Freak Show
Page 19
XXIII
DAY FOUR
And the campus is a choppy sea of local media. Everywhere you look, the hustle and flow of a well-oiled machine as field teams set up equipment, compete for space, and scout for fresh angles. . . .
Directions are shouted, hair is fluffed, lipstick checked, the countdown begins. . . . Then: LIGHTS! CAMERAS! ACTION!
On!
“This is Rocky del Gado, WBTU, Kissimmee-Saint Cloud . . .”
“I’m Blizzard McNeil, coming to you live from Plantation . . .”
“Mary Etta Thistlewait, KLQ Eyewitness News at Noon . . .”
Some reporters concentrate on the small-but-vocal gathering of parents picketing the entrance of the school. They hold up signs (IT’S A QUESTION OF PRINCIPLE AND WE QUESTION THE PRINCIPAL) and chant, “No justice, no tuition,” and “Tradition matters!”
Other camera crews zoom in on Dottie Babcock and her clanging Belles of Doom, who are all frantically waving their hands in the air and singing “We Shall Overcome” and “Nearer My God to Thee.” To hear them moan and cry and carry on, you’d think the earth had bounced out of its orbit and was careening toward the sun, even as we stood there.
“Coastal Eddie here, coming to you live from the Eisenhower Academy in . . .”
“It’s Jo-Jo Johnson, from the Morning Moo Zoo, here on location . . .”
“Ruby Rae Jessup, WYKJ, your channel for breaking news . . .”
The usual suspects--The Demon Debs, the Stuffy Muffys, the Cruci-vixens, the Aryan All-stars—race from camera to camera doing damage-control by downplaying the controversy. “So silly, really,” “Not worth your time, even,” “It’s such a nonstory,” and “Nobody takes him seriously.” Working together, they form a single, united front of Sissy Assassins, who attack my credibility to every camera and call into question my right to run.
It doesn’t make a lick of difference.
The press keeps coming. They are relentless.
“I’m Marvel-Ann Minzer, reporting live from Plantation . . .”
“This is Ola Brinson for Teen Talk . . .”
“‘Scoop’ Cooper with the Morning Dispatch, your choice for local news and weather . . .”
XXIV
And so the race was on.
LYNNETTE’S CAMPAIGN: “THE SOUTHERN VALUES TICKET”
Lynnette proved herself to be a feisty opponent and a tireless self-promoter. She positioned herself as a woman of the people, for the people, and with the people’s interests at heart. She spoke their language, understood their needs, and shared a vision for a successful future.
To Lynnette it was a Battle Royale, with the fate of the school, no, the fate of THE UNIVERSE hung in the balance.
It was “life as we know it” vs. “the anal Armageddon.” . . .
It was tradition vs. perdition. . . .
It was decency vs. depravity. . . .
She ran a fierce grassroots campaign—shaking hands, kissing babies, and pressing the flesh of as many Manatees as possible. She personally called each and every Eisenhower senior and reminisced about the good old days, quickly rattling off a few shared memories and private jokes. Once that was out of the way, she got down to the business of calling in favors, forgiving old debts, and making new promises. She giggled with the boys and dished with the girls. She played on the homophobia of some, the religious hysteria of others, and the clannish snobbery of almost everyone else.
No one could accuse Lynnette of not wanting to win, or of not giving it her all. Even if she didn’t think I had a homo’s chance in heaven of winning, she was still going to make me pay for challenging her, by God, and make sure I suffered a humiliating defeat.
CAMPAIGN BUTTON: BEAT BILLY BLOOM! (Which I thought was rather tasteless and constituted a vague threat.)
SIGNS AND FLYERS:
ONE REAL GIRL—ONE REAL CHOICE
ONLY QUEERS VOTE FOR FAGS!
DEFEAT THE GAY MENACE!
UPHOLD TRADITION! UPHOLD DIGNITY!
And again with the not-funny TOGETHER, WE CAN ALL BEAT BILLY BLOOM
XXV
MY CAMPAIGN: “THE PANTY GIRDLE TICKET”
My campaign was less personal, more ideological—if only because I lacked Lynnette’s long social history and A-list clout. My battles were mostly fought in the media, and through school newspaper editorials and my highly visible public appearances.
