Drama Queers! (19 page)

I’ll never forget the first time we saw Starlett swoop down that staircase wearing a curtain rod round her shoulders. We were cracking up sooo hard, we almost peed our pants.

The thought of having the chance to work with Carol Burnett would be like a dream come true.

But what about Dad?

Thankfully, on the day of the audition, I came down with a bug of some sort.

“Mom, I’m sick…”

“No you’re not,” she informed me in typical Laura Dayton fashion.

Why did she always think I was lying whenever I made this claim?

“Feel my forehead,” I insisted, not faking it.

Mom clicked her tongue and fetched the thermometer. Five minutes later, she retrieved it from my mouth and sure enough, my temperature was Rod-Stewart-103…Another song I love-love-love!

As much as I wanted to go, as much as I knew I could totally play Little Orphan Annie in the movie version starring Carol Burnett and Albert Finney, I kept thinking about how pissed Dad got when he saw the pictures of his only son all dolled up in a little red dress.

The expression of disappointment on Mom’s face was too much to bear. The last thing I wanted to do was let her down. Yet somehow, I think she realized we probably shouldn’t take our chances at making Dad even madder.

“Maybe next time.”

The reason I bring all of this up pertains to what happened last week after Opening Night of
A Christmas Carol…

As you probably know, by the end of the story, Scrooge is redeemed. The Three Spirits show him the way and all is fa-la-la-la fine and dandy come Christmas morning. Even if the Ghost of Christmas Present did skip an entire page of dialogue in scene five.

In the moment (as we say), I sorta felt sorry for Tuesday Gunderson. I mean, she’s a Total Geek and all, but she’s still a nice girl. Once she realized what happened, the look of panic on her pimply face was punishment alone for fucking up.

Thankfully Richie is a pretty good ab-libber—I mean,
ad-libber
.

All he had to do was look at Tuesday and say, “Do you mean to tell me, Spirit…?” And then he just fed her the line she forgot and got everything back on track. What can you expect from amateurs?

Once Tiny Tim chimed in with his “God bless us, every one!” and Miranda Resnick cued music and lights, the curtain closed. Immediately, Will Isaacs and Keith Treva (who else?) started hooting and hollering the way they always do after a performance has concluded.

“Today!”

As the soon-to-be elected Thespian of the Year, I knew I had to take charge of the situation and get everybody in line for curtain call.

The Sophomore stepped center stage, extending his hands to either side.

Audrey took the left. “One down…Two to go!”

I must say she looked awesome in her flowing white Ghost of Christmas Past gown, but the baby powder she put in her hair made me wanna hack up a lung.

Suppressing a cough, I stepped up to Richie’s right.

“I’m not holding your hand,” he wailed in disgust. “
Psyche!
”

He took my palm, gave it a firm squeeze, then flicked his middle finger against it a few times: the international sign for “Wanna fuck?”

I felt a rush of exhilaration, coupled by confusion.

What the hell was that kid up to?

I could
not
wait for Christmas Break to come so I could get away from him for a while.

The rest of our castmates joined us in two single-file lines across the stage—principals in front, peons behind. Once the curtain parted, all eyes looked to Richie in the middle for the signal. He raised his arms at the elbows. We all followed, gently bowing from the waist.

Leave it to the idiots (Will Isaacs and Keith Treva) to knock everything off-kilter. Is it that difficult to step forward and bend over? I’m sure we looked like a bunch of paraplegics up there, like we were trying to do the wave or some sort of Vikette kick-line ripple effect. Why can’t these so-called actors be proud of the performance they just gave and take pleasure in the applause?

The way I do.

As happy as I was for Richie, there was a part of me that still felt totally jealous. I wanted to be the one standing in the center with everybody focusing on
me
, not slightly off to one side. And how come I had to share my final bow with Claire—I mean,
Clarissa
—Moody, and all our Cratchit kids?

“Good job, good job!”

“Thanks,” I told Ava and Carrie, giving them each a big hug.

