Band Fags! (10 page)

“Who's this?” Lyle Waggoner took a look at the tiny black-and-white photo of Rex Smith sporting his Farrah Fawcett hairdo and smiled. “Looks like somebody's got a little crush.” Then he took another swig of his beer. “You wanna watch a movie?” he asked. “G' right ahead, Sweetheart…'s your house.” At which point, he gave my Garanimaled bottom a gentle pat.

I moved to change the channel when my Dad stopped me. “I told you to go play in your room.” Using his “mean” voice. Which is something he hardly ever did and it totally took me by surprise.

“But I wanna watch
Sooner—
”
or Later,
I was about to say. Till I was cut off.

“We're not watching that Faggot Movie!” my Dad announced. Again, half-laughing/half-sounding angry. Being only 8 years old, this was the first time in my life I'd ever heard the word “faggot,” so I had no idea what it meant. Though from the tone in my Dad's voice, I got the impression it wasn't a
good
thing.

So what did I do? I didn't watch
Sooner or Later
…That's for sure!

Instead, I returned to my room where I passed out on my bed after exhausting myself from a serious cry. The good news is…Later that night, after Lyle Waggoner
finally
decided to drag his drunken self home, my Dad sneaked into my room. Without saying a word, he sat down beside me on my bed. I pretended not to notice when he wiped my tear-stained cheeks with his own calloused hand before softly making a confession. It turned out, the only reason my Dad wanted me to leave the room so bad was because he didn't want me being subjected to his Boozer of a Boss. Who he said he couldn't stand!

Then my Dad made me a promise. “Next time your movie is on,” he said, “we'll watch it together…Just you and me, okay?” Even though we never actually did, I've gotta give the man credit for trying.

Back on New Year's Eve, 1985…

I suggest to Audrey we watch
Sooner or Later
on the Late-Late Show. To which she vehemently objects. “Hell no! I can't stand that movie.”

Which crushes me like a ton of bricks. “What's wrong with it?”

“I saw it when I was in like 3
^rd
grade, and it totally sucked!” Audrey snarls. Then she adds, “The book sucked even more.”

“There's a book?” I ask. How am I totally not privy to this fact?

“You've never seen it?” she asks, surprised. “It's got the chick on the cover with the locket around her neck.” By whom she must mean Denise Miller as Jessie Walters. Which is exactly the same as the album. Which my Mom bought for me on 8-track. Back in like 1980, after I missed seeing the movie on
Sooner or Later
Night.

“Can I borrow it sometime?” I practically beg. At this point, I don't care what Audrey might think about my wanting to read a Girl's Book.

But she answers, “I don't got it anymore.” Totally bursting my bubble. “Sister Mary Hitler caught me reading it and the Bitch took it away.”

So what do I do? I fake a great big yawn…“Excuse me!”

“Too bad we're not at your house,” says Audrey, ignoring my stretching to give added emphasis to how tired I've all of a sudden become. “We could watch
Somewhere in Time
on your VCR.”

In case you haven't seen it, I won't ruin the plot. But
Somewhere in Time
is this totally romantic movie from like 1980, about this guy—played by Superman, aka Christopher Reeve—who travels back in time after seeing this picture of a woman—played by Jane Seymour, who I loved in
Dallas Cowboy Cheerleaders
—hanging on the wall in The Grand Hotel. Which is located Up North on Mackinac Island, and is pronounced “Mackinaw,” by the way.

When Audrey and I found out it's the favorite movie of both of us, we made a pact that someday we'd go to Mackinac Island together and stay in The Grand Hotel. That is, whenever one of us gets our driver's license and a car. We also plan to find the special trees along the lake where Richard Collier and Elise McKenna, aka Christopher Reeve and Jane Seymour, meet for the first time.

“I think I'm gonna call it a night,” I firmly decide.

“Party Pooper…It's New Year's Eve, for chris'sakes!” Audrey chides.

“Sorry…” I grab my jacket from the hook near the door.

“I'll walk you halfway,” she offers, donning her long wool coat. Which means Audrey Wojczek has made up her mind and there's no point in telling her she doesn't have to bother. “Ladies first,” she tells me. Then she gestures for me to go ahead of her.

“Ha-ha,” I say. “You're so funny I forgot to laugh.”

