I’ve been fag-bashed before, and, sir, this was no fag-bashing.
I looked up at his perfectly round, perfectly flat face, like a bad moon rising, and wondered what the hell was going on.
What was HE doing in the middle of the Everglades at one in the morning?
I listened as he continued to whisper hoarsely in my ear. He muttered vile, dirty, and disgusting things that I’m much too much of a lady to reprint here. Suffice to say, he was laboring under the delusion that I found him attractive. BLECH!
I hocked up a loogie and spit it at him.
Which only seemed to excite him more.
He leaned into my face, closer, closer . . .
He shut his eyes . . . and opened his lips, slightly. . . .
EW . . . HE’S NOT! . . . OH MY GOD!
He KISSED me.
Yes, on the lips.
With a groan.
He jammed his hard, dry little tongue into my mouth, and I gagged. I gagged. I almost threw up in his mouth.
I tried to scream, but my mouth was lost under his great, gaping brute-hole.
I’d rather suck on a bedsore than have his tongue in my mouth! ECH!
That’s when it came into focus.
The big picture!
What was really going on here!
The things he was saying to me . . . What he wanted to do to me . . .
It was familiar; I’d heard it before. . . .
YES!
MY GOD!
It was Bernie! Bernie who was sending those creepy, anonymous e-mails! Bernie, who detailed the twisted and perverse things he wanted to do to me! It was Bernie, Bernie, Bernie, all this time, who hated me, not because I was gay, but because HE WAS! It was BERNIE, the latent homosexual who took out his self-loathing on me in biology, when ALL ALONG, THIS WAS WHAT HE REALLY WANTED!
All this time!
All that pain!
And it was never even about me?
My God! My whole world!
All that hate!
All that disgust and contempt!
And it had nothing to do with me!
Oh my God. I’m going to be sick.
What a waste!
What a wicked, wicked waste!
It can’t be real. This can’t be happening.
If kittens in catsuits started voguing on the flat surface of his face, I could sooner believe THAT was real.
Anything would be easier to comprehend.
Anything except this atrocity.
This monstrous miscarriage of humanity.
This man, this moon, this evil in the round.
This abominable piecrust. This leering, foul-mouthed “happy face.”
And yet!
It is!
It is happening!
All the while, the vile mutterings continued. Things like: “You like this, don’t you?” and “You want me!”
Lies. Vile, vulgar, horrific lies. All of it.
XLV
Teetering on the crack of doom.
World dripping red.
Red: like the fires of Mordor.
Like the dying sun of Krypton.
Suddenly I thought: NO!
Suddenly I decided: NO MORE!
Blood and fire and hate and rage . . .
Streaming through my veins.
There! My voice: “GET OFF ME!”
Now louder: “I SAID GET OFF, YOU FLAT-FACED SICKO!”
Adrenaline. Sweet, hot adrenaline.
I am angry now, oh so angry. . . .
She-Hulk angry.
SUPERFREAK angry!
And then I remembered!
I don’t have to take this!
I HAVE THE POWER!
And then . . . oh yes . . . OH YES! . . .
HERE HE COMES!
HERE COMES SUPERFREAK!
Yes, I am Superfreak. I am here and I am mighty. I am all-powerful. I am the rainbow flag made flesh. I am dignity and strength when all is gone.
And you’d be wise to watch out, Bernie Balch, because I AM PISSED.
I suddenly had the strength of A HUNDRED DRAG QUEENS.
“YO, DEEP-DISH!” I yelled, and kneed him in the gut. When he doubled over, I gave him an uppercut to the jaw and leaped to my feet. “WELCOME TO THE FREAK SHOW, BITCH!
“YOU HUMP! YOU SWEAT STAIN!” I cried as I kicked him. “YOU DISGUST ME! How dare you push yourself on me! I may be gay, but I have standards. And you are a freak! A hobgoblin! A runty, splayfooted hillbilly!
“You shouldn’t have picked on me, you feeble maggot. How dare you rip my costume, violate my person, and pollute my soul. You’ve made a powerful enemy. For I am Superfreak, and I will not rest until I avenge your trespasses!”
And I let him have it. I showed him the power of my fury.
When I was done, and my anger had been sated, I ripped some fabric from my already shredded gown (another one!) and bound his hands and feet together, leaving him hog-tied in the mud. I then made a gag for his mouth.
“Well, you’re going to stay here in the mud until I feel like calling the police and telling them where you are. And that might not be for a few days. But when they do untie you, I guarantee that will be THE LAST good thing that’s gonna happen to you FOR A LONG TIME. Oh, I AM filing a police report this time. Attempted rape, battery, attempted murder. . . . I’m sure I’ll think of more. You shouldn’t have messed with Superfreak, faggot!”
And I stumbled through the underbrush . . .
