Band Fags! (32 page)

“Moody, please…” Mr. Dell'Olio cringes at Claire's use of the B-O word. By which I mean referring to the kids at Hillbilly High who have nothing better to do with their free time than stand around smoking cigarettes as “Burn-Outs.”

“Sorry, Dell,” Claire replies. “But it's a Hot Button Topic right now…Ask your Editor-in-Chief.” With that, she gives me a smirk.

All eyes focus on me. Except for Ava Reese's. She looks down at the table, doodling the Van Halen logo in her spiral notebook. Have I mentioned how devastated she was when David Lee Roth quit the group? Don't even bring it up!

Being that my main responsibility is handling the “Letters to the Editor” section, over the past six weeks I've received a handful of complaints from various students addressing a variety of issues pertaining to “school and community affairs.” Which is the requirement for anybody wanting to write a Letter to the Editor.

Poor Sally's got a point…The bleachers at the football games
are
pretty much deserted. I never realized it before when I was busy with the Band Fags in Marching Band. But when Max and I went to watch Betsy, Jamie, and Shellee cheer at the first Varsity Home Game back in September, the stands were barely half-full. I remember being in 6
^th
grade at Longfellow, Joey and I would come over to a football game on Friday night. Back then, you had a hard time finding a place to sit. Not anymore.

And the Dances…At Webb, I don't know anybody who missed a Fun Night. They were the highlight of each month. Of course, all the Jock Jerks sat around the periphery of the cafeteria waiting for the next slow song to come on before they would get off their asses. But here at Hillbilly High, nobody even bothers to attend. Last year, Betsy and I were the very first ones to buy tickets to the Sadie Hawkins Dance. Which eventually got canceled due to lack of interest. Though who am I to talk, considering I skipped out on this year's Homecoming Dance?

Remember how I said that back in the late '60s, the only junior high in Hazeltucky was Beecher, Home of the Beecher Burn-Outs—I mean, Spartans? And how once there got to be too many kids to fit into one building, they built another school and divided the Freshman class into two? Apparently after a mere twenty years, enrollment is down again in the “Friendly City.” So the plan is to bring back the Freshmen, like the swallows to Capistrano. Of course, to the Class of '88 this is no big deal. Come June 16
^th
we're out of here! But as you can probably imagine, the Juniors and Sophomores have all got their panties in a wad.

But as Claire said, the big concern among the Student Body this semester is…the Preppies versus the Burn-Outs. All because of a little area across the street from Hillbilly High that's officially become known as “Skid Row.”

“What do you think, Paterno?” Dell asks, directing his attention to his Right-Hand Man.

“Sounds like a good idea to me,” I answer. Then to Claire I say, “Have you given any thought to your angle?”

“Um…” Miss Moody chews on her ink pen. “Let me get back to you.”

I don't doubt that Claire would write a compelling story. She always did. In fact, out of the entire Staff at
The Hazel Parker,
she's the only one with her own regular column, “Fashion Faux Pas.” Having also gone to Webb Junior High, Claire and I go way back to the days of 7
^th
grade Enriched English & Social Studies with Cinnamon Lemieux.

I first got a taste of Claire's writing ability during 8
^th
grade when she and Carrie Johnson and I collaborated on a short story together, “The Adventures of Angela,” about a teenage girl named—what else?—Angela, who runs away from home and winds up living on the street as a Prostitute. Every day during Miss Shelton's 5
^th
hour English, the three of us would take turns putting our two cents in. But it was Claire who came up with my favorite line of all time, as said by Angela's Pimp when she wouldn't put out for him…

“I'm a man with sexual needs, Babe.”

While I consider her a friend, Claire's also my biggest competition when it comes to coverage. I always get the vibe that she resents my being made Editor-in-Chief. I guess I can't blame her. She's been writing for the paper since we started 10
^th
grade—an entire year longer than I have. I don't know if it's got anything to do with my being the only guy on Staff. But when it came time to choose a new Editor-in-Chief, Mr. Dell'Olio went with Yours Truly. And I'm bound and determined to make Volume 60 of
The Hazel Parker
the best it's ever been…All I need now is a Killer Scoop.