For the second time in less than half an hour, I head out into the cold dark night. We start down the deserted block towards my house, taking the long route on Woodward Heights rather than cutting through St. Mary's Field. Which totally creeps me out—especially at night. When we come to Battelle, I'm about to make a right and continue down to Shevlin. Which saying it right now sounds totally stupid to me…What's a Shevlin, anyways?

“Thanks for walking me halfway,” I tell Audrey. Though I can barely hear myself over the Def Leppard blaring from the White Cutlass that's just stopped at the red light on the corner.

That's when I hear, “Hey, Faggot!” And I see Fuck Face Craig Gershrowski hanging his head out the back window, totally wasted. “Wanna suck my dick?”

Of course, I ignore him. I don't know who he's with or who's driving the car. All I know is…Once the light turns green, they're gone in a squeal of burning Goodyears.

“Fuck you!” Audrey shouts after them, hot breath clouding the cold air. Then she turns to me, fire in her eyes matching her fire-red hair. “When are you gonna grow some balls and stand up to that kid? He's an 8
^th
grader, for chris'sakes!”

“I know…”

“You want me to kick his ass for you?” she offers. “You know I will.”

“No, thanks.” Even though I'd pay money to see that happen. For now, I'll just continue to avoid conflict rather than deal with it. Which is one thing I've gotten good at.

Like if somebody cuts in front of me in the Lunch Line, I'll act like I don't even notice it. Especially if it's some Jock Jerk. Or if somebody accidentally-on-purpose bumps into me in the hallway between classes, I'll keep on walking like I don't even notice it. Especially if it's some Jock Jerk. Or if somebody happens to be parading around naked in the locker room after Gym, I'll continue changing my clothes like I don't even notice it. Especially if it's some Jock Jerk.

“There's gotta be a way for you to get back at that Fuck Face,” Audrey muses.

“Let me know when you figure it out,” I reply.

To which she sighs, “Oh, Jackie…What am I gonna do with you?”

To which I say nothing.

On the off chance that Brad's right and Audrey
does
have a crush on me, I'd hate to lead her on. I mean, it's not that I don't like her. I just don't like her-like her. In that way.

I'm about to start off when Audrey stops me. “Where's my hug?”

Suddenly, I'm engulfed in a sea of Suave strawberries. I have no other choice but to return her embrace. Though not
too
enthusiastically. Again, no leading the Poor Girl on.

“I'm so glad we're friends,” she says softly in my ear.

Again, I say nothing.

Audrey kisses me on the cheek. Like she used to back in Kindergarten during Free Time. “Call me tomorrow,” she orders. “Make it sooner than later.”

Which reminds me…

With thoughts of Rex Smith and Denise Miller, I free myself from Audrey's embrace. Then I sprint down the block, arriving home
just
in time to turn on WKBD-TV, stick a blank VHS tape in the old VCR, and hit REC.

The sound of applause fills my ears as Michael Skye takes to the Shopping Mall stage before the cheering crowd of late-'70s teenagers. And who do I see sporting a shoulder-length crimped hairdo complete with topknot, singing backup and playing tambourine? None other than Fran from
The Great Space Coaster…
I had no idea she was really an actor!

So what if the song Rex Smith is singing sounds kind of cheesy? So what if he's poured himself into these totally tight Jordache jeans with these ridiculous looking suspenders? So what if his white T-shirt sparkles with silver glitter, the words
The Skye Band
printed in funky late-'70s style script? It's really him…After all these years!

“Good things come to those who wait.”

In case you haven't figured it out…I'm Claude and Brad's Rusty. Taken from our new favorite movie,
National Lampoon's Vacation
. Even though it's from like 1983, neither of us ever saw it till it came on Cable this year. We totally love Imogene Coca as Aunt Edna and know all of her lines by heart. In fact, we've gotten to the point where all we do is watch her scenes and fast-forward through the rest of the movie. That's how much we love her.

“Claude” is what Aunt Edna calls Chevy Chase's character, Clark. And Rusty is the name of Chevy Chase's son, as played by a pre-
Sixteen Candles
Anthony Michael Hall. This is how Brad and I have started addressing each other when writing letters back and forth. Just in case Mr. Grant should happen to get his hands on one of them and read it aloud over the cafeteria loudspeaker during Lunch.

That same day, we're hanging out in my bedroom after school,
supposedly
practicing our duet for the upcoming Spring Concert next month. But after about half an hour, we totally get sidetracked…

“Then what did you do?” I ask, dying to know what else happened with Brad and Bobby and faggy little Richie Tyler.

