How I Paid for College: A Novel of Sex, Theft, Friendship & Musical Theater (44 page)

Ziba is easy to spot, of course. How could you miss a six-foot-tall Persian lesbian with a mortarboard slanted stylishly over one eye? She leans slouchingly on the folding chair in front of her, exhausted from a late night making last-minute alterations. She's taking this whole Fashion Institute of Technology thing very seriously; she's the only member of the class of '84 whose graduation gown is cut on the bias. She and her manicured mother (who still waves at me like she knows me but doesn't) leave next week for a month in the south of France. Ziba gets to bring a friend, so Kelly's going with her. I went bikini shopping with them and we kind of had a little three-way in the changing room of Saks. Don't say anything to Doug.

I don't know what to tell you about the sex thing anymore. Kelly and I have fallen into bed a couple of more times (don't say anything to Ziba), but with Kelly going off to Bennington in the fall, we both know it's not going to lead anywhere. We're friends—friends who screw around occasionally—but most of all, friends. I'm still adjusting to her new raunchy persona; she really is Sandy at the end of
Grease,
except she's got the good sense not to wear black eyeliner in broad daylight. When she saw I was voted “Most Likely to Succeed” in the yearbook, she crossed it out and changed it to “Most Likely to Suck Cock.”

As for me, I got a second job working as a soloist at Father Angelo's church in Hoboken. Aunt Glo says it's my penance, but at $50 a pop, I think it's more like a gift from God.

I feel the same way about Mass as I do about Gilbert and Sullivan: it's a lot more fun to do than to watch. To actually be an integral part of the worship service, as necessary as the Holy Host and the wine, is an experience that's both heady and humbling, and every weekend I walk away from it feeling refreshed and invigorated. Plus, I've really hit it off with the organist, who is also a Juilliard student and moonlights occasionally at Something for the Boys.

What can I say? I'm a sucker for a guy with a big organ.

Oh, I forgot to tell you about Natie. Normally it's a cinch to spot his orange Afro in a crowd, but ever since TeeJay taught him how to use hair relaxer you'd hardly recognize him. He almost looks attractive, though without the extra boost from the hair, he's now about three inches shorter. Regardless, in a sure sign of the coming apocalypse, Natie landed his first date ever. TeeJay set him up with his cousin Margaret, the little lumpy one who looks like a Cabbage Patch doll. Apparently Margaret was equally eager to score because she gave Natie a discreet hand job while watching a community theater production of
How to Succeed in Business without Really Trying.
Natie leaves immediately for a summer internship in the office of Senator Jordan Craig. I don't know how he got it and I don't ask.

So we're all off on our separate ways. There'll be no more Creative Vandalism, no more su-hum-mer nights, no more days spent lounging by Aunt Glo's pool. (Not that there would be, anyway. Angelo finally convinced Aunt Glo to sell her place in Cramptown and take an apartment in Hoboken so she can be nearer to him.) Even if we do get together at the end of the summer to say goodbye, it will already be a reunion. I can't believe we're old enough to be re-anythinged.

The class president leads us in the Pledge of Allegiance, then I step up to the podium to sing the national anthem. There's a drum roll. I'm to begin a cappella. We've been saying for weeks that I could, if I chose, sing anything I wanted at this point (“Come Fly with Me” for instance, or the theme from
Green Acres
) and no one could stop me, but I take my civic responsibility seriously, even if I am a poor choice for representing our precious American way of life. Plus, if you've ever sung in a stadium you know how difficult it is because just about the time you're starting the third line you hear the echo of yourself singing the first line come back to you, a syndrome which invariably causes you to slow down and try to let your echo catch up. But despite concentrating on not singing a duet with myself I can't help but notice Al and Kathleen together in the picture-taking area. Al's been seeing Kathleen. As a cryent. He's decided he could use some help dealing with his relationship issues, like why he's attracted to mentally unbalanced women. Being a little unbalanced herself, Kathleen has a unique perspective on the issue. Al elbows somebody out of his way to get a shot while Kathleen shushes the people so she can hear me better. Seeing my father smack someone on my behalf makes me feel loved and I hold on to the high note until my echo catches up with me:

The crowd cheers for the note, just like they do at Yankee Stadium.

After the ceremony I weave my way through the crowd, accepting compliments from well-wishers and promising to stay in touch with people I could care less about and vice versa, when I find myself face-to-face—or face-to-chest actually—with a big tank of a guy in a too-tight suit. He's got a Cro-Magnon brow, which he wipes with a damp handkerchief, and a broad fleshy Italian face. He looks like Jabba the Hut wearing Armani.

“Hey,” he says, shaking my hand, “that was some good singin'.” His hand is the size of a catcher's mitt.

“Thanks,” I say. This being New Jersey, I don't think much of it (there's no shortage of sweaty, Cro-Magnon-browed tank men in too-tight suits here) and I try to move on, but he throws a massive arm around my shoulder. It feels like a concrete pipe just landed on my neck.

“Come wid me,” he says. “There's someone who wants to talk to yuz.” His grip is too firm to be considered friendly and I'm immediately suspicious. He practically lifts me off my feet as he leads me away from the crowd.

