FRUITCAKE Chap. 1-6
I love witches and magic and
dress-up and make believe.
-Helena Bonham Carter, Known Faerie
FRESHMAN YEAR
1992
Chapter One
Free Your Mind
In the mirror, he rolled the ball
in slow circles over his outstretched lips. The gloss shot raspberry flavor on
to the tip of his tongue. Smacked his lips and pressed play on his CD alarm
clock. En Vogue, “Free Your Mind”.
From the closet, he snatched a floral
rayon shirt, pulled up a pair of acid-washed denim, rolling them up three,
chunky times. Then, his mother’s Maybelline foundation to smooth over the
rosacea on his cheeks. He was not his mother’s shade, and as such, his face
appeared framed in a creamy circle.
Jesus came down from the wall above
his bed to play the role of microphone. Writhing on the bed while molesting
Jesus, he worked himself into a grab bag of sexy poses he’d seen on MTV. Rotating
his tongue around Jesus’ wounds, he was careful to retract his teeth. Less than
a year ago, during a peculiar bout of stomach flu and Mariah Carey, Jesus near
possessed him, leaving him with a cracked tooth.
Before we venture any further,
there are, no doubt, those of you who were born after 1992. Perhaps, even after
Destiny’s Child’s self-titled debut album. A time, we’ll refer to as pre-Beyoncé.
In pre-Beyoncé times, there existed an entire world of Contemporary R&B. A
time when Mariah Carey sang live. Leading the charge were En Vogue, Lisa Lisa
and the Cult Jam, Janet Jackson, Whitney Houston, SWV. If you’ve never heard
“No Ordinary Love”, you should stop reading right now and google these four people:
1.)
Sade
2.)
Tawny
Kitaen
3.)
Johnny Carson
4.)
Rodney King
As he buttoned his top, beginning a
healthy distance down from the clavicle, he practiced mutating his esses into
more of a masculine, Sean Connery shh sound. From under his bed, he pulled a
two by four, fastening it to his back with bungee cords. On went a pair of
penny loafers, placing a dime in each keeper. A witch before he knew it.
He walked around the bedroom,
impaled by the wooden crucifix, forcefully blurting into the mirror introductions
of “how do you do?”, choking on his deepened voice, adding a masculine –s here
and there. “The flowershh are shho lovely!”. Had it not been for the deceit of
a limp-wristed handshake, he might have passed. For an alien learning “the
ropes”.
There is no fear greater than a
queer’s first day in high school. The
night before, he stuffed a backpack in eager preparation, crossing items off a
monogrammed notepad as they went in.
In the kitchen, he popped two Eggo
waffles into the toaster. As he waited, he watched the diabetic cat shaking its
way to a floor bound bowl, eventually submerging its head into the kibble. After
several moments, when the cat did not reemerge, he shouted its name, “Skittles!”
The cat came around and began to shake its way back out of the room,
disappearing into the foyer.
Out come the waffles on to a plate.
From the freezer, a pint of vanilla ice cream. A scoop between, topped off with
fake maple syrup. He never had a taste for the real stuff. Too woody. And his
mother was inclined to store brand foods and factory outlets. He resented her
deeply for his Lee’s jeans.
Two minutes to spare until the
yellow death machine arrived, he called upon his Catholic upbringing with
prayer, spitting melting corn syrup confection with each word.
“In the name of the Father, the Son
and the Holy Ghost. Ghoshht.
Dear Jesus, please protect me Lord
on this day, the first day of a new school. I have not always been there for
you in the past, and neither have you for me, if we’re being honest. But maybe
today you could send me some of that fabulous saintly magic for once? It’s the
least you can do. Especially after that tooth incident. And the talent show! I
still haven’t forgiven you for that one! But I’m working on it. I know that
life was super hard for you but I don’t remember anything in the Bible about
getting stuck in a leotard after performing several fantastic and very
difficult magic tricks to Let’s Get Physical by my savior and patron saint of
disco pop, Olivia Newton John. I came up with the water into red Kool-aid thing
myself. You of all people should appreciate that. And also, we should probably
address the ‘tit incident’ soon but I don’t really want to get into that right
now. If you could perform one of your miracles today, please make me invisible.
And please sit me in the front of home room closest to the teacher. The back is
usually full of assholes and the middle is like the middle of the ocean.
Anything could happen!
Amen.”
He catches the sound of the bus, a
metal asthmatic attack on wheels, laboring itself up the hill like a paraplegic
horse shot with a tranquilizer. Grabbing the half-eaten breakfast dessert, he
stumbles to the back door, adding-
“Oh, and Jesus? Please don’t make
me run a mile in gym class. Thankshh.”
