Dear Girls Above Me: Inspired by a True Story (24 page)

“SANTERIA”

THE REAL LINE:

“What I really wanna know, my baby
.

What I really wanna say, I can’t define.”

THE GIRLS ABOVE ME SING:

“Well, I really wanna know, Jan Brady
.

What I really wanna say, I can’t eat limes.”

Pat sang along
to the radio with enough vivacity to rival Little Richard. Sure, he was drunk and a little looser than normal, but the amount of passion he conveyed through each and every syllable was something to be seen.

“Come on, sing with me!” he said as he held his imaginary microphone to my lips. I felt as if I were trapped in the opening-credits sequence to
The Hills
.

“I don’t sing,” I responded.

“What are you talking about? I’ve heard you sing in the shower before!”

“Yeah, but I haven’t done that in a long time.”

“Since when?” Pat asked.

“Since … I don’t know.” I wanted to change the subject, but my drunk, irritating roommate wouldn’t let me.

“Charlie … since when?”

Oh, wow, he pulled the first-name card. How had he turned his “coming-out night” around on me? To be fair, he didn’t yet know he was going to come out. “Well, if you must know, the last time I sang was in Las Vegas,” I said.

“Vegas? What happened there?”

“Something I would like to forget …”

I have always been someone who finds karaoke to be incredibly uncomfortable. To me it’s a lose-lose experience. If you’re really bad at karaoke, then everyone judges your painful squawking performance, and if you’re really good at karaoke, then there’s something sad and depressing about you. I’m also convinced that when you’re
singing, you think you sound a lot better than you actually do. I’ve participated only one time in this obnoxious activity. As I said, I was in Las Vegas, which was bad enough to begin with, and I was somehow coerced into getting up onto a stage in the middle of a trashy casino to sing Seal’s “Kiss from a Rose.” I’m not going to lie, I quite love that song and felt as if it were the hymn that best represented me, and the Batman franchise. So I decided to go ahead and give it my all: “There used to be a graying tower alone on the sea.…”

I’ll be the first to admit that I started off a little rocky, but by the time the chorus kicked in, I was definitely
American Idol
top-five-contestant-worthy. “Baby, I compare you to a kiss from a rose on the gray,” I belted out passionately, of course, from a kneeling position. By gauging the people’s reaction in the casino, I figured that I was singing at about an eight out of ten (I even got an elderly lady to glance up from her slot machine). But more important than that, my choreography added heft to the emotional performance, which scored me at least a 9.5.

I don’t remember much from while I was up there, which had nothing to do with alcohol and everything to do with my transformation into the body of Seal, the original artist, minus the facial scarring. When I saw my friend Justin filming the concert from the front row, I was reminded for a minute that I was not Seal. His gigantic grin was an infuriating distraction, especially during the second verse, when I tripped up a bit. But I was happy for the documentation and was definitely going to ask him to post it on Facebook so all my ex-girlfriends could see how far I’d come. There’s nothing more gratifying than having a girl who once loved you wish she was still your main squeeze. To me, this video was well worth all of the countless hours of heartache and pounds I’d gained from eating away my feelings.

“Now that your rose is in bloom …” Dramatic pause. “A light hits the gloom …” Turn my back to the crowd and have a personal moment. “On the …” Turn back around and look up at the ceiling while slowing raising my fist above my head. “Graaaaaaaaaaaaay.” Wait for the applause … wait for it … and … there’s Justin’s clap and a few other unknown adoring groupies.

I hopped off the stage and immediately grabbed Justin’s video camera.

“Dude, that was hilarious,” he said as I pressed
PLAY
.

What did he mean by hilarious? Since when was a sincere pitch-perfect performance humorous? I looked down at the screen. The beginning was a little shaky, but I knew that the chorus would make up for it. Then, when the chorus came in, I was paralyzed by how bad I sounded. Not only that, but the dance moves that I had believed to rival Michael Jackson’s looked more as if I were channeling Psy in the “Gangnam Style” music video. Was it possible that Justin had quickly doctored the video and this was an elaborate prank?

“You were so funny up there,” Justin said with a chuckle that made me want to punch him in the face.

