FRUITCAKE, Chap. 4
Chapter Four
Do You Hear The Lawnmower Sing?
Morning classes were more or less a preamble to
lunch and those that came after, a sample sale of nap time, forced labor and
arty shit. Stephen’s biology textbook weighed more than a baby but he figured
it provided ample practice for teen pregnancy.
The first biology assignment fell on him like
an allergy nightmare. Hippie Jesus, known to people who cared as Mr. Christ,
was far too excited about assigning the creating of a student-made book of
plant identifications. Teacher really turned up the heat on that one!
Up until this past summer, Stephen had mostly avoided
the outdoors, suffering from a nasty curse of hay fever. It wasn’t until his
father suggested he take his try at operating the riding lawn mower, that Stephen
discovered something special. While riding the lawn mower through the backyard,
carefully avoiding the stone landscaping surrounding the above-ground pool, which
seemed to advance further and further into the grass, he was overcome by a
sneezing fit. The alchemical reaction of the following events created a perfect
storm that came the closest he’d ever been to witnessing God’s almighty power.
The vibrating thing worked on what his mother
referred to as his “down below” in an increasingly curious sensation, a
euphemism he found childish after he’d seen enough International Male catalogues
to know what a dick was. Gripping the steering wheel, slack-jawed and eyes
shut, he sprayed the front of the machine. With each expulsion, his butt thrust
up and down. The colorful stars and bright light collecting in the corners of Stephen’s
vision distracted him from an inappropriately placed coffee tin containing
nails of varying size. He barely noticed when he ran the tin over, shooting
nails like a semi-automatic weapon in every direction, some of which lodged
with loud bangs into the aluminum pool. The lawn mower bounced wildly. A
breathy series of grunts erupted from his diaphragm, not unlike those he once
heard from an actress on USA Network he stayed up way too late to watch.
Is something burning? Something smells like
it’s burning, he thought, his “down below” constricting and his hands making
permanent indentations on the wheel. Finally, as the intensity reached pinnacle, his sight brought forth a mesmerizing display of fireworks, both breathtaking
and awkward. His entire body convulsed and the alien life form petting him from
the inside shot forth like a cannon, sliming his Hanes and forcing a fart.
He slammed on the brake and fell to the grass. Lying there like a deflated raft, he wondered
how this would go down at Catholic confession. Even if he’d become somewhat
estranged from the church, he was sure this was one for the books. God was most
likely watching from a dark place in the corner, so it might be best for him to
get the whole incident off of his shoulders. He bared witness to what guilt did
to his mother at Costco and wasn’t about to let that happen to him. Besides, he
was meant for the stage, and as such, confession was performance-as-practice.
“Two soft pretzels, please,” Stephen asked the beast
behind the lunch counter. This was as good as any day to start a diet.
Carrying the tray, he surveyed the room. It
reminded him of SeaWorld, but sadder. People here seemed to know one another.
Making friends wasn’t really his thing and no one ever seemed particularly
interested in hearing about his aspirations of becoming a regular on daytime
television. If this were SeaWorld, it was the SeaWorld from the underrated
masterpiece, Jaws 3. He could be attacked in 3-D at any moment. Minnow sat
alone at the side of the cafeteria. Stephen walked over, but as he approached
the sad fish, the air quality ripened to a sour smell, and so, he passed
without stopping, taking a seat one table over, next to his go-to’s from shop
class, Short Girl and Hair-eater.
Short Girl wept, intermittently smelling her
hands. Hair-eater gnawed on her split ends, pushing fries around her tray with
a fork. A tragic scene, truly. Since no one was talking, Stephen decided to
work on his acting craft.
“My mother’s dead,” Stephen blurted.
Both girls stopped what they were doing. When
he was sure he had their attention, he continued. “Quite tragic, really. I
mean, she didn’t just die. Not like yesterday or anything. Three weeks ago.
Very sudden. None of us saw it coming.”
Choking the hair from her mouth, Hair-eater
chimed in, “Oh my god. How did it happen?”
“Thank you for asking. She hung herself.”
Now it was time for Short Girl to catch up,
“Oh. My. God!”
“I know, right?! We didn’t see it coming. It
was very surprising. It was my birthday. Everyone was invited. The whole town.