Skipping down the driveway, he
mounts the bus with a careful pride. Surveying the inhabitants like captive
creatures at Sea World, he takes a quick assessment of where the sharks are.
Over time, they swim towards the back, but first day is always a free-for-all before
each find their respective cages or feeding grounds. A few seats back, floating
in a particularly discreet part of the water, he catches a minnow, looking more
nervous than he. He shimmies into the seat. From behind coke bottle glasses, Minnow
stares ahead, unmoved.
He says, “Hi. I’m Stephen.”
“Hi. That’s a really cool shirt,”
replied Minnow.
“It’s rayon.”
“Rayon,” Minnow repeats, slurping
the word.
“It’s a versatile fiber.”
The bus lurches ahead, sending both
foreheads to smack the seat in front. As the smell Minnow began to rise like
Jesus on day three, he thought to himself, this is going to be a long ride.
Chapter Two
Shark!
The horror! The yellow death
machine was sixth to arrive and the parking lot was busting at the belt. The
last fifteen minutes, he dodged spit balls that collected in Minnow’s hair, by
taking the position he’d learned on a rowdy flight to Disney World. He felt as
if getting transferred from county jail to the state correctional facility. Once,
he had a pet cucumber named Mel Gibson on which he practiced magic tricks in
the basement. A lethal weapon indeed! But, Stephen wasn’t oblivious enough to
think every cop looked like Mel Gibson. Who could afford the hairspray? And so,
with Mel, the cop fantasy ended. For now.
Some soul was getting fed his
Trapper Keeper by the glass doors. This is what reality saw, but what Stephen
witnessed were townsfolk in unfinished garments and clunky shoes, pushing the
chair out from under the noose-dangling witch. As he walked past, clutching the
backpack straps like a parachute, he caught the algae-green eyes of a
pockmarked interloper who stopped for a moment to shoot two big, evil eye
lasers right into Stephen’s brain.
He pushed through the glass doors
and was immediately surrounded by a feeding frenzy. Squinting his eyes to
adjust to the fluorescent lighting, he noticed the upper classmen snarling like
gargoyles at the sides of the hall, swooping on freshmen as they tried to pass
unnoticed. It was the scene from Hitchcock’s The Birds. And everyone else was
Tippi.
His shirt was the first to take a verbal
hit. Followed by the jeans. He could’ve killed his mother! He waited patiently
for someone to notice how rich his loafers were. But, no. Instead, what really
took him by surprise was the abuse directed at his backpack.
“What a plain, plain, black
backpack! You’re so stupid! Are you poor?!”
Stephen wrenched his upper lip to
his nose, rolling his eyes. What he really wanted to do was spin around and
shout, “fuck you, whore!”, but instead chose, “thank you!”
Whore was pretty much the worst thing
you could say to a teenage girl. Slut was more or less acceptable because it
meant you weren’t the one thing that was worse than a slut, a virgin. But whore
meant you practically made a profession out of it. Also, it was a well-known
rumor that sluts wore their fourteen-karat gold crucifixes on the outside of
their sweaters and whores kept theirs tucked close to the breasts. Everyone in
the school would know a whore by how many boys had seen the style of the cross,
Jesus or without.
Thrown to ground by a chaotic rush,
Stephen watched as the tormentors dragged the witch by their Nike Air t-shirt up
the hallway. Nearly trampled by the stampede, a saving hand grabbed Stephen’s
arm and tossed him through a door and into a classroom with chairs lined in
rows, facing an upright piano. Attached to the hand was an old woman with short,
vanishing, musty yellow hair. She smelled like a motel room air-conditioner,
hacking through every word.
“Are you a singer?” Hack.
This was a question he could get
behind. “Why, yes. Yes, I am!”
“Chorus meets Monday, Wednesday and
Thursday after school.” Hack.
“That’s quite a commitment.”
“We need some tenors. How high can
you sing?”
Stephen cleared his throat, rounded
up some spit in his mouth, swallowing it. Taking a deep breath, Stephen smashed
his loafers into the shitty carpet, coiling up his fingers like Carrie at the
prom, and let out a vibrating falsetto that could best be described as Vision
of Love slowed to sixty percent.
“Jesus Christ.”
This was not the response Stephen
anticipated.
“Come back after last class and
we’ll see what happens.” She hacked as she showed him the door, unceremoniously
slamming it behind him.
“Rude.”
As he fished out a paper from the
backpack, Stephen’s stomach gurgled something fierce. The home printer was low
on ink. He could make out only the first two numbers of home room. Two two. He
was met with one of two choices. Stephen could try and figure it out on his
own, one of ten numbers, or go to the school office and ask. Not a place he wanted
to show face on first day.
