Drama Queers! (32 page)

“Cha-cha…Vince Fontaine!”

The Drama Queers burst into applause as Diane Thompson joins us at our table, accompanied by You-Know-Who.

“Sorry we’re late,” apologizes The Sophomore.

“We had to make a pit stop,” Diane slyly discloses.

Joey’s face lights up. “You got the supplies?”

“You bet your sweet Dago ass we did!”

You’d think this comment would come from Diane, but it actually belongs to Richie. Cha-Cha’s too busy being pulled onto Danny Zuko’s lap and having her face sucked off.

A quick take reveals Mr. Paterno acting like he doesn’t see any of this either.

Hmmm
…Is it just my imagination, or does Jack look a tad jealous?

He can’t still be carrying a torch for Joey Palladino…
Can he
?

Last I checked, he was sooo into Mr. Homecoming King.

Speaking of…

I heard a rumor that Betsy Sheffield recently dumped Tom Fulton’s ass. But nobody knows the exact reason. I guess this would explain why Jack and Tom are no longer all buddy-buddy.

“Who wants to hit the salad bar?”

Tuesday Gunderson gets up from the table, followed by Audrey and Ava.

“Bring me some soup, would ya?” Keith Treva orders, like Tuesday’s his waitress. Or his mother. Or whatever the hell inferior female term applies.

Tuesday fires back. “Get it yourself,
Rump!
”

This would be Keith’s
Grease
nickname on account of Roger is the one who sings the “Mooning” song.

“You comin’, Rizz?” asks Audrey in her Frenchy/Didi Conn accent.

“Bite the weenie,” Jamieleeann Mary Sue Good replies, à la Betty Rizzo. She leaps up from the table where she sits beside Allen Bryan and cries,
“Psyche!”
Then she tags along with the other Pink Ladies, sans Sandy (Liza Larson) who I’m sure is off somewhere with her boyfriend (Gus), and Marty (Miranda Resnick) whose mother won’t let her stay out on a school night.

I gotta say, at first I didn’t think Jamie would fit in with the Drama Queers, being that she’s one of the Popular People. Same goes for Allen Bryan. But it’s been sooo much fun having them in the
Grease
family. Plus Jamie sings a heartbreaking rendition of “There Are Worse Things I Could Do,” and Allen is hilarious in his “Yes, ma’am…No, ma’am” scene with Ava Reese as Miss Lynch, aka Miss McGee (Eve Arden) in the movie. I think some of the other DQs were a tad apprehensive about Dell casting outside the usual DQ circle. But I love Jamie to death and Allen is totally cool—for a jock.

“Let’s all hit the salad bar.”

Diane Thompson jumps off Joey’s lap, takes him by the hand, and leads him across the restaurant like a 2-year-old. Or a dog. Or whatever the hell subordinate term applies here.

“I’ll come too,” I decide. Not because I’m dying for a cup of clam chowder. But I get the feeling Jack and Betsy are talking about me and my friends, and I wanna eavesdrop as I pass by their table.

The second I do, I swear I hear Miss Sheffield say: “You think he’s a fag?”

I got a good mind to walk right up and bash her fucking face in!

How dare that bitch talk about me that way?

I had a feeling her cop-uncle ratted me out.

Of course, maybe she
isn’t
talking about me. For all I know, Betsy could be commenting on any number of the male Drama Queer members—from Rakoff to Richie to even Joey Palladino.

By the time I return to our table, soup and salad and in tow, Jack Paterno and bitch-friend are nowhere to be found. I help myself to a few abandoned fries they left laying on their plates…“Waste not, want not!” I always say.

Around 11:00 PM, after acting out the entire Frosty Palace scene from the
Grease
movie, with the exception of Jamie “Rizzo” Good throwing an actual milkshake in Will “Kenickie” Isaacs’s face, we wrap things up. I don’t know about anybody else, but I didn’t
really
need to finish that entire hot fudge ice cream cake.

“Shall we take this party elsewhere?” Mr. Palladino wonders, addressing the entire gang.