The following week, I check my “Letters to the Editor” mailbox. And what do I find? Get a load of this…

Dude! Who the Hell does Brad Dayton think he is?

He should know by now that after all these years, I can
totally
recognize his handwriting. Does he really think I'm going to print his letter? If Brad wants to go and be a fag, that's his business…Not mine.

How many times do I have to tell him…
I'm not gay and I
never
will be?!

Tonight, I've got a
date.
Not a date-date, but…

Remember my Uncle Roy? He's my Mom's brother with the
Penthouse
collection. Well, I don't think I've ever mentioned that he's a Stand-up Comic. He's been doing it for a while and he's getting to be kind of famous. At least in the Metro-Detroit area. While I've never seen his entire routine on account of it's loaded with Dirty Jokes, what I have heard is actually pretty funny.

Back when I was a kid, my Uncle Roy would try out his latest material at our family Holiday Parties. My cousins, Rachael and Rhonda, and I would stop playing
Charlie's Angels
or
The Brady Bunch
or whatever we happened to be pretending and hide around the corner, listening in.

“Yes, Virginia, there is a Roy Freeman,” he'd begin. “And you, too, can check him out. That's right! Roy Freeman—Comedian Extraordinaire—has just booked himself on a coast-to-coast tour…For the entire month of May, I'll be playing the top clubs all the way from Lake Michigan to Lake Huron.” This was obviously one of his Clean Jokes.

I remember another one about him getting high with his buddies and hitting the Late Nite Drive-Thru at White Castle's. He'd order a sack of Sliders, half a dozen fries, a couple large chocolate shakes…Then wash it all down with a Diet Coke. Maybe I haven't mentioned that Uncle Roy's kind of a big guy. Not that I'm saying he's fat, 'cause he's not. But as my new favorite comedienne, Judy Tenuta, would say…“He's big-boned!”

Speaking of the Giver-Goddess/Fashion Plate Saint…

Tonight, Uncle Roy's got a job at some comedy club in Ann Arbor and he's offered to take me along on account of he's opening up for none other than…Judy Tenuta. Like I've said, she's my new favorite comedienne and has been since last Summer when I first saw her on this HBO comedy special,
Women of the Night.
There she was…All decked out in this long flowing silvery goddess-like dress with a pink scarf-like thing wrapped around her shoulders and matching flower in her dark flowing hair—holding an accordion!

“Hi, Pigs!” Chewing her gum with Total Attitude, she addressed the audience. “You know my name is Judy…And I've got my own religion, Judy-ism.”

During the course of her routine, she proceeded to talk about everything from her roommate, Mary Beth Easy—“She's like a landmass with a perm!”—to how she's dating the Pope. Though she's “just using him to get to God!” she declared with a sneer. Of course, I couldn't help but totally crack up. Especially when Judy spat her gum at some guy in the audience she called a “Stud Puppet” and demanded he “crawl for it!” I just about peed my pants when she started playing her “IUD”—her pet-name for her accordion—and singing a song about her Dad, who used to make Hot Dog Soup. “He'd boil the hot dogs…And we'd drink the juice!”

The next time
Women of the Night
aired, I made sure to set up the timer on my VCR so I could record it for posterity. The other three comediennes were pretty funny, too. First up was some woman I'd never heard of, Ellen DeGeneres. Apparently she won some “Funniest Person in America” contest on Showtime or something. Then came a lady named Rita Rudner. Followed by Judy. Then some Paula Poundstone woman, who kind of reminds me of Luanne Kowalski, if you know what I mean. Not that I'm saying she's a lesbian, 'cause I'm not. But the fact that she came out wearing what looked like a man's jacket from Oaktree, with a pair of jeans and cowboy boots, makes me suspicious.

Without a doubt, Judy was by far The Best. I can't even believe I'm going to see her Live and In Person. First Kristian Alfonso, now Judy Tenuta! I really wish Brad, Ava, Carrie, and Audrey weren't pissed at me because I'm sure they would get a kick out of coming along. With any luck, Uncle Roy says he can take us Backstage to meet her after the show. By us, I mean me and Tom Fulton.