Even our priest. There were so many people that came. Hundreds. Very big
affair. You see, my parents rented a carousel from the Rent-A-Center, it was
very expensive, and had it put in the backyard-”
“Aren’t you a little old for a carousel?” The
judgment from Short Girl caught Stephen by surprise. He didn’t know the sponge
had it in her. However, he was not about to give her a free pass. “Aren’t you the one with a fucking mouse for
a friend?”
Game on. Stephen really wanted Short Girl to
serve the ball back over the net. Instead, she put her face in her hands and
picked up the weeping. Regardless, he still had Hair-eater, clinging to every
word.
“Anyway, everyone was having a blast. We just
got a new, very pricey pool that cost thousands of dollars-”
Hair-eater interrupted, “I love pools!”
Stephen shot her a look, rolling his eyes. “An
in-ground pool. Well, we were just having a blast, a real laugh riot. Father
Brennan made some joke about a bar and everyone was in stitches. Then, all of a
sudden, I hear a voice call from over near the house, ‘Stephen, look at me! I’m
over here! Stephen, I love you! Look at me, Stephen! It’s all for you!’ And there’s
mother, crawling out the attic window with a fitted sheet wrapped around her
neck. She grabbed on to a shutter, hoisted herself out and jumped. And that was
that!”
“Some story, girly boy,” slow-clapped sarcasm
from Big Bitch’s lips, who’d been creeping nearby. No sooner did Short Girl
stop crying to interject, “nobody asked-”, before her mouth met Big Bitch’s
hand.
“Can it, virgin.”
Big Bitch had collected some dirt since home
room, in the shape of three henchmen. There was a lanky redhead that looked
straight from Ireland via steerage, some long-haired death metal wannabe with a
t-shirt that said “ANTHRAX” and, hold up, wait a minute, whoever this stunning,
blue-eyed fucker in the denim jacket was. Here they came again, the colorful
stars and bright light.
“Nice story but-”
Before Big Bitch could finish his “thought”, he
was interrupted by the Irish freak, “Yea, everybody knows that’s from the movie
The Omen!” All eyes turned to the ginger, somewhat confused but momentarily accepting.
Stephen’s gaze went in and out of focus as he
sized up Denim like a hot dog. He let the rest of the failures talk amongst
themselves, imagining what Denim might look like as a lawn mower. His tanned
skin, dark hair and blue eyes, reminded him of a young, dashing and romantic
Dr. Alan Quartermaine of General Hospital. His jaw, so angular. His shoulders,
so, so wide and his waist, well, you could fit both arms around it and scratch
your own elbows. Stephen uploaded this image into his brain, saving it for
afternoon nap time. Who was he? Did it get drafty in here?
Stephen’s jeans were at his ankles, brought
down by Big Bitch. To make matters worse, the uploading of Denim’s image had
caused a liquid surge to rush to the front of his Hanes. Luckily, in the fray,
no one noticed the stain.
Stephen tripped his way towards the exit,
underscored by intense laughter, returning to grab the soft pretzel and shove
it into his mouth. Had he been watching where he was going, rather than
stuffing his face, he would’ve made it out. Instead, he met with sudden
interference in the shape of the shop class Fainter, who turned the corner through
the cafeteria doors with a stack of papers, colliding with Stephen and landing,
twice in one day, pleats up.
“Sorry!”
Stephen yelled, spitting a chunk of saliva and dough.
Lunch
could’ve gone worse, he thought. At least, he didn’t bleed. There was no blood
involved. But, there was embarrassment. Intense embarrassment. And that was
thicker than blood. Stephen had had enough for the day and thought his only
recourse was to sneak out. In his back pocket, he kept a storage facility of
excuses for moments like this. Besides, he was less concerned with the school
than his mother catching him, but she wouldn’t be home until after the school
day.
“Where
are you supposed to be?” the Vice-principal surprised him, gnawing on a hoagie.
Responding
on the fly, Stephen made some semi-committed gesture, adding, “I’m sick.”
“Let
me see your hall pass.”
“I
don’t have one?”
“What
class are you supposed to be in?”
“Lunch
class.”
“Then
you should return to the cafeteria until you’re dismissed.”
“I
have diarrhea!”
“Then
go and see the nurse.”
Stephen
couldn’t peel his eyes away from a piece of dangling onion, waving at him from between
the Vice’s gums and incisors.