“I gotta go,” says Rakoff, sounding totally sullen.

After all, it
is
a school night. Us babies gotta get home so our mommies can tuck us in and bid us beddy-bye before serving us our mayonnaise cake.

Surprisingly, Tuesday Gunderson echoes, “I gotta go too.” Followed by, “Treva…You wanna give me a ride?”

This can only mean one thing: they’re gonna go make out in the backseat of WIFEY 1, which is what we dubbed Keith’s mom’s ’84 Dodge Caravan based on the vanity plate his Evil Step-Devil recently bought for it.

“I should scoot,” Ava decides. “I told Don I’d call him at 11o’clock.”

“Can you give me a lift?” asks Audrey. “Berger’s supposed to stop by on his way home from work.”

Somebody brays. Most likely Will or Keith.

Ava hesitates. “But I live around the corner, and you’re all the way over by the racetrack.”

“I’m not
that
far,” Audrey pleads. “I’m closer to the Church of Christ.”

“Same dif.”

Aud gives Ava the finger. “Fine…Be that way!”

“I’ll drive you,” offers Jamie, who lives down on Davey, behind HPHS.

Will Isaacs says, “I’ll take a ride,” even though he knows Jamie is still going with Jeff Rhimes, who will kick his ass if he keeps on flirting with her.

After what can only be described as a
mass exodus
, I’m left sitting at the table with Joey Palladino, Diane Thompson, and The Sophomore.

“Where to next?” Richie asks, ready to move on to greener pastures.

I reply, “Bed…I’m pooped.”

Joey says, “Come on, ya big baby!”

Diane adds, “I got some wine coolers in my car.”

The last thing I wanna do right now is hang out with The Sophomore when there’s alcohol involved. Even if he does look exactly like James Dean with his hair slicked back, à la 1950s. I totally wanna run my fingers thru it and mess it all up.

I bid my friends a fond farewell. “I’ll see you guys bright and early.”

“Not me.”

Joey looks pleased with the fact that he’s neither a Band Fag nor a member of Vikettes, so he doesn’t gotta get up for practice at the butt crack of dawn.

“Fucking Klan,” I mumble, making my exit.

I can’t believe he’s got us coming in to rehearse at 7 o’clock in the fucking AM on account of the big Marching Band trip to Disney World coming up in less than two weeks.

Actually, I decided I’m not going. Not because I don’t wanna spend my Senior Spring Break stuck in Orlando with a bunch of Band Fags, even though I sorta don’t. I’d much rather be soaking up the sun in Daytona, combing the beach looking for
like that
lifeguards. The main reason I can’t make the trip is because, truth be told, I can’t afford it.

Now all I gotta do is break the news to Mr. Klan.

Ten minutes later, I’m home-sweet-home…

Before heading inside, I stop on the back porch to have my last cigarette of the day. How many does that make total? Ten, maybe fifteen. I had at least five while we were at Big Boy’s. Again, I gotta quit.

Here’s a little secret: sometimes, I like to watch myself smoke.

Like right now, I can see my reflection in the back door window, and here I stand just taking it in. Not because I think I look cool, that’s not it. There’s something about the act of
observing
myself. Placing the cigarette in my mouth, the way my fingers hold it, the way my cheeks suck in when I take a puff. Particularly, the way the smoke appears, thick and gray, as I send it soaring off into the air.

Seeing it makes it all the more real, you know what I mean?

Sometimes when I’m smoking and I
can’t
see myself, I feel like I didn’t even do it. Same thing with eating. Like if I have a snack or something when I’m talking on the telephone, after I finish, I’m still hungry. I wonder if that’s why people put mirrors over their beds. Maybe it’s the same way with making love?

Great!

Now I’m thinking about Richie—again!

Imagine what would’ve happened if I let them guys come over my house. I can visualize the entire scene…

The Sophomore arrives with Joey and Diane. We crack open the coolers and get totally crocked. Joey and Diane end up making out in a corner somewhere, leaving me and Richie alone in my family room together to do what?