. . . out of the darkness . . .
. . . and into the pale, trembling moonlight . . .
Running, running.
Always running.
One step. Two step. Three step. Four.
“Yes. Sir! Yes, sir! Please, sir! More!”
What’s the rush?
Why the hurry?
Bernie isn’t going anywhere.
You’re safe.
Isn’t it obvious?
Don’t you hear it?
That voice!
That horrible little voice!
That one! There!
In the back of my head!
I can’t escape it!
Growing louder. More insistent.
Then louder, louder still.
It’s horrible, horrible.
And what’s it saying?
It’s telling you the truth, Billy! The terrible, awful, no-good truth! Are you ready for it? Can you possibly face the stark, staring reality of who you are and why this keeps happening?
Listen!
This is what it says:
Don’t you get it? Don’t you see? The chaos. The violence. It just keeps coming. It never stops. The panic. The pain. It’s all around you. It’s always all around you.
It’s always out there. Somewhere out there.
Looming. Lurking. Ready to pounce.
You can’t escape it. You never will. No matter where you run, where you hide. It’s who you are. It’s what you do.
It’s you, Billy! It’s because of you!
You are a drag queen! It’s your nature! You provoke. You expose. You arouse and inspire.
You open wounds and push buttons and rattle cages.
You are a fire starter. A witch!
You unleash demons. You do! You do! You waken slumbering tigers. You know you do!
It’s the path you’ve chosen. The life you desire. It’s in your designer genes. Of course, few will understand. Few will follow. It isn’t easy. You’ve known that all along. That’s the price you pay.
But the pain!
My God!
The pain you bring to yourself!
Is it worth it? Really, Billy? Look at where you are. Look at what it’s gotten you. Do you enjoy it? Do you get off on it? You must. You must. On some level. My God, you invite it in. You court it. Like a lover. You feed off it. Because it’s always there. Always all around you.
Martyr! Masochist! Fret-monkey! Pain-monger!
Wound-gatherer!
Yes!
You hoard it. You take it
in. Like you deserve it. Like you feel you have it coming. Why is that, I wonder?
And so it goes. On and on. For the rest of your life.
Stop.
Drop.
Hit the ground.
It was all true.
There was no use fighting it anymore.
There would be no more moving on.
No more forward motion.
Not until I faced this one last enormous truth:
It’s never going to get easier for you, Billy. The world is going to keep on throwing things at you. These moments are going to keep coming, and it’s how you react to them that define you.
You can be a martyr to a moment.
You can be a hero because of it.
You can become a prisoner to one that defined you.
Or a victim of it.
The choice is yours.
So there it was.
There I stood.
What to do? What to do?
XLVI
I sometimes dream that I can fly, that I am pushed off the ground like a cork in the water and I bob in midair. But if I think about it, if I concentrate on how I got there or what the feeling is, then it’s gone and I fall back down. It becomes a game of not concentrating, of not paying attention. I can’t allow myself to think about where I am or how I got there. Only when my mind is free can I soar again.
And so it was this time.
I let it all go and was pushed up off the ground, propelled forward, set in motion. I was able to continue on as long as I kept my mind blank.
Free from myself.
Free from my thoughts.
My movements are automatic—left foot, right foot.
Now stop. Now go.
I moved forward, yes forward, always forward, and let my mind attach itself to each passing object.
One car, red.
Two cars, blue.
A store window. A street corner.
A man, just one man, with no connection to me, a man with no anger, nothing to inflict on me.
On the wall someone had spray-painted: “I love to hog space,” and what could that even mean?
On the street a newspaper headline reads MAN AMPUTATES ARM TO GET HANDICAPPED PARKING SPACE, and I simply don’t get it.
Keep moving. Keep on going.
You’re almost there, now, Billy. Don’t give up.
Go, Billy, go!
It’s just up ahead. Past that light. The realization you’ve been searching for. The truth is right there in front of you now.
You’re home, now, Billy. There it is. HOME.
Yes, in the door, down the hall, up the back staircase.
Then I crawled into my cupboard, my lovely old cupboard, and let the inky, black darkness cover me.
XLVII
ENDGAME
I was alone, walking through a beautiful garden that smelled like sleep. And an angel appeared in the garden—at least I think it was an angel. He was seven feet tall, covered in light, and moved in waves. He had glorious flaxen hair, liquid green eyes, and a sweet, sweet smile. He pulled me close and kissed me softly, just once, and then he was gone. . . . And after that I was falling, free-falling into nothing, without a center, without weight, down and down for such a long time, until suddenly there were hands, hundreds of them, covering me, caressing me, lowering me softly to the ground. I found myself in a place I had known once before, but had somehow forgotten. Then a voice spoke to me; as gentle as the rustling of leaves, it spoke in the language of the wind. And this is what it said:
“Once upon a time, in the southern region of a dying civilization, there lived an unhappy little drag queen who made his home amongst the ruins and danced in the shadow of the night.