“Do
you know where the nurse’s office is?”
“No?”
“Down
the hall, across from the auditorium. What’s your name?”
“Uhhh-
it’s coming! I feel it!”
“Go.
Just go.”
Holding
his ass with both hands, Stephen picked up his pace. Ahead of him, down the
hall just past the auditorium doors was the exit from where he started the day,
the way to freedom and his favorite place, the couch. He looked behind him to
make sure no one was looking. The Vice and the onion were gone. But, before he
could get the hell out of dodge, a flyer on the auditorium door stopped him in
his tracks.
THE
DRAMA CLUB PRESENTS
AUDITIONS!!!
FOR THE
FALL PRODUCTION OF
LES MISÈRABLES!
Bristling, Stephen ripped the announcement from
the door. Les Misèrables! With an exclamation point! This was epic. All the
dreams, late nights constructing marketing placards for Broadway hits, his name
etched prominently above the title, pointed to this moment. Stephen Kowalczyk
in The Fantasticks! Stephen Kowalczyk is Evita! Everything had an exclamation
point! Closing his eyes, he breathed deeply, hugging the flyer to his chest.
Lights out.
Backstage, his hands smoothed the polyester
nightgown down the front of his, otherwise, nakedness. He was making his debut
as the tragic, French hooker, Fantine, a true Miserables. A hush came over the
audience as the curtain rose. The plucky piano introduction to I Dreamed a
Dream began. You could hear a pin drop. He pinched his nipples to give them perk.
Adjusted the wig. He took a sip of tea and placed it on an offstage table. The
stage manager signaled for his entrance. Parting the duvetyne curtains, he
glided on to the stage. Taking a deep breath, he began.
I
dreamed a dream in times gone by
That
hope was high and life worth living
I
dreamed that love would never die
I
dreamed that God would be forgiving-
If you don’t know this song, you should stop
reading immediately and ask Patti LuPone for forgiveness. It’s rumored that if
you stand in front of a mirror and say Patti LuPone three times, she appears
singing Life Goes On. If you’re desperate, you could reference the 2012 film
version of Les Misèrables, but this was 1992 and movie musicals were on hiatus.
Burning into his retinas, the spotlight
assisted a single, perfect, sparkling tear down his cheek. Somebody’s mother wept
audibly from the front row. Denim threw his briefs on the stage. He had them in
the palm of his hand. This was it. This was his moment to shine bright like a
diamond.
Eyes fluttering open from the dream, he pulled
the oracle flyer from his chest and continued reading.
Tonight
at 5:00!!!
Prepare
a SHORT song, sheet music or a cappella
Sign Up
Below!
Why was this comic sans screaming at
him? Pulling a pen from his bag, he wrote his name in capital letters next to
5:05. Odd, the sheet was not yet full. Perhaps, it was just placed. Also, he
was suspicious about this Laurie Devlin character signed up for the 5:00 slot.
Who was she? Was she pretty? Could she sing? Could she dance? Would she act?
Stephen narrowly avoided the temptation to scratch out her name, but instead
reflected upon the good works of healthy competition.
***Note:
This is not the Broadway musical version
Come again? Not the Broadway musical version?
What the hell version was it?! Stephen wracked his brain to recall another
version. He remembered there was The Phantom of the Opera by one Sir Andrew
Lloyd Webber and then that “other one”, which he boycotted entirely. He
couldn’t for the life of him think of another version of Les Misèrables! Regardless,
he was going to sing I Dreamed a Dream, as God intended, and that was the end
of it. Like it or not. Now, he definitely needed to get out of here. Preparation
was called for. Lemons. Tea. Honey. Rest! To the exit he flew, but was stopped
short by a familiar figure protruding from the chorus room door. It was the
figure who saved him from earlier from potential trampling.
“Where are you going?”
“Diarrhea!!!”
“You can’t leave,” said Chorus Teacher, not
buying it.
“What is this? Jail?!”
“Between the hours of 8:15 and 3:35, this is,
indeed, jail. And please return that sign up sheet to the auditorium door so
that other students who are interested in auditioning can do so.”
Stephen completely forgot he was still holding
the sheet. She watched him like a hawk, Stephen gingerly scratching the tape
from the door, placing the sheet underneath.