“Nothing…I went over Bobby's house and we hung out for a while.”

Being the Worry Wart that I am, I stop to consider. “What are you gonna do if Richie tells somebody?”

Brad exclaims, “I'll totally kick his ass if he does!” Then he asks, “Somebody, who?”

“I don't know…What if he tells Mrs. Putnam?”

“I doubt he'll say anything,” Brad confidently decides. “I know
I
wouldn't say a word if something like that happened to me.”

“I don't know why you even hang out with Bobby Russell,” I tell him, after a moment. “He thinks he's sooo hot and that everybody else does, too.”

“No, he doesn't,” Brad scoffs, sounding just like his Mom. Our big joke lately is…Whenever he tells Laura something's wrong—like he's dying or sick or something—she's all like, “No, you're not.” Like she totally doesn't believe him.

“Yes, he does,” I insist, knowing for a fact that practically every day in 4
^th
hour Biology, I have to listen to Bobby Russell going on and on and on about what a big dick he's got and how he can get a blowjob anytime he wants one. Which is what I tell Brad at this very moment.

To which he responds, “From who?”

The question is more like…Who
can't
Bobby Russell get a blowjob from? At least according to Bobby. “But you know what they say?” I say. “Guys who like to talk are the ones with nothing to talk about.”

“Oh, he does!” Brad reports.

Though how he's privy to such information, I have no idea. Which is why I say, “How would you know?”

“Oh, you know…Me and Bobby used to be on Swimming together and sometimes we'd take showers after practice and I'd see it.”

“You would?” I ask. Though I don't know why I'm surprised. Like I've said, I've seen plenty of naked guys in the locker room at school. What's the big deal?

“It looked pretty big to me.”

“Figures,” I say, totally disgusted.

“Well,” Brad says hesitantly. “I hate to change the subject, but…There's something I should probably tell you…And I don't think you're gonna like it.”

After all the planning and the endless Christmas wreath making, I can't even believe Brad has the nerve to stand here in
my
bedroom and tell me he's not going to Florida on Spring Break with me. In the two and a half years I've known him, I don't think we've ever had a fight—at least not a serious one. But something tells me this could be a first.

“I'm sorry,” he apologizes. “I can't help it if my Dad's a Total Deadbeat and my Mom can't afford to pay for my plane ticket by herself.” By which he might as well add, “The way
your
parents are paying for yours.”

“But my Dad's already bought them,” I say. By which I mean the plane tickets to Orlando. Where my Grandpa Freeman will pick us up and take us to stay at his trailer park in nearby Winter Haven. My Dad bought my ticket and Brad's and his parents are supposed to pay him back. That's the deal we worked out. And Brad knows it. “What about your Country Boy's money?” I ask. “What about all your tips?”

“I been giving every penny I make to my Mom since before Christmas,” he informs me.

Poor Laura Victor-Dayton-Victor…Back in mid-December—after failing to pay the gas bill for the
third
time—they finally cut off the heat at
Dayton's Depot.

What I don't think I've mentioned is…Back in like the 1950s, Brad's house used to be a store. So it's huge! The living room used to be the main part so it's like, 30' x 50' or something ridiculous like that. With these totally high ceilings. Like 20' high. And these two matching chandeliers hanging down. Not fancy chandeliers. But I totally wanna swing on them!

What's really cool is…During the Summer that Brad and I were at BLFAC,
The Daily Tribune
ran an article all about how Brad's Deadbeat Dad converted this old store into a house. That is, before he walked out on Brad and his Mom and his sisters, thus earning him his nickname. Now every once in a while people stop by wanting to see the inside. Especially the ones who'd been there when it was still a store…“Back in the day.”

You can probably imagine just how much gas is required to keep a place like that warm. And how expen$ive the bill must be. Which his why Brad, Janelle, Little Nina, and Little Brittany had to go without any presents this past Christmas. Other than the ones donated by the Central Freewill Baptist Church in Royal Oak. And why Poor Brad spent practically the entire Winter staying the night over my house. Which was fun and all, but…I still felt sorry for him.

“So…You're just not gonna go on Spring Break?” I ask Brad, getting back to the subject.

“I don't see how I can,” he replies. “Unless maybe I start selling my bod on 8 Mile.” Then he gets all Blair Warner from
Facts of Life
with another one of his so-called Brilliant Ideas. “Hey, that's not a bad idea! How much do you think I can get?”

