Band Fags! (34 page)

“Has anybody seen Max Wilson?” We pass through the room of Popular People on our way to the front door. Of course, nobody bothers to answer me one way or another. They're all too busy standing around like zombies, banging their heads up and down to some new band I can't stand in the least bit called Bon Jovi. I mean, maybe the lead singer is kind of hot. In that skinny, long-haired, and in-need-of-a-shower kind of way. But to me, it might as well be Heavy Metal. Have you heard that one song, “Livin' on a Prayer?” Me and Max like to sing different lyrics to it…

When I finally find Max, he's standing in the corner of the French Room with Shellee Findlay—smoking a Capri cigarette. Talk about setting a Bad Example! Everybody knows Cheerleaders of all people aren't allowed to smoke. But I don't even care. Because I'm about to head back to my house with Tom Fulton, the Homecoming King of Hillbilly High. And with any luck, we'll be doing more than watching
Dick Clark
at the stroke of Midnight.

“Dude! You can't smoke that feminine thing,” I tell Max, plainly and simplely, as he tries to hide the Capri from my sight.

At which point, he begins having one of his giggle fits. His face turns beet red and he doesn't actually make any sound. But his head starts bobbing on his neck and he begins to choke. I'm thinking,
That's what you get for smoking!

I tell Max, “We're out of here.”

He whines, “But it's not even Midnight, yet.”

I say, “You can stay…I'm leaving with Tom.” And with that, we make our exit. Somehow I don't think anybody will miss us.

It's a good thing Tom's a big guy and has a high tolerance for alcohol. The entire time we're walking down the street to his “Brown Boat,” I'm practically tripping over myself. Which is why I decide to hop on Tom's back and let him carry me the rest of the way.

“Dude!” he cries out, soon as I knock him off balance. “What the fuck?” But he doesn't tell me to get off him either. So I continue holding on for dear life.

Oh, my God…I can't even tell you how delirious I am at this moment. And it's not just because I've had one too many beers. With my arms wrapped around his neck, I let my head rest against Tom's back. His massively giant back that ripples with muscles I can never imagine having. God, I want his body! By which I don't just mean, “I want a body like his…”

I
want
his body.

“Easy there, Big Guy…” Tom drops me to the ground beside his car. “We've got a long night of celebrating.”

I tug at the door handle. “It's stuck,” I groan.

“Dude! I gotta unlock it for ya, first.” Then he does so, opening the door for me as I crawl inside. Like a Total Gentleman.

While we're driving down 10 Mile, I close my eyes, lean back in my seat. Cold vinyl cradles my swirling head as streetlights bathe me in comfort. At any moment, I'll be safe at home, in the confines of my own four walls, where the Outside World can't get in.

“Now what?”

Back at my house we break out the Buds that we pilfered from Shellee Findlay's fridge before we beat our retreat. I barely finish half a can when I'm ready to call it a night. I hear Tom say, “Dude! You're a lightweight.” Then I pass out on my bed.

Next thing I see are the numerals 3-5-8 glowing red in the dark…

Fully clothed I wake up, the room pitch black. To my right, lying with his back to me, Tom Fulton snores away. “Dude,” I whisper. “Move over…You're hogging all the room.”

“Zzzz…”

“Dude!” I say, this time a little louder. “Scootch over, would ya?”

I give him a gentle push. At which point I realize he's got his shirt off.

Oh, my God…

I allow my hand to remain a moment. Firm and round, I give his bare shoulder a playful squeeze. Like a baseball. My fingers work their way across his traps, up to his neck. Then down his back, soft and smooth, I begin tickling ever so lightly. With my index finger, I begin writing little words—letter by letter—between his shoulder blades.

I.

Then I write another.

L.

Followed by another.

O.

And another.

V.

And—

“Dude!”
From out of nowhere, Tom pipes up, “What the fuck are you doing?”

Slowly, my hand retreats. “You were snoring,” I tell him. Then I roll over and attempt to go back to sleep. “Good night.”

Tom says nothing.

Just my luck!

How am I supposed to know that Big Boy's on 9 Mile and I-75 serves as the Hillbilly High Drama Queers Post-Show Hang Out? Which might explain why several Cast and Crew members from the Spring Musical have just invaded the place. Of course, I pretend not to see Brad and Joey and Audrey and Ava as they're seated in the Smoking Section across the way from where Betsy Sheffield and I sit on opposite sides in our booth.

“What did you think of the play, tonight?” I ask, dumping a blue and white packet of sugar into my large Sprite, followed by a squeeze of lemon. Mount St. Helens erupts.

“It was good,” Betsy replies, dipping a rather fat French fry into some ketchup. “I still like the movie better.” She's talking about the 1978 Paramount Pictures blockbuster,
Grease.