Once we take off our costumes, it’s customary to greet our guests down front of the auditorium near the edge of the stage. Stage left, that is. Like going to Big Boy’s on Opening Night, I don’t know how this tradition got started. But it’s what we Drama Queers have done after every show I been in since
Okla-homo!

“Can I get your autograph?” asked Ava, handing me her
TheatreGoer
and a pen.

“Me too,” Carrie insisted, practically shoving her program in my face.

These two did this after every performance. Silly as it seems, I always comply. I gotta get practice pleasing my adoring fans, don’t I?

“You’re coming to EB’s, aren’t you?” I asked, just making sure.

“You mean
Big Boy’s?
” said Ava, giving me a look.

“Yeah,” added Carrie. “Get it right.”

I don’t know why they hate it whenever I refer to Big Boy’s as EB’s. That’s the official name, isn’t it? Elias Brothers’ Big Boy.

Maybe it’s because I used to call it that when I was friends with Luanne back in the day, before I started hanging out with Carrie and Ava on a regular basis. Neither of them ever liked Lou, least of all last year when she was “Baby Hitler”—I mean,
drum major
.

Still, I apologized. “Sorry…Are you coming to
Big Boy’s?
”

“I thought Tuesday wanted to go to Pasquale’s,” Ava replied sarcastically.

“Fuck Tuesday! Me and Richie are going with everybody else.”

Carrie shot me a suspicious glance. “Richie Tyler?”

“Yes, Richie Tyler,” I answered defiantly. “You got a problem with that?”

“But he’s a Sophomore…”

“He came to the Thanksgiving parade with us,” I reminded her.

“Wasn’t
my
idea.”

Years ago, Carrie went to elementary school at Roosevelt with Richie, and she still can’t think of him as anything but the faggy little flute player he used to be. Just because he was totally driving me crazy with his mixed signals (and totally hot body) didn’t mean I wasn’t gonna bring The Sophomore along for our traditional Opening Night at EB’s—I mean,
Big Boy’s
.

“We’ll see you guys over there,” Ava chimed in, twirling her locks once again.

I was surprised to see Carrie drop the subject. “Let’s go see if Aud needs a ride.”

“Where’s Berger?” I wondered, thinking of all people, he’d be here to see our performance.

Both girls informed me, “Work,” in perfect unison.

“Damn ass burgers!” I brayed. (Get it?)

I just about shit my pants when I heard a familiar voice: “Son, watch your language.”

My father was the last person I ever expected to see standing in the HPHS auditorium after one of my productions. What the hell—I mean,
heck
—was
he
doing here?

“Hi, Dad…”

We stood in silence a moment, both trying to figure out what to say. The last time we seen each other, he gave me the car, two months ago. We hadn’t talked since. Not that I had anything to say to him, and I’m sure the feeling was mutual. It sorta sucks when you’re staring at the man responsible for giving you life, the man you realize you’re starting to look like more and more each day (with your
thinning
hair), and there’s absolutely nothing you can talk about.

“I enjoyed the show,” said Dad, finally.

This made me happy to hear. “Thanks for coming.”

“I saw the article in the
Daily Tribune
,” he admitted. “That’s how I heard about it.”

Now I felt like a jerk for not inviting my own father to come see my play. What kind of son am I? A terrible one.

I was just about to apologize when we were rudely interrupted.

“Hello, Superstar!”

I could
not
believe who I seen weaseling her way thru the throng at that very moment, wrapped in a fucking full-length fox fur, hair wilder than ever.

None other than her Highness herself…Miss Peter.

Of all nights, why did she have to attend the exact same performance as James Bradley Dayton, patron saint of conservatives?

“I am sooo proud of you!” Miss Peter gushed, totally not even seeing the older version of me standing by my side. I prayed she wouldn’t lean in for a kiss, the customary greeting in the gay bar world. Instead, she enveloped me in Aramis, speaking into my ear. “You
must
introduce me to that Scrooge boy!”

Of course, Miss Peter is the only one I told what happened
Chez Tyler
the previous week.

“Later,” I muttered without moving my lips.

I couldn’t help but notice my dad clench his jaw, totally tense. He averted his eyes, pretending not to notice anything
wrong
with this person who was clearly my acquaintance. I knew he wouldn’t be rude to Miss Peter if I introduced them. He’d just stand idly by, silently judging her.