“Put it on the right way.”
Stephen flipped it around so that the text was
facing outward, “There. Happy?”
“Will you be auditioning?”
“Well, I guess. I mean, I dunno. I mean, what
do you think? You think I should? I guess I mean, why else am I holding the
sheet?!”
“Maybe you should lay off the soda. Come on in.”
She closed the door behind them. “Alright, Chorus Teacher, whaddya got for me?”
“Ms. Bickler,” she said, pointing to the chalk
board. “What will you be singing for auditions?”
“First, I have questions.”
“You seem like the type.”
Stephen launched into a series of questions,
beginning at the obvious, “what is this if it’s not the Broadway musical?” He
took in most of her response with a cotton-balled ear that filtered everything
out other than the word Broadway. She said nothing that would alleviate his
perplexity at this strange, underground version of the French revolutionary
classic. Bickler suggested “calming down for a moment” and “trying out a song”
from the version he had familiarity with. She returned from her office with the
Les Misèrables vocal selections book, took a seat at the piano and cracked her
bony fingers. Stephen swore he heard one finger break. Turning to the song Empty
Chairs at Empty Tables, a tale of grief and betrayal styled by the character of
the young, revolutionary, Marius Pontmercy, Bickler slapped her palms on to the
keys and dove right in.
“Stop!” Stephen screamed. He snatched the book,
flipping to I Dreamed a Dream. With a stifled flinch, Bickler began. Stephen
raised his hands to smooth down the front of his rayon shirt, just like the
dream.
I
dreamed a dream in times gone by
When
hope was high and life worth living
I
dreamed that love would never die
I
dreamed that God would be forgiving
“You’re a little under the pitch. Why don’t you
take it down the octave?” Bickler suggested.
“I can’t hear you!”
But I
was young and unafraid
And
dreams were made and used and wasted
There
was no ransom to be paid
No
song unsung, no wine untasted
But
the tigers come at night
With
their voices soft as thunder
“A little softer, please,” they both said.
As
they tear your hope apart
As
they turn your dreams to shaaaaaaaaaaame-
An orchestra swelled, the strings carrying
Stephen from the shitty carpeted room, away from the piano and the bony fingers,
transporting him right into the spotlight’s beam, that grew most intensely. The
audience roared and everybody almost died!
He
slept a summer by my side
He
filled my days with endless wonder
He
took my childhood in his stride
But
he was gone when autumn came
Illuminated seductively by Emergency Exit red, sat
Denim in the front row, his blue eyes dazzling, as per usual. A single, silver
glitter tear rolled down Stephen’s face, as he thought this must be what the
Rapture feels like.
And
still I dreamed he’ll come to me
That
we will live the years together
But
there are dreams that cannot be
And
there are storms we cannot weather
Emotions flooded from within him, flowing out
in inspired, swatting hand gestures.
I had
a dream my life would be
So
different from this hell I’m living
So
different now from what it seemed
The grand finish, so soft, so moving!
Now
live has killed (big
breath) the dream I dreamed
Silence fell over the audience as the song
ended. It was not the silent hush of his dreaming, however, but silence that
landed with a dull thud. This audience was not the audience of Broadway, but rather
a thin, unimpressive group of semi-comatose high school theatre nerds. It was
5:09. Several perspired seconds stretched to capacity. An enthusiastic solo
clap from Short Girl spasmed from where she sat. This was as disappointing as understudies
at a Wednesday matinee.
A cough erupted that sounded a lot like
“faggot”. Denim pulled his hands from his mouth, a shit-eating grin planted
across his face. What the hell was he doing here? Bickler gave a thumbs up from
behind the piano. The Drama Teacher smiled so big, it made Stephen nervous.
Stephen couldn’t understand why everyone else looked so fucking bereft. What
could be so damn confusing?
“Thank you, um, Stephen, was it?” Drama teacher
asked. Stephen was not going to let this break him. After all, he was an artist
and as everyone knows, all artists must bear failure. Pushing back his hair,
Stephen descended the stage steps, refusing to wipe the tear from his face.
On his way out, he stopped and faced Denim dead
on. Staring into his deep, blue ocean eyes, Stephen pinched his thigh with his
right hand to stop himself from swimming, “I had high hopes for you.” And with
that, Stephen was out the door.
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