Originally, I invited Max to come with. But once again, he's working at Farmer Jack's. Then I asked Betsy. But her Mom decided she couldn't go on account of the comedy club is in the basement of a bar. And how dare she allow her 17-year-old daughter to go anywhere they serve alcohol? Because as far as Mrs. Sheffield is concerned…Betsy's a Little Angel who's never had a drop to drink in her life. As one of her daughter's Best Friends, I know this isn't exactly true.

I don't know
where
she got it from, but Betsy happens to be in possession of a Fake ID that she uses to buy beer whenever she, me, and Tom Fulton hang out. Which has started becoming more frequent since the Friday after Senior Breakfast when I first accepted Tom's offer to go to the football game at Ferndale High with him and all his Jock Jerk Friends.

Talk about a strange night! There's me—a former Band Fag—hanging out with the 1987 Homecoming King and half of the Hillbilly High Varsity Football team; I could totally tell they weren't happy the minute Tom showed up with me in tow. But
none
of them said a single word. And I'm not even exaggerating when I say that. They acted like I didn't even exist. Maybe they were too busy hanging all over each other in the stands. Because that's what they did—literally. Call it Male Bonding, I don't know. All I know is…Arms were slung around shoulders, backs rubbed and massaged, and elbows found their home on the knee of the guy sitting on the bleacher behind them.

And they call me a fag!

“So what's the word, Jackie?”

On our way to Ann Arbor, we're not in Uncle Roy's car for more than ten minutes when he reaches into his front shirt pocket and pulls out a joint. He pops it into his mouth, lights it, inhales. Then he holds his breath till his face turns beet red.

I try acting like it's no big deal. So what if my almost-30-year-old Uncle is getting high in front of his 17-year-old nephew and his nephew's new Best Friend while driving down I-75 in a motor vehicle? I mean, the rule isn't
Don't Get High and Drive,
right? Though I can't even believe my own Uncle is a Burn-Out. The first time I found out he smoked pot, I didn't know what to think. All my life I've been taught to
Say No to Drugs
and here's a member of my own family, a Total Pothead.

“How'd you get this gig opening up for Judy?” I nonchalantly crack my window, trying to get over how embarrassed I am at this moment and hoping Mr. Homecoming King isn't judging me too harshly from the backseat.

“I know the manager of the club,” Uncle Roy replies, taking another hit of Maui Wow-y or whatever-the-Hell kind of pot he's smoking.

The thing about Uncle Roy is…He graduated from Hillbilly High back in 1976. From what I've heard, he was always a Good Student. He appeared in all the Spring Musicals—
Li'l Abner, Guys and Dolls, West Side Story.
But he was also kind of a Jesus Freak, as my Mom would say. Long hair, wire-rimmed glasses, all “Peace and Love.” Which explains why he still uses words like “gig” and every once in a while smokes a “doob,” I guess.

“I'm opening up for Ellen DeGeneres in a couple of months,” Uncle Roy brags, once he's had his fill and returned what's left of the extinguished joint to his shirt pocket. Then he informs us matter-of-factly, “She's a dyke, you know?”

To which I reply, “Oh, yeah?” I mean, what else am I supposed to say?

“Her and that Whitney Houston…Both of 'em, Lez-bos.”

“I haven't heard that,” I reply, making polite conversation with my mother's brother. I shoot a glance back at Tom, who's quietly listening to the conversation. He rolls his eyes and gives me a look that says,
Guess we should've driven ourselves!

I've got to admit, I find it hard to believe that Whitney Houston is a lesbian. She's totally beautiful and all. Plus, isn't she dating Jermaine Jackson? Or maybe they just sang that song together on her album, I don't know. All I know is…Uncle Roy seems pretty confident in his assessment.

“Oh, yeah!” he confirms. “I read it in
The National Enquirer.
”

Around 8:30 PM, we pull into the parking garage of the Main Street Comedy Club in Ann Arbor. I get a little nervous when I see a line forming at the entrance and a very large, very mean looking man dressed in all black standing out front in the December cold checking IDs.

“What's up, Roy?” ID Checker Dude says to my uncle who bypasses the line and cuts straight to the door.