Boy, do I need a shower!

A nice cold one.

Tap-tap-tap!

Not more than five minutes after I strip down to my skivvies, somebody bangs on my bedroom window, totally fuh-reaking me out.

Quickly, I kill the lights.

Wanna know who I see standing alongside our house?

“‘How ’bout a little Sneaky Pete to get this party going?’”

That’s a line from
Grease
. ’member during the slumber party scene when Rizzo whips out a bottle of Italian Swiss Colony to accompany Jan’s Twinkies? Only it’s not Jamieleeann Mary Sue Good standing in my
boudoir
, a Bartles & Jaymes four-pack in her hot little hands…

“What’s up?”

Dressed in nothing but a dirty towel I grabbed off the doorknob and wrapped around my waist, I greet my unexpected guest.

“I was just about to ask
you
the exact same question…Opie.”

Wouldn’t you know? Total Hard-on.

Fucking Richie Tyler!

‘member how I keep saying I need a
new
job?

About a week ago, I came home from my five-hour shift at Big Boy’s with a whopping $37.83 in my pocket. As if that wasn’t bad enough, when I walked thru the door, I found my mother at the kitchen counter phone in hand, in tears. I thought for sure somebody died…When you got three grandparents all in their sixties, you worry constantly.

“How was work?”

Mom saw me, dried her eyes, and returned the receiver to its cradle. She put on her happy face, as if the gray skies were already clearing up.

“It sucked.”

“Mind your language,” she playfully scolded. Then she reached out. “Can I have a hug?”

Even at seventeen, I’m not afraid to show a little love and affection every now and then to the woman who gave me life. The second I wrapped my arms around her, Mom broke down.

“What’s wrong?”

This was all I could think to say, not even sure I wanted to hear the answer.

She uttered two words: “Your father.”

I understood completely. Once again, his child support payment was due. Once again, the deadbeat failed to pay it.

I’m sure you heard of Old Mother Hubbard and her poor dog. Well, you’re looking at Old Lady Laura and her two hungry daughters. Me, I’m fine. I eat most of my meals at Big Boy’s, which is one of the perks of working in a restaurant. Unfortunately, two teenaged girls like Nina and Brittany can’t survive on PB & J and government cheese. Never mind the fact that I don’t know where I’m gonna get the money to go to Juilliard in September—
if
I even get in.

I can’t believe, for the biggest audition of my life, I pieced together a Bob Cratchit monologue from
A
goddamn
Christmas Carol
. I’ll never forget the look on the judges’ faces when I concluded with a rousing cry of “God bless us, every one!”

What the fuck was I thinking?

Baldy #1 just sat there staring at me, all Shields & Yarnell.

Baldy #2, aka Paul Lynde, practically held his nose, like I took a dump in the middle of the Juilliard dance studio.

And Jane Hathaway…Let’s just say, if she’d been sitting before a gong, she would’ve grabbed the nearest gonger.

But enough already!

At that particular moment, I had more important things to concern myself with.

Like making sure my sisters didn’t starve.

“I’ll handle this.”

I planted a kiss upon Mom’s salty cheek, changed outta my uniform, and drove down to Detroit…

“If I were you,” Miss Peter commented after I conveyed my plight, “I’d go over the old man’s house and kick his fucking ass.”

If only I could. “He’s a cop, ’member?”

I sipped my screwdriver, yet another in the long line of non-beer alcoholic beverages I been sampling in hopes of finding one I actually enjoy.

At that moment, our favorite spandex-clad cocktail waitress rudely interrupted us.

“Would you gents care for anything else?”

“Why yes, Aryc,” Miss Peter said smugly. She held up her glass and gave the rocks a gentle roll. “Another round,
si vous plaît
…”

“Rum and Coke?”

“Captain and
Diet
,” Miss Peter snapped. She turned to me, pleading, “Why can’t anybody seem to get it? I’m watching my
weight!
” Then back to Aryc, she ordered, “And bring Opie another screwdriver…With some extra screw.”