I try to turn my head to catch someone's, anyone's, attention, but Jabba continues to steamroll me toward the parking lot. “Where are we going?” I say into his damp armpit, which smells like my third-grade lunch box. He quickens the pace and his breathing becomes more labored from the strain of dragging me along.

“Hurry up,” he says.

I see that we're headed for a black stretch limousine parked at the far end of the parking lot, and it's in that moment I realize it: I'm done for. The yearbook should have said “Most Likely to Die an Agonizing Mob-Related Death.” It's not enough I'm sorry for everything I've done, that I go to Mass every week and pray for forgiveness. No, I'm going to pay for my sins with my young, meaningless life.

The back window of the limo rolls down and I'm certain there's a gun with a silencer on the other side. Obviously Dagmar got in touch with Sinatra's people and, at this very moment, is probably in the backseat with her new boyfriend, a Mafia boss in a silver suit with oily hair pulled back in a ponytail.
Promising Young Actor Shot at Graduation! Film at Eleven.

I shake free of Jabba. There's no point in struggling. It's over. My heart's beating so fast I'll probably drop dead of a heart attack right now anyway. When they make the movie of my life, there'll be a big close-up on a man's hand in the car window, the diamond in his pinky ring gleaming as he beckons me closer to the car. Oh God, it's going to be the wire around the neck. No, please, not the wire around the neck. I close my eyes and lean toward the window. Hail Mary, full of grace . . . its fleece was white as snow. Oh dear Lord, I promise if you let me live I'll learn the goddamn rosary.

“So you finally did it, huh, kid?” a voice says.

I know that voice. I know it like I know my own, as a matter of fact. I open my eyes and, be still my beating heart, there he is.

Frank Sinatra.

I must be dead already. I'm dead and I've gone to heaven and it turns out I was right all along: Frank Sinatra is God.

“Mr. Sinatra,” I hear myself say, “I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to . . .”

“Don't sweat it, kid,” he says, dismissing the thought with a wave of his diamond-studded hand. “You got balls. I like that.”

“Thanks.”

“It's me who should be thanking you. Without you, my cousin's grandkid wouldn't be going to Juilliard.” He smiles and it feels like the earth just moved one step closer to the sun. He has the bluest eyes.

“You let me know if there's anything I can do for you,” he says. “Us guys from Hoboken gotta stick together.” He glances at his Rolex. “Now I gotta split. Sammy's waitin' for me in Atlantic City and he always panics when I'm late.” He motions to Jabba that it's time to go and I stand back to watch the limousine slowly slide away, like a ship drifting out to sea.

The gods are definitely on my side. Or at least Frank Sinatra is, and that's close enough for me.

The fact is, I shouldn't even be graduating, and not just because of the underage drinking, reckless driving, illegal drug use (on federal property), unlocking and entering, embezzlement, fraud, forgery, blackmail, and grand theft Buddha. No, I shouldn't be graduating because I never handed in my
Portrait of the Artist
paper.

There was just too much going on, what with suing my father and all, but finally, at long last, here it is. Thanks for being so patient, Mr. Lucas. Turns out I did need a lot more than twenty-five pages. It ain't James Joyce, but I worked with what I had. It's not my fault I'm from New Jersey.

This is how I paid for college. This is how I misspent my youth.

acknowledgments

It takes a suburb to raise a writer
and I was fortunate to have dozens of catchers in the rye who made certain I got out of adolescence alive.

So, thank you to all of my friends, teachers, and surrogate parents from high school, most particularly Amanda Burns and Mary Susan Clarke.

To my mother and friend, Megan Garcia; my talented brother, Neal; and, most of all, my amazing dad, Chase Acito, the best father a guy could ever hope for: thank you for not being like the Zannis.

Thank you to Dame Sinclair and Cool Neighbor Brooke for reading the manuscript; to Chuck Palahniuk for recommending it; to my manager, Frederick (of Hollywood) Levy, for opening doors; and, especially, to my agent, Edward Hibbert, for shepherding this story with such insight and intelligence.

Special thanks go to my eagle-eyed editor at Broadway Books, Gerry Howard; and his able assistant, Rakesh Satyal; Mike Jones of Bloomsbury Publishing; my British co-agent, Patrick Walsh; producer Laura Ziskin and her VP Leslie Morgan; and Shannon Gaulding of Columbia Pictures. Both the IRS and I thank you for putting me in a new tax bracket.

Beyond all else, my everlasting gratitude goes to my beloved partner, Floyd Sklaver, for his tender devotion to me and this book. I wish everyone could be as lucky in love as I am.

Finally, thank
you
, my dear reader, for getting this far. Be sure to tell all your friends.

about the author

Hailed as the “gay Dave Barry,”
Marc Acito is a syndicated humorist whose column, “The Gospel According to Marc,” appears in nineteen newspapers, including the
Chicago Free Press
and
Outword–Los Angeles.
After being kicked out of one of the finest drama schools in the country, he went on to sing roles with major opera companies, including the Seattle Opera. He lives in Portland, Oregon.

His website is
www.MarcAcito.com
.

HOW I PAID FOR COLLEGE.
Copyright © 2004 by Marc Acito. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without written permission from the publisher. For information, address Broadway Books, a division of Random House, Inc.

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.