Dad cleared his throat. “I’ll leave you to your friend,” he politely offered.

For the first time, Miss Peter noticed him next to us, all bundled up in his tan overcoat and matching scarf. “I am sooo sorry!” she sang, apologizing for her
faux pas
.

“Good seeing you,” I told Dad, because it was, no matter how awkward.

“Make sure you get to church on Sunday,” he advised me before blending into the crowd and slipping out the side EXIT door.

I couldn’t help but think this was Dad’s way of sending Miss Peter a silent signal, to let her know he was onto her. That no matter how hard she tried, she would never get his good Christian son to choose her way of life.

Too bad I’m discovering it’s not a choice.

“Slow down, Brad!”

At this very moment, me, Nina, and Brittany are on our way out to Grandpa and Grandma Dayton’s in Lake Orion where we’re having dinner with our father.

“Please don’t tell me how to drive!” I beg, nervous enough as it is about taking the freeway so far north.

“I’m telling Dad you were speeding…”

Did I mention tonight is Christmas Eve?

“Go right ahead, Nina,” I retort. “See if I care!”

Mom’s going to Grandma Victor’s and then we’re meeting them later at church with Janelle and Ted.

Speaking of…

Tonight they’re telling our grandparents and our father that they’re getting married in February on account of they’re (quote) in a family way (unquote).

If the expression on Dad’s face when he witnessed Miss Peter at my play was priceless, just wait till Janelle drops her baby-bomb over eggnog and bread pudding.

Merry fucking Christmas!

Where the hell is everybody?

On a good night at Big Boy’s, I can take home anywhere between $50 and $75.

This is
not
the case, however, the day after Christmas.

I don’t know if it’s because people have gorged themselves leading up to the holiday or what. Maybe they’re tapped out from spending all their savings on Super Mario Brothers for their kids’ Nintendos. Who knows? But they sure as hell weren’t coming out for Slim Jims and Brawny Lads on this fucking fuh-reezing Saturday night!

After counting my measly tips (a whopping $32), I make my way to the men’s room where I change outta my uniform. Well, just the special sauce–stained shirt. I spent my entire shift keeping my pants pristine so I can wear them out in public. The last thing I wanna do is carry a bag into the bar filled with my stink!

Keeping my black slacks on, I slip my new white-and-black houndstooth sweater over my head, taking care not to muss (what’s left of) my hair. Not to sound arrogant or anything, but I love the way this sweater makes my chest look. Like I actually have one. Janelle gave it to me for Christmas, even though with the new baby on the way, she and Ted are sooo broke they can barely afford to pay attention.

By the way, Dad totally broke down in tears after Janelle and Ted made their big announcement after Christmas Eve dinner. In all my 17-going-on-18 years, the only memory I have of my old man crying was the time he had a kidney stone.

Wanna hear the kicker?

The reason Dad lost it wasn’t because he’s ashamed of his oldest daughter for disgracing the Dayton family name, but because he’s always wanted to be a grandpa so he can make up for being such a terrible father…Isn’t that sweet?

“Somebody smells good.”

Shir catches me coming outta the bathroom, clean as an Irish Spring whistle.

“What’s her name?” Tony chimes in from behind his post in the kitchen, scrubbing a pot.

“Um…”

I
really
don’t wanna have this conversation.

If I say, “
Her
name is…” I’m a liar. If I say, “
His
name is…” I’m a fag.

Not that I’m ashamed of who I am or anything, but I’m only gonna be working at Big Boy’s for another six to eight months. Then I’m off to Juilliard (God willing), and I’ll never see any of these people ever again. Why should I bother getting into something so personal? Besides, it’s already after 11:00 PM and optimal bar time is ticking away.

To avoid having to lie, I reveal, “I’m meeting a friend.”

Tony cackles like a clown. “Wear a rubber!”

Shir shoots him a look before telling me, “Be careful, y’hear?”