“Thanks. I felt like the room needed some comedy,” I responded, completely disheartened.

“Well, you sure gave it to us. Oh, man, I can’t wait to post this on Facebook!”

“Oh my God, I totally saw that video on Facebook! You were pretty awful,” Pat chimed in.

“Thanks.” Geez, talk about kicking a dog while he’s down.

“Sorry, I’m drunky. So where are we going, anyway?” Pat asked.

“Wherever the wind takes us, my friend.” Pat brings out the cheesiness in me. There was no one else on the planet I would have said that to.

I steered our vehicle on a southwest course, and it was only a matter of minutes before we arrived in “Boys Town.” I had done my research and knew the exact street to drive down in order to get stuck in the most traffic (something someone who lives in L.A. has never done). A couple of blocks away I could hear the rumblings of a catchy beat, which was basically the same sound that was coming out of my car’s stereo. Pat was in his own little drunken world with no idea what we were about to “stumble” upon, until, all of a sudden, one specific musical note caught his attention. He perked up, seeming completely sober, and looked around for the origin of this sound.

“Was that the opening note to Gaga’s ‘Alejandro’?” he asked.

“Umm, I’m not sure,” I responded, wondering if it had been a rhetorical question.

As I made the final turn, almost at Santa Monica Boulevard, Pat’s question was answered. In front of us was the most vibrant spectacle I had ever seen. Thousands of people, all different racial types, men and women of every age, stood in front of us in the celebration of being gay. The energy that filled my convertible was electric. It sort of felt all of a sudden like stepping in front of a high-powered fan, except this fan blew ultra-gay air. And, yes, the DJ, who was wearing only a sock (and not on his foot), was blasting Gaga’s “Alejandro.”

I glanced over at Pat, whose surprised reaction made him look as if he were a kid seeing the castle at Disneyland for the first time (or so I’m told). I would not have been shocked if he had stood up in my car and screamed out into the glittery parade, “Honey, I’m home!”

“You idiot! Now we’re going to be stuck in this traffic!” he shouted at me, pretending to be actually pissed off. I guess this wasn’t going to be as easy as I thought.

We sat in my car, totally gridlocked, watching as the floats crept
by one by one. Pat pretended to be miserable, but he was not able to cover up his initial excitement when a theme he liked marched in front of us.

“Oh my God, they’re totally dressed as McKinley High School faculty members from Glee!” Catching himself, he added, “The female babes on that show are super sexy.”

As Pat remained conflicted, I sat there totally enjoying myself. The parade offered the thrill of a circus, except these participants had all of their teeth and were incredibly good-looking. However, I was most impressed, although not surprised, by the creativity and artistry of each passing float. Every one of these mobile structures showed such individuality, apart from one theme that seemed to connect them all: rainbows. The winner, if I had been a judge, was a re-creation of Rainbow Road from
Super Mario Kart
. The float was made up of two massive figure-eight rainbow tracks. On the tracks were people dressed up as each Mario character. They sat in homemade go-karts, racing each other in circles. They replicated it almost exactly like the video game; the only difference was that in their version, Luigi was a transvestite.

All right, it was time to begin the process of broaching the subject of the day with Pat. My hope was that I wouldn’t need to outright interrogate him and that he would come out with it, literally, in the flow of a conversation. He had been given more than enough time to process the extravaganza in front of us. How could he deny his true sexuality any longer after seeing the joy on those sailors’ faces aboard the “Butt-Pirate Ship”? Even I considered embarking on their vessel and helping them hoist up the rainbow mainsail. Plus, I secretly wanted one of their colorful papier-mâché parrots for my shoulder.

“Hey, Pat?” I looked over at my roommate.

“Yeah?” He continued eyeing the parade as the grand finale made its way down the boulevard.

I probably should have just simply asked him the proposed question. He was one of my best friends, and apart from one major roadblock, we told each other everything. He was one of the few people in my life who had seen me at my happiest and my lowest moments. And although his “I’ve so been there” relationship advice was terrible because he had so never been there, I still appreciated every word. I now wanted to be there in the same way for him. Just as real friends don’t let friends drive drunk, well, real friends also don’t let friends act straight when they are gay. It was time.