Every morning I would sweep onto campus, looking fabulous, of course. Then I’d twirl around the courtyard, showing off the dress du jour—usually something in a dreamy silk chiffon, from the Lily Munster-Endora from Bewitched school of drag—regal yet camp, you know—then I’d say something perfectly pithy to the reporters, hand out a few Scarlet Fs, pose with supporters, then float off to class. That was about it.
I was counting on showing the students that I was worthy of their respect and friendship through an upbeat, intelligent campaign. As nasty as Lynnette’s smear campaign against me was, I was determined to stay above the fray, and not lower myself to her level of mud-slinging.
MY CAMPAIGN BUTTON: TEASE HAIR, NOT HOMOS!
SIGNS AND FLYERS:
A QUEEN 4 QUEEN
GENDER IS A CHOICE, NOT A LIMITATION
SAY NYET TO LYNNETTE!
TRANNY POWER!
SUPPORT YOUR LOCAL FREAK SHOW!
LET BILLY BLOOM!
BILLY BLOOM: EXPERIENCED TIARA-WEARER!
XXVI
Meanwhile, every day after school, more and more shadow kids gathered outside the gates of my house, offering to help with my float.
Ten, then twenty, then thirty or more “invisible kids” made themselves known to me, and went to work on my behalf. They each brought with them their special talent, their own artistic vision, and their own unique input. Oh, and their own tools, God bless ’em for THAT. Lord knows, we are not a crafty household, no sir. Not at ALL.
They were magnificent. There was nothing too difficult or outrageous for them, nothing they couldn’t accomplish once they set their minds to it. I told them the concept—they said, “Let’s do it!”
I provided the neon tubing, the chicken wire, the float-away fringe, the flowers, the scrap metal, the bags of spangles, the wooden lattice, the lawn mower, and the shopping carts.
Then, like little homecoming elves, they got to work.
Pounding.
Sawing.
Soldering.
Sculpting.
Gluing.
Wiring.
OH, AND VERY QUICKLY:
The rules for the float are simple:
Floats can be made of anything. Flatbeds can be constructed using hay trailers, lawn mowers, four-wheel chassis, golf carts, flatbed trucks, SUVs, or . . .
The maximum length is sixty-five feet.
The width: eight feet or less.
It can stand no higher than thirteen feet, six inches off the ground.
A maximum of twenty people on board.
No gas-powered engines.
And the theme must be approved by Principal Onnigan.
Of course, on the creative end, the bigger the better, and the more eye-catching your float is, the better your chances of winning.
It can be as bold and provocative or loud and loopy as you have the time and resources to make it.
Your float can breathe fire or blow bubbles or shoot Gummi worms into the crowd.
It can be pulled by a hundred bikini-clad blondes, if you can entice a hundred blondes to do so.
I mean, THE SKY’S THE LIMIT, KID.
As long as the float itself conforms to the guidelines posted on the school’s Web site, and as long as the theme of your campaign is spelled out clearly, and it’s built and decorated solely by students from Eisenhower—with no outside help of any kind—DO WHATEVER THE HELL YOU WANT!
XXVII
“Up there . . . !”
“Over there . . . !”
“Could it be . . . ?”
“Is it really . . . ?”
Yes!
IT’S SUPERFREAK AND WIG GIRL!
Tripping on the wind . . .
Slipping in and out of shadows . . .
Over rooftops and treetops, and behind enemy lines . . .
Skirring out of sight . . .
The super-sleuthy superhero and his bewigged sidekick are hard at work!
Today’s top-secret mission: to spy on Lynnette’s float committee. A simple recon assignment. Gather information, size up the competition, and gauge their chance of winning.
Every day the candidates and their helpers meet during lunch, see, to discuss float-building duties and take care of other items of business.
Today Wig Girl and I are hidden in a broom closet of the room Lynnette used, nervously waiting for the royal court to convene.
Well, we needn’t have worried too much, as it doesn’t seem like they manage to get too much work done, what with so many other BURNING ISSUES at hand.