“Can't complain if I'm high,” Uncle Roy answers with a snicker. “Which I am.” Then he says, “These guys are with me,” gesturing to me and Tom. “My nephew, Jack, and his buddy.”

ID Checker Dude straps an orange plastic Over 21 bracelet around both our wrists. “Enjoy the show.”

And we do…

I can't even believe that the minute we're seated—at a table
right
next to the stage, no less—the waiter comes over to take our drink order and Tom asks for a Labatt's.

“Can I see your bracelet?” Waiter Dude asks.

Tom flashes his wrist.

“And for you?” Waiter Dude turns to me without skipping a beat.

I had planned on ordering a Pepsi or Coke. But now I figure, might as well! So I tell him, “I'll take a Labatt's, too, please.”

To which he replies, “Don't you have nice manners?”

If I didn't know better, I'd think Waiter Dude was flirting with me. Especially when he comes back with the two green glass bottles of Canada's Finest and says, “You look familiar…Did we meet at Nectarine?”

I take a closer look at him. He's got a nice face. Dark eyes and brows to match with an olive complexion. Perfect teeth. I guess you can say he's Tall, Dark, and Handsome. In a John Stamos—formerly Blackie on
General Hospital,
now on that new show,
Full House
—sort of way. Only with different hair. Kind of long and flippy in the front, short around the sides, and wedged in back. But being that I have no idea what Nectarine is, I reply, “I don't know…Maybe.”

“It's a Fag Bar,” Tom informs me after Waiter Dude sashays along on his fairy way. Apparently, his sister goes to Michigan and she's got a lot of Fag Friends…Who knew?!

Uncle Roy's routine isn't nearly as dirty as my Mom made it out to be. Sure, he drops the occasional F-bomb a couple times. But for the most part he talks about how fat he is and how much he likes getting high, which leads him to getting the munchies which leads him to…White Castle. Guess he hasn't written much new material since 1980. Though it's pretty cool to see a room full of U of M college students cracking up at my very own uncle's jokes. How many nephews get to say they've witnessed that?

Even Tom leans over to me at one point and says, “Dude! Your uncle's ripping me up.” Of course, maybe it's got something to do with the fact that Tom's totally ripped. As in drunk.

After Uncle Roy finishes his set, there's a fifteen minute intermission…

I say to Tom, “Dude! I gotta pee…Be right back.” Then I toss in, “Want another beer?” Even though he's already had three—or is it four?

“You know it, Dude!” he replies, ear-to-ear grin and all glassy-eyed.

There's a bunch of guys waiting for the bathroom so I get in line. That's when I notice…about 90 percent of the dudes in this bar look like Waiter Dude. By which I mean they look gay. They've all got their hair cut the exact same style—long and flippy in the front, short around the sides, and wedged in back. And a lot of them are dressed in all black. Like this is the '60s or something and we're at a Coffee House for a poetry reading. Plus, the way they hold their cigarettes, all pointy-fingered and limp-wristed.

Though now that I think about it…Tom's practically got the exact same haircut as Waiter Dude and
he's
not gay. Maybe these guys aren't, either. But there's something about the way they all look at me. Like they're undressing me with their eyes. Which is why I decide the line's too long and I can hold it till the end of the show. Besides, I need to find Waiter Dude and get a couple more beers before Judy goes on.

Of course, the line at the bar is a mile long. And what if Waiter Dude isn't there and Bartender Dude won't serve me? I decide I better head back to the table and wait for him to come to us. That's when I hear Uncle Roy's voice booming over the microphone…

“Ladies and Gentlemen…”

The audience settles down as everybody takes their seats.

“I'd like to introduce you to a Petite Flower,” Uncle Roy continues, obviously reading from a card. “Who's more Famous than anyone who's ever lived…Judy Tenuta.”

And the crowd goes wild!

I slip back into my seat, just in time to see the Giver-Goddess appear before my very eyes. Accordion in hand, she's dressed in a similar outfit to the one she wore on HBO, only this time it's a gold pantsuit.

“Hi, Pigs!” the Earth Mother/Geisha Girl grunts, as if there's no other way to greet her Loyal Followers. “My name is Judy…”