Sometimes I think maybe Shir suspects something’s up with me. Not that I think she’d care if she knew I’m gay or anything. She’s totally cool—for a 40-year-old. In fact, if it wasn’t for Shir, I would never have gotten my driver’s license. She’s the one who loaned me the $350 to enroll at the U-Drive driving school. She even drove me up to Secretary of State on 9 Mile and Ryan when it came time to take my road test, after letting me practice in her Ford Taurus up at the Oakland Mall parking lot.

Thank you, Shir!

Outside, I almost fall flat on my face coming down the slippery slope of a sidewalk. It’s times like these I could use a pair of GASS shoes! I’ll have to find out where Rakoff got his. I’m guessing Pickway’s probably.

“Ready, Val?”

Thank God the roads are pretty much deserted. Maybe that’s why nobody came into the restaurant tonight. They all stayed home after Sonny Elliott warned them about the weather. Fine by me! Like I said, I hate driving as it is, particularly on the highway with other cars.

“Here we go…”

Whenever I take I-75 south towards downtown, I think about the time me and Lou convinced Jack to come to the bar with us back in 10th grade. We had sooo much fun that night, dancing on the dance floor, flirting with the cute guys. I honestly thought it was the start of something special for us. No more lying about who we
really
are. No more hiding our true feelings. Finally, we could talk to each other about whatever it was we had on our minds.

I can’t believe it’s almost 1988—the year me and Jack have been waiting for forever. We should be celebrating the fact that we’re
finally
graduating in less than six months. Instead, I don’t know when (or if) I’m gonna talk to my Best Friend ever again…Life totally sucks!

And it’s about to get worse.

S-N-O-W.

The second I cross 8 Mile, like magic, the flakes begin to fall.

“Easy there, Val…Don’t you worry your pretty little head.”

Of course, Val has no control over what Mother Nature decides to do. And from the looks of the way the snow is starting to come down, she must be pissed! ’member the Chiffon margarine commercial circa 1970-something?
(“It’s not nice to fool with…”)
Why’s she always such a bitch?

Like in
The Year Without a Santa Claus
. ’member when Mrs. C pays Mother N a visit, accompanied by that buck-toothed kid, Ignatius Thistlewhite, and Santa’s trusty elves, Jingle & Jangle Bells? All they want is for Momma to make her spoiled-brat sons, Heat Miser and Freeze Miser (or is it Snow Miser?) get along for a second so that Santa can get his holiday day off…’member?

Mother Nature’s got that bird’s nest hat on her head with the real-live red-red-robin bobbin’ along above it. When she summons her selfish sons, they start crying and carrying on like Total Babies. So she zaps ’em with a bolt of lightning. Talk about some mother! If Laura Victor-Dayton-Victor ever did that to me, Janelle, Nina or Brittany, they’d call Child Services on her behind.

“No need to panic…”

Okay, now I’m talking to myself.

I’m getting a little nervous here, what with the snow coming down now in buckets. Or however snow comes down when it’s really,
really
hard. To calm my nerves, I light a cig and jack up the radio full blast. Singing along with my favorite girls always helps keep my mind off imminent catastrophe…Tonight it’s Miss Reba.

I knew I should’ve listened to Dad and bought those snow tires. And a new pair of windshield wiper blades would’ve made a good stocking stuffer. Not to mention, I should have also gotten the heater fixed. Again, that’s what I get for driving a car that’s two years—

Oh, F-u-u-ck!

Somewhere south of State Fair, poor Val totally bites it.

Outta nowhere, she hits an icy patch.

“Round and round she goes…”

In a state of panic, I can’t remember if I’m supposed to turn the wheel in the direction of the spin or the opposite. Again, like in that triple axel/Lexie goes blind scene from
Ice Castles
, everything starts moving in slow-mo. Next thing I know, I’m on the side of the road, with good old Val smooching a light pole.

Happy Fucking (six days till) New Year’s!

Soon as I make sure I’m still alive, I get outta the car to check on Val. Sadly, her front fender is all banged up and bent inward against her left tire. No way is she driving away from the scene of this accident…This means neither am I.

“Now what?”

Again, me talking to myself.