I choose to ignore Brad's attempt at being funny. “This is serious,” I remind him. “We've been planning this for months.”

“I know…I suck,” he apologizes. “But there's nothing I can do.”

“What the fuck?!” I explode. Might as well throw in, “I can't even believe this shit!” I swear I'm not usually a violent person. But if Brad Dayton wasn't my Best Friend since 7
^th
grade, I think I'd punch him right in the face.

“Jack—”

“This is a Total Crock,” I tell him. “And you know it.”

“Jack—”

I catch a glimpse of my reflection in the floor-length mirror hanging on the wall next to my closet. I can't even believe how red I'm turning. I look like Violet Beauregarde in
Willy Wonka & The Chocolate Factory
when she turns into a blueberry…Only red. “I've been busting my ass for the last five months to make this happen,” I practically shout. “Now you're gonna bail on me?”

“
Jack,
” says Brad, on the verge of using his “mean” voice. “Would you shut the fuck up for two seconds and listen to me?”

Even though there are a bijillion more things I could say right now, I bite my tongue.

“I'm happy your parents can afford to send you to Florida to see your Grandpa on Spring Break,” Brad calmly continues. “And buy you your own VCR and TV and stuff,” he conveniently adds. “But some of us aren't so lucky to get whatever we want. So you're just gonna have to get over it.”

I know it's not Brad's fault his Dad's a Deadbeat and his Mom barely makes a dime working at Detroit Osteopathic Hospital doing God only knows what. So I simply say, “I'm sorry…I'm a Total Jerk.”

To which Brad replies, “It's okay…You're not that much of a jerk.” Then he laughs.

This still doesn't solve my problem as to what I'm gonna do about Spring Break '85. As much as I love and miss my Grandpa Freeman, I just can't see spending an entire week in Florida alone with him at his trailer park. And I can't even imagine him going to Disney World and riding on Space Mountain at the ripe old age of 65!

Which is why I decide, “I guess I won't be going, either.”

“Don't let my being poorer than dirt stop you,” says Brad.

“You're my Best Friend,” I tell him. “I won't have any fun without you.”

“Thanks…” Brad starts packing up his trombone. Which I guess means we're calling it quits on practicing for the night. “I better go,” he informs me. “I told Bobby I'd stop by…Since I was in the neighborhood and all.”

Even though I'm always saying how much I can't stand the guy, suddenly I'm like, “We can invite Bobby over here if you want,” don't ask me why! It's not like I really
hate
him or anything. Besides, he's sat next to me in Band for the past
three
years. Just because he's never made an effort to be friends with me doesn't mean I shouldn't try with him.

“Um…That's okay,” Brad responds to my suggestion.

“Why not?”

“Um…I think Bobby wants me to come over there.”

“Okay…I'll go with you.”

“Um…I think his parents are gone.”

“So…?”

“So…I think Bobby wants to smoke pot.”

“Again?” I say, knowing for a fact that Brad smoked pot with Bobby just this past weekend.

“I really don't want to.”

“Then why do you keep doing it?” I ask, applying the pressure.

“I don't know…”

“'member what happened on Saturday night?” I remind him. One o'clock in the AM Brad calls my house—totally freaking out—thinking he's having a heart attack. Thank God he didn't wake up my parents, ringing my phone off the wall…I would have totally gotten in trouble!

“I really don't like it,” he confesses. “It totally makes me paranoid and I always end up doing things I don't wanna do.”

“Like what?”

“I don't know…”

I can tell Brad's avoiding my question by the way he's chewing on what's left of his French fry fingernails. But being that he's my Best Friend, I let him off the hook. Though now I'm wondering if maybe there's more to the Bobby Russell/Richie Tyler story than he's told me.

“I probably won't do it anymore with him after tonight,” Brad vows.

“Do what?” I ask, raising an eyebrow à la Kristian Alfonso from
Days of our Lives
whenever Hope suspects someone is up to no good.

“Smoke pot,” he tells me. “Duh! What'd you think?”

Which makes it my turn to tell him, “You know you don't have to do anything you don't wanna do.”

Brad replies, “I know…” And with that, he's out the door!

I can't even believe my Best Friend since 7
^th
grade is totally blowing me off. Now what am I gonna do? Then I remember the copy of
Now Let's Talk About Music…