One of my all time favorites—right up there with
Sooner or Later
and
Somewhere in Time
—my obsession began in the Summer of '78 with
Grease Day U.S.A.
In case you missed it, this was a televised broadcast of the official Premiere Party at Grauman's Chinese Theatre in Hollywood. The TV Special featured the entire Cast from the film as well as other famous '70s icons, including a pre-
National Lampoon's Vacation
Chevy Chase, my Aunt Sonia's look-alike, Penny Marshall, and Bee Gees Baby Brother, Andy.

Poor Andy Gibb…I'm still in shock over the report of his untimely death last week at the ripe old age of 30. Who knew he had such a problem with drugs and alcohol? While he was never one to compete with the likes of Rex Smith in my 8-year-old eyes, I'll admit to the flutter of butterflies in my stomach the first time I heard Andy Gibb sing “I Just Wanna Be Your Everything” on
American Bandstand
two years prior. I remember my cousins Rachael and Rhonda had his
Shadow Dancing
album. I'll never forget the cover with Mr. Gibb in that red shirt, open at the collar, chest hair popping out.

But back to
Grease…
Ten years later, as far as I'm concerned, it's still “The Word.” Though I can't even believe it's really 1988, after all these years of waiting.

Back when I was in 3
^rd
grade, my Mom hosted a T-shirt Party. Which is kind of like a Tupperware Party, only T-shirts with iron-on decals are sold instead of plastic food storage containers with airtight lids. I'll never forget the Royal blue
Grease
T-shirt I got this one particular time. A picture of Sandy and Danny, aka Olivia Newton-John and John Travolta, sporting their “You're the One that I Want” gear with the GREASE car logo above them adorned the front. On the back, my name, JACKIE, ironed on in black faux-velvet letters above a large number 88. I remember one of my non-straight-A classmates asking me the most stupid question the day I came proudly bounding into Mrs. Fox's class sporting my new T…“What's the 88 stand for?”

“It's the year we're gonna graduate,” I informed him, trying not to sound too snotty. Though I would've preceded my reply with “Duh!” had people started using that expression way back then.

The entire Summer when
Grease
first came out, I begged my Mom to take me to see it. But for whatever reason, I guess she didn't find the content appropriate for her 8-year-old Jackie. It didn't matter that her husband had already taken him and his 4-year-old sister Jodi to see
Jaws 2
at the Galaxy Drive-In, and in that movie, people got eaten alive by a Great White shark! Instead, I had to spend my entire 3
^rd
grade year at Longfellow School listening to my classmates talk about how they had all seen
Grease
and what a great movie it was, etc., etc.

I remember some boys in my class even had
Grease
trading cards. Kind of like baseball cards, only with pictures of Danny Zuko and Sandy Olsson instead of Reggie Jackson or Nolan Ryan. During Free Time, they'd gather together in the corner of Mrs. Fox's room, trading their cards, all the while saying the most disgustingly vulgar things about Poor Olivia Newton-John. By which I mean sexual. Don't ask me where they learned them from at their age!

That same year, I met Joey Palladino and we immediately bonded over the fact that we were both big
Grease
fans. Even though neither of us had yet to see the movie. Sometimes after school, Joey would come over my house and we'd put on my
Grease
8-track. Then we'd sing and dance around my room, pretending we were John Travolta and Olivia Newton-John. Of course, Joey
always
got to be Danny. Even though both our last names are technically Italian, I never really looked it with my blond hair and blue eyes. Plus I had that over-the-ear longer hairstyle. On top of the fact that I sang soprano in Music. Unfortunately, in our production, Sandy never got to kiss Danny on the beach as the orchestra swelled to a climax during “Love is a Many Splendored Thing.”

I'm happy to report that I eventually did get to see
Grease.
But not till it had been out for almost an entire year and it made its way to the Dollar Show on 9 Mile and John R, adjacent to Farmer Jack's. Somehow, Rachael and Rhonda and I conned our Moms into finally taking us. Looking back now, I can't even believe we ever pulled it off. The Northgate Cinema located next to the infamous Time Zone Arcade—next to Randazzo's Pizza—was a Total Pit. Though I'll never forget the feeling of excitement coupled with the fear of being mugged as I waited in line, my tiny red ticket in my hot little hand.

Of course, I'd already read my
Grease
FOTONOVEL™ about a bijillion times by this point so I knew the entire story. Though I didn't realize those thought bubbles in the pictures weren't actually part of the dialogue. But from the first animated frame, the vocal stylings of Frankie Valli sans The Four Seasons transported me to Heaven. I don't think I took my eyes off that dilapidated screen for a split second.

You can probably imagine my excitement when, on the first day back from Christmas Vacation this year, Mr. Dell'Olio announced to the entire student body: “The 1988 Spring Musical is going to be…” Insert drum roll here.