“And it came to pass the end of a millennium. The stars decreed that a freak should lead mankind into the light of a new age. That freak is you, Billy Bloom.”
And God said:
There is no right or wrong, Billy.
I made it all up.
No good or evil, either.
It was all a joke.
Mankind looked to me with such eager young hearts,
And such eager young minds,
How could I resist.
I didn’t even create this world.
I just happened upon it one day
While wandering through the universe.
Morality is your own invention.
It’s up to you.
You must find your own path,
And live with your own decisions.
There is no meaning.
No purpose.
Definitions are useless.
Each moment arrives without form. Without reason.
It’s up to you. Each of you. All of you.
To look at each new moment. Examine it. Fill it with reason. Give it a purpose. Give it meaning. Choose its path. Then let it go. Set it free . . .
“But God,” I asked, trembling, “how do I bring reason to the anger and chaos, when its reasons are hidden from me?”
And God said: “You forgive.”
And here’s where I started to get on God’s nerves: “But, begging your pardon, your Lordliness, but how can I forgive what I can’t understand, and how can I understand what is hidden? I’m talking about Bernie here. And Muv. And Flip.”
“Persistent little human, knowledge is overrated. Don’t concern yourself with understanding the motives of others. You will never, ever succeed. It’s not in your biology. And as for forgiving others . . .”
Here he paused to laugh. A mighty roll of thunder echoed throughout the garden.
“It’s not up to you.
It’s not even up to me.
There IS no forgiveness of others.
There is only forgiveness of self.
‘EGOMET MIHI IGNOSCO.’
That’s Latin, human: ‘I myself pardon myself.’
Horace said it two thousand of your years ago, and it still holds true.
So, Billy, stop worrying about what others think.
Stop giving them power over your life.
Then, forgive yourself.
Stop straining to be something you’re not.
Just relax and let you be you.
You are a magnificent experiment.
A whole new creation.
What’s inside you is still entirely untested.
Go fly; see what you’re made of. . . .”
Epilogue
I heard a knock on the cupboard door and awoke with a start. It was
Flossie.
“I figured you might be in here,” she said.
I climbed clumsily out and rubbed my eyes. What was I just dreaming about?
Oh well.
“I don’t know what all happened last night, but you sure got everybody all worried. The phone has been ringing off the hook. The Plantation police called, your principal called, Clancy Duckett called, Mary Jane called fourteen times. Apparently, she’s the one who found Bernie when she went out looking for you. She figured out what happened and called the police. He’s in custody now. . . . Then there are messages here from someone named Bib. Someone named Bo-Bo. And here’s Payton Manners’s. . . .
“And your father is just UP A STUMP, he’s so frantic. He’s been looking for you all night. He tried to find you after the parade, at the game . . .”
“Wait: DAD was THERE? At the parade?”
“Yes, and he was very proud of you.”
I couldn’t believe it! He drove out to see ME? KNOWING I would be appearing in public in drag? And he was STILL proud?
What a TRULY INSANE night it had been. All around. On every possible level. Literally, the best of times, the worst of times.
Flossie made some hot chocolate, and after I called Mary Jane and the detective back, I sat down and told her what had happened. I cleaned it up a bit, though, leaving out all the graphic details and any mention of Superfreak. I assured her I did NOT need to go to the hospital; I was fine, just a little sore.
“So . . . ?” F
lossie asked as the conversation wound down. “That’s the last of the Eisenhower Academy, I take it? Will you be homeschooled from now on, God help us all?”
I didn’t even have to think about it.
“Oh, I’m going back,” I said. “I’m not backing down now. Believe THAT. I’m going to finish out the school year, by God. Mary Jane and I are planning to meet with Principal Onnigan on Monday to set up a Gay-Straight Alliance. We set up the meeting last week, and I have a feeling that after tonight, we won’t have any problems. I still have so much to do. I feel like the shadow kids need someone to guide them, and show them how to rebel for real. And I’m not going to rest until I’m sure that Bernie is held accountable for his actions. So, no, no, I’m making too much headway to give it all up now. I’ll make my mark there, yet, by God.”
“What about Flip?” she asked.
“Oh, I have a feeling it’s not the end of THAT story, either. . . .”
“No. I mean, what do you want me to tell him? He’s walking up the driveway right now.”
FLIP?
HERE? NOW?
Oh my God, I look a fright! I’ve got twigs in my hair, mud in my drawers, and a thistle up my nose! There are rotting leaves in every crack and crevice on my body. And I’m still covered head to toe with the stink of Bernie Balch.
Freak Show Page 24