Like the daily date updates!
Because it’s GIRLS INVITE BOYS to the homecoming dance, you know! So it’s HIGH DRAMA!
And I mean, who has time to glue carnations onto chicken wire when both Bib AND Flip remain dateless?
SQUEEEEEEEEEAL!
(The following conversation is brought to you verbatim, courtesy of Wig Girl’s trusty handheld tape recorder:)
“Did you HEAR? Sissy Russett got the smackdown from Flip!” “I KNOOOOW! I was there!” “What IS it with Flip, you know?” “I knoooooow. He never goes out with anyone.” “If he wasn’t so hot, I’d swear he was gay or something!” “OHMYGOD! Riiiiiight? Imagine!” “Sesame Blixon thinks she’s THISCLOSE.” “I hope so, y’all, because those accidental ‘nip slips’ of hers are working my last nerve.” “Every single class, y’all. ‘OOOPS!’” “Like, if he didn’t respond the first three thousand times . . .” “I’m thinking it’s her boob acne.” SQUEEEEEEEEEAL! “Lynnette, you are SOOOO BAAAAAD!” “Oh my God, I heard Dottie Babcock plans to wear that SAME Jessica McClintock dress she wears to every dance.” “That horror with the high collar?” “And puffy sleeves?” “EEEEEEEEW!” “I heard it’s a hand-me-down FROM THE EIGHTIES!” “And her sister wore it to every dance, tooooooo!” “And probably her mom before that!” “OHMYGOD! CAN YOU IMAGINE?” “Doesn’t Christ want her to look pretty for once?” “Ohmygod, Lynnette, you are so baaaaaad!” “PLEASE, like Christ would even ASK Dottie Babcock, I’m sure!” “You are going to HELL!”
And on.
And on.
And on.
Until you just want to shove a fondue fork in your ear!
XXVIII
AND A QUICK SIDEBAR
Just because I haven’t mentioned him lately doesn’t mean that Flip has been forgotten. Oh, my dear, no. Far from it.
He’s HERE. (Thump chest.) Always in my heart. Always in my prayers. (Sniff.)
He’s just been back-burnered temporarily while I deal with the overwhelming STURM UND DRANG of my BILDUNGSROMAN. Yes, I meant to say that. It’s German, darling, and it refers to all the grunt and snuffle I go through coming of age in this crap factory called Florida, and trying to make sense of it all.
So, I haven’t seen him except in class, and even then it’s secret, stolen glances, for he still won’t acknowledge me. (BIG HEAVING SIGH.) And it’s been almost two weeks now. He keeps quite a buffer of “his crew” around at all times—Manatees and various Aryan Nations boys, you know. Strictly “No Billys Allowed.” And the damn Swamp Thugs won’t let me get anywhere near him to plead my case.
And with the BIG GAME looming—just around the corner, in fact—Coach Karl has been working him into the ground. RIGHT INTO THE DIRT, POOR DEAR. Before, after, and often during school hours. Getting him in tip-top physical shape. And it’s already paying off. He’s looking GOOD! WHOOOO-EEEE.
He’s Flip 4.0,
Meta-Flip,
Mega-Flip,
Flippus Maximus,
High-performance Flip.
A ripped Flip, to be sure, his hot horse-sweat pouring through his T-shirt and gym shorts. Pushing his endurance to the limit. Muscles rippling like white-water testosterone. Starting at five A.M. and often staying until nine or ten at night, he runs laps, does pull-ups and sit-ups and real-boy push-ups and, oh, I don’t know, practices his touchdown jig—I CAN’T WATCH FROM BEHIND THE FLAGPOLE ALL THE TIME!
Anyway, that’s the extent of my Flip update.
XXIX
The local newscasters practically lived on campus now. Other stations began slowly trickling in, to weigh in on the story.
It became a ruthless round-robin, a sort of “Row, Row, Row Your Boat” for reporters having a slow news week.
The increased press brought out the protesters and wack jobs, who, in turn, garnered more attention in the press, which only . . .
Well, you get the picture.