In case you're not aware…Before
Grease
ever found its way to the Silver Screen, it started as a play on Broadway back in like 1972, starring the guy who played Brad in
The Rocky Horror Picture Show
as Danny, and some woman I've never heard of, Carole Demas, as Sandy Dumbrowski. That's right! In the stage version, her name's not Sandy Olsson. What's more shocking is…She isn't even from Australia! She's a transfer student to Rydell High from some Catholic School somewhere.

Which isn't the only discrepancy…

The T-Birds aren't the “T-Birds,” they're the “Burger Palace Boys.” Putzie isn't “Putzie,” he's “Roger.” Miss McGee is called “Miss Lynch,” and a bunch of the songs from the movie aren't in the play at all. Including “Hopelessly Devoted to You,” “You're the One that I Want,” and the title song, “Grease.” Which was written by the late Andy Gibb's older brother, Barry, did you know? Back when I was a kid, I borrowed a copy of the Original Cast Recording from my Uncle Roy, only to discover how bad the original singers sounded. Though Adrienne Barbeau of TV's
Maude
did a halfway decent job as Rizzo with “There Are Worse Things I Could Do.”

As much as I contemplated it, in no way was I going to try out for the Hillbilly High production. Like I've said, the only thing worse than being a Band Fag is…being a Drama Queer. Again, I don't make the rules. I just try to abide by them. Besides, I had a feeling that Brad was going to be in it for sure. Last I heard, he'd pretty much made up his mind about heading to New York City come September to pursue his acting career.

In fact, one day after school last semester, I was in the back room of
The Hazel Parker
office, copyediting the piece Claire Moody finally submitted, titled “PREPS WAGE WAR ON SKIDS,” when I overheard Dell having a conversation with somebody…

“Would you mind writing me a letter of recommendation for my Juilliard application?” the familiar-sounding voice asked.

“You got it,” Mr. Dell'Olio replied. “When's the audition?”

I peeked my head around the corner. Sure enough, there stood Brad Dayton, looking like a Poet decked out in all black, his red hair sticking out from beneath a black beret, wilder and curlier than ever.

“Sometime in January,” he told Dell. “I gotta go to New York for it and everything.”

“This is exciting,” said Dell, looking over the application.

“Totally,” Brad agreed. “Too bad I don't know how I'm gonna afford a plane ticket.”

“I'm sure you'll work something out,” Dell said with a wink and a smile. Knowing him, he'd pay for Brad's trip to NYC himself. That's just the kind of guy he is. On top of the fact that in all the years of Mr. Dell'Olio teaching Drama at Hillbilly High, nobody's ever shown the dedication and talent to the Art of Acting as Bradley Dayton…At least that's what Dell's been telling the entire Staff of
The Hazel Parker
on a daily basis since
Grease
rehearsals began in February.

“Wait till you guys see the show,” Dell gushed just yesterday. “It's the best play I've directed since I was at Northern.” By which he means Northern Michigan University in Marquette. In case you're not aware, NMU is all the way up in “da UP”—as in Upper Peninsula—where there's nothing but a bunch of Finnish immigrants and it's fuh-reezing cold nine months out of the year.

What I couldn't figure out was…If Brad Dayton is supposedly such a good actor, how come he wasn't playing the lead role of Danny Zuko?

Did I mention who is? None other than…Insert drum roll here.

Though you probably won't be surprised at the answer. But I'll admit, I was. My jaw practically dropped to the floor the day Mr. Dell'Olio posted the Cast List on the door outside the Auditorium.

Actually, what surprised me most was seeing Jamie Good's name on the list. Being that she's a Popular Cheerleader and has a million other things going on, I didn't think she'd lower herself to the level of Drama Queer.

“Duh!” Jamie replied, when I asked her why she auditioned. “It's
Grease.
”

A lot of my former Band Fag friends are also in the show. Which made it a lot more difficult the day Mr. Dell'Olio informed me that as Editor-in-Chief of
The Hazel Parker,
I had been assigned to write a review.

“But Dell…” I did my best to protest. “I don't know the first thing about Drama.” Even though I was dying to see the play, now that I knew who was going to be in it, how could I sit through the show?

“But me no buts, Paterno,” I was told. “You've got two tickets for Opening Night…Be there.”

And I was…I mean, we were. Me and Betsy Sheffield.

I'll admit the production was indeed good. Despite the differences from the movie, the basic story was still intact…“Boy Gets Girl, Boy Loses Girl after Denying He Knows Who She Is, Prompting Girl to Change so She Can Win Him Back, Only to Find He's Changed Too.” And as much as I hate to say it, Joey Palladino made a pretty much perfect Danny. Guess all that practicing he and I did together back in 3
^rd
grade finally paid off.