Aryc flounced away, tank top sleeve slouching off his shoulder.

“What I need to do is make some serious money,” I said, getting back to the subject, still at a total loss. Until it hit me. “What about wet-Jockey-shorts Tuesdays?”

Every third night of the week, before the maddening crowd, a big old Drag Queen by the name of Zephyr “The Lady Z” dons a one-piece swimsuit and climbs into a kiddie pool, where she hoses down the eager contestants. Despite the enthusiastic hooting and howling, none of the guys are ever very attractive.
Desperate
is the word I’d use to describe them as they (attempt to) strut their stuff. But the prize is indeed $50. Where else could I make that kinda money in ten minutes’ time?

Miss Peter reminded me, “You’re in high school,” as if maybe I forgot this fact. “I will
not
allow it…You’re only seventeen.”

“Not anymore.”

Like Angie Dickison wielding her
Police Woman
badge, I whipped out my recently acquired fake ID. I concocted it myself using two number 6’s cut out from the phone book (with my mom’s cuticle scissors) and glued over the original digits: 7–0. After the scare we had with Officer Sheffield of the Detroit PD, I decided not to take any more chances. Only I wasn’t about to abandon my nights out at the bar. I’d die without a social scene.

Two shakes later, Aryc returned with our cocktails held high atop his tray.

“Did I hear you say you’re in need of some fast cash?” Aryc may sound all posh, but he was totally eavesdropping. “I believe we’re looking to hire another server.”

“You mean
here?
”

Never for one second did I fathom actually working in a place like this. It’s a bar, for chris’sakes, and a gay one, you know what I mean?

Miss Peter exclaimed, “That’s a fab idea! How much money can Opie make?”

“On a good evening?” Aryc answered. “One-fifty, two hundred, maybe.”

“Dollars?” I exclaimed, seeing $ signs in my eyes.

“Depending.”

Something about the way Aryc said this made me pause.

“On what?” Miss Peter inquired on my behalf.

“Oh, you know…How pleasantly he treats the customers.”

I heard rumors about things that went on in some of the other bars around town. Like I said, I know they have (quote-unquote) strippers at Gold Coast. But Miss Peter tells me they might as well be
hustlers
, based on the things those boys are willing to do—if the price is right.

“Let’s just say,” Aryc told us, a twinkle in his Aryan eye, “a boy can earn a pretty penny, and have a bit o’ fun while he’s at it.”

“You got that right!”

Some totally drunk guy I never laid eyes on before chimed in from the table next to ours, giving Aryc’s
arse
a hefty swat.

“Watch it, you wanker!” Aryc warned. “Or I’ll cut off your drinks, followed by your cock.” Then he said to me in a hush, “As you Yanks say, the work’s all ’under the table.’”

The next night I gave Shir my notice at Big Boy’s.

I started working at The Gas Station that same Friday.

Good
Friday, to be exact.

While all my Band Fag friends were en route to Disney, and all the Popular People (plus Jack and Max) found themselves Daytona Beach bound, I set out to begin my career as the employee of a divey Detroit gay bar.

“Somebody’s late!”

Just when I thought I might actually get along with Aryc, he goes and proves me wrong. I wasn’t even thru the door
three
seconds and he was already on my case.

“Sorry,” I apologized. “My piece-of-shit car died on 7 Mile…I had to find a pay phone and call a cab.”

“Do you know what time it is?” Aryc said sharply.

I wasn’t sure why he asked since he clearly wore a watch upon his wrist. A diamond-studded number that I’m sure cost more than your average takes-a-licking-and-keeps-on-ticking.

“8:08,” I replied, regarding my humble Swatch.

“And what time does your shift start?”

“8 o’clock.”

“You best arrive at least fifteen minutes
before
you begin,” Aryc informed me. “You want plenty o’ time to change your jumper and trousers.” He looked me up and down in my cardigan and khaki pants. Thank God, or I wouldn’t know what the hell he was talking about.