“Don’t you think it’s beautiful that there’s a place where gay men and women can go to feel accepted?” Thanks to that guy in the coffee shop, I had my introduction.

“Umm, yeah, I guess so,” he responded suspiciously.

But that didn’t back me down even for a second. “I mean, look out there. What do you see?”

“Well, I see a guy dressed in lederhosen swinging around his nipple tassels.”

“Yeah, but beyond that, what do you see?”

“Okay. I see a group of men in flip-flops and Speedos, and on their asses it says ‘U.S.gAy,’ ” he answered.

“Look through them, Pat!” Had he never heard a metaphor before?

“Well, I’m trying to, but there’s a huge advertisement for Nair in the way!” he yelled right back. I guess not.

“You’re not understanding me, Pat.”

“Understanding what? That’s what I see!”

“You don’t see a bunch of people being honest with themselves? Feeling truly accepted for who they are? You don’t see real human connection out there? People who are so in love with one another
and know that no matter what society thinks of them, they would rather die than not be together? You don’t see any of that?”

Pat squinted his eyes, trying to find the float I was talking about. But, sadly, I could tell that I hadn’t even made a dent in his protective armor. He shook his head.

“Can we go home now?” Pat asked in a somber voice. He put his hoodie up and cranked the music, letting me know he wasn’t interested in communicating any longer. I guess I had tried to pull him out of the closet with a little too much force.

My plan had failed miserably. And worse than that, I had upset my dear friend. I looked out into the sea of sparkling men, taking in their good spirits one last time. I made a mental note to return to next year’s festivities, but to remember to bring a blanket and a girlfriend. Who knows, maybe Pat would even be a part of the parade by then. Possibly on the “Skittles: Taste the Gay-bow” float? They seemed to be having the most fun.

When we got home, Pat disappeared into his room to take a phone call, a real one (I could hear the person on the other line), not a fake one like I usually do to remove myself from an awkward situation. I was left alone with my thoughts. Thankfully, the girls above me were home so I could distract myself with some background chatter. Unthankfully, they were discussing “how swollen a vagina gets for the week after childbirth.” But then, something useful actually traveled from their apartment, through the vent, and into my room.

Somewhere between post-childbirth vaginas and
Real Housewives of New Jersey
analysis (I was pleased that both of them shared my opinion that Teresa’s an opportunistic bitch), Cathy and Claire discussed their friend Jasmine, or as they refer to her, Jazz Hands. Apparently, Jazz Hands’s makeup addiction is getting out of hand—er, out of jazz hand. Cathy and Claire were worried that her excessive
purchasing of makeup products was masking, quite literally, an insecurity she had due to slight facial scarring from years of acne. They brought it up to her a few times in a “nonjudgmental way” (I’d love to hear those conversations), but Jazz Hands would clam up and get defensive.

“Sometimes, it’s like, we just assume people don’t already know themselves. Like how Teresa on
Housewives
has no clue what a wretched whore she is. But sometimes they really do know. And all we can do is let them figure things out at their own pace while letting them know that we’re there to support them,” Cathy philosophized.

Holy shit. Did that just happen? This profound insight that presumably formed in Cathy’s brain and traveled out of her mouth with articulate execution had just made me recognize that I was going about this entire Pat thing all wrong. In an instant I was guided to the realization that my job was to be there for Pat when he was ready to come out on his own terms. It was never about Pat coming out, it was about Pat letting me in.

After the excitement of my newfound awareness subsided, I sat there stunned that I was actually guided to this realization by the girls above me. I couldn’t help but wonder if there was more to them than I initially thought. Were they philosophically in tune with certain cosmic insights that we “normal people” couldn’t possibly fathom? Was I living beneath the modern-day, female versions of Proust and Nietzsche, if Proust and Nietzsche had inside access to the new Manolo Blahnik line that you “can’t even get until next season”? I silently sat there, petrified that I had horribly misjudged the girls above me—

“Sorry, I completely missed what you just said about Jazz Hands, I was Google Imaging swollen vaginas after childbirth. And FYI, I now understand why Angelina adopts those African babies.”