding a personal crest of the winning season, and at this point he could tell everybody to jab flaming sticks into their eyes, and they would do it.
XXIV
So.
First day back.
Walking through the courtyard, onto the campus, Flip at my side.
TOP OF THE WORLD, MA!
FAGS RULE, OKAY!
DON’T TREAD ON ME!
I AM THE TEFLON QUEEN.
There was a banner welcoming me back, and that was sweet, I must admit.
The principal was there to greet me (i.e., please don’t sue). “Great to have you back . . . blah blah blah . . .” “Whatever I can do . . . blah blah blah . . .” (Translation: No more trouble out of you, please.)
And I thought: Yes, THIS is how we do it, do it . . . . VIP all the way! The Full Diddy!
In the hallway students stopped and smiled and said hello. Many asked how I was and expressed their outrage at what happened.
I was dressed in flowing white, like a young Gandalf the Gay. Saints should always look their purest, don’t you think? And because I was rather glowing with holy light this morning, I started blessing my well-wishers. “Peace be with you.” And: “Let the healing begin.”
Oh, I’m just such a good person. (CHOKE.) It’s true. Not many people could be as big as I’m being. I’m like Oprah. I give and I give until I’m just an empty husk. . . .
XXV
It was 9:03—class was about to begin. I took my seat.
Flip had a surprise for me.
“Hey, Billy!” Flip shouted. “Come sit back here between me and Bib!”
Bib screwed up his face, and said in a flattened monotone: “Yeah . . . Billy. . . . Come sit . . . with us.”
Oh my God! Bib Oberman! Did you hear that? Can you imagine? Bib, who is usually as tender as a tazer, darling as a dingo, and about as inviting as a riptide, wanted ME to sit with HIM! HOW THRILLING! Granted, it was Flip’s idea, and yes, Bib looked to be experiencing extreme intestinal duress, but why quibble?
YES! YES! YES! I’LL DO IT!
“BERNIE! Get Billy a chair,” Flip said sharply. And lo and behold, Bernie did it! He got me a chair!
And so I walked the ten feet, but million miles, to my new seat. Well, all right! Look at me! I’ve joined the exalted ranks of the Back Seat Boys. Not too shabby! ON THE KNEES OF THE GODS, and all that. I must say, the view was mighty empowering.
Flip gave me a knowing little wink.
“Yo, Bernie,” Flip called out again. “Billy doesn’t have a pencil. Give him yours, will you?”
“But . . . but . . . Yes, Flip. Here, Billy.”
I took it and gave him a saucy wink.
“Could you sharpen it, too?” Flip smiled sweetly.
“Yes . . . Flip . . . ,” he growled, without moving his lips.
When Mr. Reamer arri
ved and, in front of the class, again apologized for his absence that day, I smiled beatifically and said, “YOU ARE FORGIVEN,” then made the sign of the cross. He looked vaguely annoyed.
When class was over, true to his word, Flip escorted me to the seat of my American lit class. And when the bell rang fifty-five minutes later, he was there to pick me up and escort me to the next class.
XXVI
Lunch—I sat with the Manatees at table one, the most prized piece of cafeteria real estate. Sitting there was Flip’s idea; he said it announced to the world that I had made it. It sent a message that I was untouchable.
The murderous goons of the Hitler Youth Brigade all behaved like perfect gentlemen. They included me in their conversations and politely refrained from kicking the crap out of me. I couldn’t have had a lovelier time.
In fact, I thought I pulled off the transition from punching bag to luncheon date quite graciously and was a sparkling addition to their table. Yes, yes. It’s true!
However, as I was telling Bib and the Takaberrys all about the Marc Jacobs spring collection, and how they could translate some of the trends into their own spring-summer wardrobes, I noticed that they were kicking Flip under the table.
“Floral is back, you say?” Bib smiled, and there was an audible CRACK! from below. Flip winced.
“Gingham for night?” The ugly Takaberry asked in disbelief. There was another KA THUNK! And again Flip’s face registered discomfort.
Heterosexuals are so rough with each other! I’ll never understand them!
Anyway: I counted lunch as a great success, and a major social coup on my part. Definitely better than getting fish sticks up my nose.
I even went so far as to hug and air-kiss Bib good-bye. He looked a bit stunned, like he was holding down a powerful emotion.
I think he was touched. Probably not many people hug him. Hard to cuddle a walking sledgehammer, you know.
XXVII
AFTER LUNCH
It was all rather exhilarating. People smiled and said hello. I received compliments on my hair, my smile, and my new boots (octopus leather!). One girl even asked for makeup advice. (“Big felt eyebrows for fall,” I told her. “And a reversible wig. Oh, yeah, it’s ALL ABOUT the reversible wig for fall.”)
Why, I felt like a real person, not some windy warthog to be avoided!
Flip was giddy as all get-out. “What do you think? Isn’t it cool?”
“Oh my God,” I agreed, “everybody’s being so nice! It’s tripping me out!”
“I know! I told you things would be different when you came back! You can do whatever you want! You can dress however you want! Nobody can touch you!”
“Yeah, well, I think I’ll lay low with the freak flag for a while.”
“Naaah, man. Now is the time! Send a message! Show them how fabulous you are!”
Well . . .
Hmmmm . . .
A perfectly marvelous idea HAD been bubbling up in my head for a while.
A way to put a little POW! into tomorrow’s oral report on Zelda Fitzgerald.
“I’LL DO IT!”
Later: “You’re SURE you’ll be by my side ALL DAY?”
“I’m there like back hair.”
I guess that’s good. But just to be sure, I asked again: “EVERYWHERE?”