“I didn’t bring any other clothes,” I admitted, suddenly feeling insecure.

Aryc rolled his eyes and let out a huff, scattering his flippy bangs across his forehead.

“What?’ I mumbled, not even sure I wanted to hear the answer.

“Never mind.”

We headed to the bar, where Mike and his mohawk were
not
. Being Friday, a big night for the Gay Detroit scene, he was tending upstairs at Heaven. Instead, this guy, Sam, held down the fort. While very nice, Sam is no Sam Malone from
Cheers
. Medium everything, you know what I mean?

Basically my duties entail…When I arrive for my shift, I immediately hit the bar, where the tender on duty gives me my bank. This is $50 in cash I keep in my pocket. As I work the room, stopping by to check in on customers and take their drink orders, I use the money from my bank to pay the bartender, reimbursing myself with the cash the customers fork over, and keep anything extra as my tip.

The first hour I made twenty-five bucks.

Not bad!

At Big Boy’s, I’d have to work twice as long to make that much moolah. And these dollars are all duty-free. I could smell the steak
à poivre
sizzling on the stove back home in the kitchen at Dayton’s Depot.

Other duties include: gathering empty glasses, changing the Coke tank down in the cellar, aka Freddy Krueger’s furnace, and…

“Anything else?”

“When you’re finished,” Aryc said, answering my inquiry, “I’ll show you the dressing room.”

This is basically a glorified broom closet with a makeup mirror and chair. Lady Z. Zephyr uses it to prepare herself for wet-Jockey-shorts Tuesdays before whipping out her hose. Aryc tells me she likes the closet kept clean and stocked with the finest amenities: Final Net, Barbasol, and Wet Ones…It’s the simple things that keep a performer happy, really.

“Come in and close the door.”

I followed Aryc inside, doing as instructed. Adorning the edges of the mirror, I noticed an array of photos of Lady Z posing with her favorite Drag Queen cohorts: Vanessa LeSabre, Nikki Stewart, Trixxie Deelite. Talk about glamorous! All done up in full regalia, with lots of big hair and face paint, these so-called ladies looked spectacular.

One particular Queen I didn’t recognize. She was a white woman with a Patti LaBelle hairdo, circa 1985. You know, all flat and fanned out, from her “Somewhere Over the Rainbow” Live Aid period. I’d be lying if I didn’t admit I’m a tad bit frightened by Female Impersonators. Not
frightened
really, more like intimidated, you know what I mean? Most of them seem sooo secure with who they are, it’s hard to imagine they were once little gay boys running around the halls of some high school somewhere.

“Damn, this is good shit.”

From the darkness, I heard an unfamiliar voice.

Suddenly, I smelled an old familiar scent.

Wanna know what I seen when I turned around?

Aryc smoking a joint in the middle of Zephyr’s closet—I mean,
dressing room
.

“Take a toke?”

He extended the joint, smoke wafting between us. As sweet as it smelled, I haven’t smoked pot in probably three years. The last thing I needed was to get caught getting high my first night on the job. So I politely refused.

“Pussy…”

I looked at Aryc like he was a post-demon Regan What’s-Her-Name from
The Excorcist
. Any second, I expected heads to spin and pea soup to fly. In all the time I knew him, Aryc always had this distinct, upper-crust
British
dialect. Suddenly, he sounded like every other gay guy in Detroit.

“What happened to your accent?”

“I grew up in Grosse Pointe,” he confessed. “I got my MFA in Acting from the Hilberry.”

I don’t know why it surprised me to discover Aryc a Drama Queer.

“‘Wayne State…Good school.’” He quoted Casey Kasem, sounding like my guidance counselor, Mrs. Ellis, the flake! Then he snuffed out the doob, and picked up one of Lady Z’s compacts from the table. “My nose gets shiny,” he reported, giving his schnoz a gentle powder.

Lemme tell ya, I felt just like Linda Lavin following Polly Holliday around Mel’s Diner the way Aryc showed me the ropes, telling me to shake my titties and show ’em some ass.