And once my family’s “founding father” connections came to light, the story made another leap up the news chain and became even more newsworthy.
My cross-dressing candidacy was becoming a big-time, statewide story, moving from the back page “news of the weird” up to the Metro section and on up to the third, then second page. Next stop: front page!
I began getting e-mail and fan mail from people all over, wishing me good luck and telling me they were rooting for me (which is always a day-brightener). I heard from other drag queens and transgender types, who told me about similar ordeals they went through in high school, and the horrific torture THEY endured. (And that’s always reassuring.)
I even got quite a number of love letters and marriage proposals from weird old men—HA!—as well as a number of increasingly graphic love letters from someone who claimed to be a student at the Eisenhower Academy! Can you imagine? These letters always started off sweet and gushing, telling me how he’s been crushing on me from afar, and wishes he could spend time with me, and possibly more? Then there is a weird shift in the tone, and suddenly, he starts berating me for being too open, too gay. I’m ruining it for him. I make him sick. Then the letters get downright nasty and threatening. . . .
They give me the shivers.
So I just brushed those letters aside when they came, and concentrated on the fun stuff.
NEWS BULLETIN
With just two weeks left until the election, two new students have announced their candidacy for homecoming queen!
Yes!
Just like that!
Henny Nickerson and Alma Doty have qualified as official write-in candidates, with the requisite number of signatures and club sponsorship.
Henny, of course, is the captain of the equestrian team, Junior League committee co-chairman, and was third-place runner-up in the Pepsi Poem for Peace competition. She plans to attend Radcliffe in the fall, and intern at Modern Bride magazine over the summer.
Alma . . . um . . . played trombone in the freshman band and enjoys C-SPAN, bird-watching, and diagramming sentences in her spare time. (That’s according to the Eisenhower Dispatch.)
Both are considered dark horses. Henny sounds like a threat on paper, but nobody really likes her. She’s too horsey-looking—reminds people of Celine Dion. Plus, she smells like manure. And nobody wants an ugly queen who smells like shit. Please. This is Eisenhower.
Alma is, you guessed it, a shadow girl who is stepping out of the darkness for the first time. Sweet little thing. Wouldn’t say boo! to a goose. This is a big step for her. “Yea, Alma! You go, girl!” She’s way outside her comfort zone here, but feels it’s important to bring down the oligarchy and end the tyranny of WASP primacy.
These two new entries are mostly symbolic threats. They show that Lynnette’s unanimous wall of support is eroding, and that surefire victory she’s been braying about might not be so surefire, after all.
Yes, yes, slowly the tide is turning.
Alliances are shifting. Sure bets suddenly aren’t. There are sudden defections, secret backroom pledges, last minute switcheroos.
Every day, people are won over by me or
turned off by her. More and more, the Billy supporters are equal to, or outnumber, the Lynnette-lovers.
XXX
Bo-Bo Peterson is the first MAJOR PLAYER to break rank. He is the first of the big boys to stand up and say what the others are secretly thinking. Namely: “Lynnette’s a bitch, man.”
To his teammates he says, “I don’t care who she’s running against, I ain’t voting for her. If she was running against a goddamn butt worm, I’d vote for the goddamn butt worm.”
(That I am interchangeable with a “butt worm,” is slightly appalling, but I’ll take support where I find it.)
He and Lynette had a bitter breakup, you might recall. It seems he caught her with HIS OWN BROTHER! In his OWN BED! Yet, instead of saying she’s sorry or begging for his forgiveness, Lynnette went on the offensive and posted a series of wildly popular and deeply humiliating accounts of their love life on her MySpace page. So, you see, if anyone knows the depths of Lynnette’s bitchery, it’s Bo-Bo.
And if anyone wants to see her fail, it’s Bo-Bo.
So WELCOME ABOARD, BO-BO PETERSON. My unlikeliest ally.
He’s quite a catch.
A Manatee. Social A-lister. And all-around standard-bearer.
So when he showed up, with one week left in the race, wearing a Scarlet F . . .
Well, the whole Eisenhower hierarchy went KABLOOEY, it really did.