Okay, let’s consider my options: turn around and walk all the way back to Ferndale in the fucking fuh-reezing
cold
. Continue walking to the bar thru the burnt-out
ghetto
. Flag down the next passerby and accept a ride from a total
stranger
. Honestly, I don’t know which is the lesser of three evils.

Thank God I won’t have to decide.

After twenty minutes of standing on the side of the road, watching car after car (after car) whiz by while smoking four cigarettes, here comes a cop. Like a dork, I start waving him down, up on my tippy toes, in case he can’t possibly see me standing beneath the street lamp in this blizzard. The only thing missing is my white hankie.

Oh, shit!

What I thought looked like a cop car turns out to be an old beat-up, painted-shit-brown Volaré that used to be one. The flashers have been removed from the roof, but it’s still got the light-thingie on the sideview mirror, which is what made me think it was a police vehicle in the first place.

As the driver pulls up, he shines it right at me.

Oh, my God…I’m gonna die!

Trying to identify the person behind the wheel who could potentially be my murderer, I shield my eyes. I inch my way towards the idling vehicle, maintaining enough distance should somebody jump out unexpectedly and I have to make a break for it.

Wouldn’t you know? Tinted windows.

Again, let’s consider my options: remain calm, and be
killed
. Run for it, and be
killed
. Beg for mercy, and be
killed
. Again, three evils.

I don’t know what possesses me, but I reach for the silver handle and pull the door open.

“Hello?”

Shivering from fear as much as the snow flying in my face, I greet my captor.

Wanna know what happens next?

From inside the dark interior, I hear the sweet sounds of Naomi and Wynonna, better known as The Judds. Followed by, “Hey, Brad-licious!”

What the—?

“Sean?”

Before I go on, maybe I should backtrack a little…

‘member how I said I might need to get a second job over Christmas Break? Well, I did. Up at the Gap in Oakland Mall, just what I said I didn’t wanna do. You should see me fold a cable knit—like a pro!

Unfortunately, I didn’t have much of a choice. I got my Juilliard audition coming up at the end of January, and I finally bought my plane ticket to New York City. To the whopping tune of $229! Luckily, Mr. Dell’Olio offered to put it on his credit card and told me I could pay him back.

Hence my fall into the Gap.

For the most part, the job is pretty easy: stand around, greet customers, make sure nobody shoplifts. I work five days per week, eights hour per day, and they pay me $5.15 per hour for a total of $41.20 per day, $206.00 per week. Except by the time they take taxes out “it’s a tired feeling, really.” (Paula Poundstone)

So I started the Gap this past Monday, 12/21. On Wednesday, 12/23, when it came time for my break, I wandered next door into Harmony House. I had to get outta that shoebox of a store and all its pastel Gap glory. Plus I wanted to buy a cassette to stuff in Mom’s Christmas stocking.

“Can I help you find something?”

It used to bug the shit outta me whenever me and Jack and/or Max would come up to the mall just to look around, and the goddamn salesclerks jumped all over us the second we walked into a store. Merry-Go-Round was always the worst! Now that I myself was working in retail, I totally sympathized.

I gave my usual “I’m fine” response, hiding the tape I just picked up from the rack behind my back…But it was too late.

“What-cha got there?” the sales guy asked with a tilt of his blondish brown head. His nametag said: SEAN.

“Where?” The last thing I wanted was for the very New Wave sales guy to catch me browsing thru the Country section.

“There…In your hand.” Before I could stop him, Sean reached an arm around my back and snatched the cassette from my clutches.

Truth be told, I was a little worried he thought I was trying to steal it. So I said, “I work next door…At the Gap.”

He replied, “I know…” Followed by, “Your name’s Brad, right?”

At first, I was like,
How does Sean the New Waver guy know
my
name?

Maybe we met somewhere before.

Maybe he’s a regular customer at Big Boy’s.

Maybe he read the stupid Gap tag I still had pinned to the stupid Gap sweater they force me to wear every goddamn day. (Duh!)

“Sorry…” I felt like a Total Dork. I’m sure I sounded even more like one when I began to laugh uncontrollably outta embarrassment.