He held my hand. “To the urinal and beyond, babe.”
Well! THAT’S PROMISING!
Now where’s my Coke and ammonia cocktail? I have a lot of work ahead of me.
XXVIII
NEXT MORNING
I pulled up a chair, and began ceremoniously gluing Grape-Nuts onto my face and covering them with great gobs of greasepaint. Yes, again with the cereal on the face. Grape-Nuts can be molded into textured bumps and anthills. It gives your skin a wonderful Freddy Krueger-like finish that’s just too, too fabulous. See? Oh—admit!
I latexed some open wounds onto my cheeks and stippled them with black, giving them a “just singed” look.
A little ooze.
Maybe a bruise.
La-la-la.
I finger-waved my fiery red mane . . .
Added some perfectly bee-stung lips, painted with Scarlet Temptation lip rouge . . .
Tossed on a little beaded flapper gown that I had set fire to last night, then quickly stamped out before the flames ate through the fabric. Then, a single peacock feather in my headache band and a cigarette holder, and VOILÀ! you’ve got “Zelda Fitzgerald—After the Fire.”
Yes! Yes! Too fabulous! I thought I might reenact the fire in the mental institution that killed her!
Give them beauty AND talent!
POW! POW!
XXIX
THE OBLIGATORY NONFAN’S REACTION
Flossie clutched her heart when she saw me. “Oh, Sweet Jesus!”
I did a zippy little Charleston for her and batted my eyelashes demurely.
“Child, what is wrong with you? Have you been licking light sockets? Have you already forgotten? You need to be locked up! You are a danger to yourself and everyone around you! I’m calling your father. We are not going through this again . . .”
“Relax. It’s for school. It’s homework. Besides, I have Untouchable status now. And Flip is by my side the entire day.”
She shook her head. “That boy doesn’t have the brains God gave a squirrel.”
XXX
Once again the hallways filled as people pushed to catch a glimpse of the freak. Students jumped and jostled and jockeyed for position. They hung from lockers and clung to poles, straining to see for themselves the loony homo in his latest outfit.
As I walked through the halls the murmurs rose to a mighty roar.
Let’s listen:
“Don’t you look pretty?”
“I love your makeup.”
“You go, girl.”
“Fab dress.”
“Lookin’ sexy, yo.”
“You always look SO great!”
“Did you have a makeover?”
“How do you do that?”
“Can you teach me?”
“Doesn’t Billy look nice today?”
“You should be a stylist.”
“Is that your real hair?”
“Hot.”
“New outfit?”
“Billy! My man!”
“Come to my party this weekend?”
“Sexy Momma!”
“Wow!”
“You crack me up!”
“BIL-LY! BIL-LY! BIL-LY!”
“I swear, if I wasn’t straight, man . . . MMMM-MMM.”
And on.
What a difference a couple months makes, huh?
With the quarterback by my side, and their enthusiam still ringing in my ears, I should have been over the moon. I should have been crowing about “freak power” and “the trumph of the tranny” and planning my victory lap.
And yet . . .
And yet . . .
“I told you they were great guys!” whispered Flip. “See, they love you! It just took a little time, that’s all!”
I bit my lip and wondered.
XXXI
SPOTLIGHT ON ZELDA FITZGERALD
Lights off.
Strobe light on.
A tape recording of radio static, howling wind, and a piano key (D minor) plunked over and over. And over.
Chaos. Dissonance. Aggressive black noise.
I started on the floor, hunched over with a flashlight shining up, under my face, illuminating the Grape-Nuts to horrific effect.
“Oooh! . . . Ooooh! . . . The pain! . . . The pain! . . . Do you feel the flames . . . Do you feel the hellfire licking at your feet?”
I moaned and writhed a bit.
Then: “I am the ghost of Zelda Fitzgerald! When I danced upon this mortal coil, my husband, F. Scott, and I knew boundless joy and unfathomable pain. Our larger-than-life escapades and violent, gin-fueled tantrums defined the Roaring Twenties. I still remember how we danced and drank and fought and loved like there was no tomorrow
. Now . . . as my skin bubbles and blackens, scorches and curls off the meat . . . I realize there is NOTHING BUT tomorrows . . . and tomorrows . . . and tomorrows . . . stretching to infinity. . . . Oh, the agony. . . .” And I began rocking side to side. “And with every blistering flame-lick that I endure, I am reminded of my own personal damnation! This is my story: From MADCAP to just plain MAD—I am Zelda Fitzgerald!”
Oh, I was good. Yes. I was ON. I didn’t just tell her story; I didn’t just act it out. No, BY GOD, I LIVED IT. The glory years—the dancing in water fountains, the drunken fights with F. Scott, then the descent into alcoholism and madness—the works! For the big fiery death scene in the insane asylum, I took it to another level.
I really went there.
In my head. In my heart. I WAS THERE.
It was BEYOND method acting, I’ll tell you THAT.
Why, I might have been actually channeling the REAL SPIRIT of Zelda Fitzgerald, it felt THAT authentic.
I spun and shrieked and cried and banged against the window, begging for death. I THREW myself against the wall (THUD!) then the door (KLUMP!), truly feeling the unbearable panic and frenzied agony of this poor madwoman. I dropped and rolled and tried to put my burning flesh out. I choked and gagged until I gasped my last breath. I was dead. BUT THEN, as my soul plunged into the fiery depths of HELL, I rose up again—SPINNING and SCREAMING, laughing and crying, as I embraced damnation!
When I finished, there was a moment of silence when I worried that . . . maybe . . . I had done it again.
Freak Show Page 13