He chose the office. It was a
circus. As he slinked up to the desk, he was ignored. All eyes were turned
towards a door left slightly ajar. The booming voice inside came through clear
as day.
“Young man, you must know that guns
are not allowed in school. Fake or otherwise!” The voice belonged to a hairless
giant, belly slumped over his belt, who poked out his big shiny head and shut
the door. The plaque on the door read Vice Principal.
“Can I help you?” asked a
secretarial type.
“I’m looking for my home room.”
“Did you get a class schedule?”
“Yes. But my printer ran out of ink
and I can’t seem to-”
Before he could finish, the woman
snatched the sheet from Stephen’s hand, giving him a paper cut. “You need a
cartridge.”
“I’m sorry?”
“An ink cartridge!”
“I know!”
Stephen was beginning to think
everyone here was deaf. So, to insure he was heard, he raised his voice. “I
can’t read the last number! My mother didn’t order a new cartridge!! Can you
tell me which way to go?!!!”
“You don’t need to yell. What’s
your name? I can’t read that either.”
“Stephen.”
“Last name?”
“Kowalczyk.”
“What?”
“Stephen Kowalczyk.”
“You’re going to have to spell that.”
Stephen only got a few letters out before he
was asked to go back and repeat them. This was taking forever. The bell rang.
“C-Z-Y-”
“Wait, what? Go from C again.”
“C-Z-Y-Z!!”
“Again, with the yelling. One minute.”
The bell rang again. It was certain death. If
he arrived at home room late, he would no longer be invisible. He’d be a disruption
and everyone would see. God knows what could happen! His brain flooded with
images from every horror movie he’d ever seen and he was a horror movie
fanatic. Practically seen them all. More terrifying than any horror film, he
imagined he might go by way of the Snow White ride at Disney World, strapped
down in a claustrophobic two-seater next to his mother, entirely out of his
control, passing under the mechanical Queen who would throw a fiberglass boulder
aimed straight for his face. Stephen yelped at the thought. No matter how fat
he got, he’d always have his face.
And then, the horror of horrors! The morning
announcement. This death was going to be bad. Real bad.
Reemerging from a ten foot tall filing cabinet,
secretarial type said, “Here we go. Two two seven.”
“Mary!”
“Come again?”
“The TV show. Never mind. Bye.” Stephen ran
out.
This time in the hallway was the most sketch. Like
midnight on Hallowe’en, when dead steel workers clawed their way out of the
grave, unhappy and revenge-fueled. Also, it looked a lot like the alleys in Law
and Order when the drug deals were going down. Only a few stragglers in long,
leather coats staring at the floor for a sign. If there was a sale at the
Rite-Aid on black hair dye, he didn’t get the paper saver.
As he entered two two seven, the air rushed
out. All of the nightmares he had about playing Christine in the Broadway musical
Phantom of the Opera, when he couldn’t remember the lyrics to the title song,
felt less unreal as all eyes stared.
A very, very, very, very, very excruciatingly
long pause.
“You’re late,” the Queen foamed at the mouth.
Literally, foamed. From ten feet away, Stephen could see the white crust at the
corners of her mouth. Stephen explained the incident with the printer ink and
the time he’d spent in the office waiting for the gatekeeper to tell him where
to go, throwing in a small bit about the terror of guns in school. He could’ve
said all this. But in the moment, all that came out was, “RAYON!”
Stephen took a seat. It was not in the front.
It was not in the back. It was in the fucking middle.
Not two seconds later, the first big bitch was
creeping up. Great, he thought. There they were again, the algae eyes and
pockmarks, within smelling distance. Didn’t anybody shower anymore?
Stephen dropped his backpack opposite side of
the desk from Big Bitch. An Olympic tactic he’d perfected in middle school,
Stephen ignored danger by pretending to search for candy. He’d even gotten his
entire head in. But, no dice. The facial volcanos boiled down the back of his
neck.
“Is that a purse?” quizzed Big Bitch.
A purse, Stephen thought, does it look like a
fucking purse?
“No. It’s a backpack. Would you like me to
spell that for you?”
“What you say?”
If this asshole on the intercom weren’t
prattling on about the joys of joining a club or intramurals, Stephen could
pack up and get the hell out of there. However, they were going in alphabetical
order. Badminton.
“Give me a Kleenex from that purse,” Big Bitch spit.
Stephen thought, maybe he’ll use it to wipe that fucking ooze off of his face,
reaching into the backpack and pulling out one, and only one, from a travel
pouch.
Perhaps, Big Bitch didn’t mean any harm. Maybe,
he really needed a Kleenex. Maybe, his mother couldn’t afford a purse and so
he’d never seen one. Stephen played it as simple overreacting. High school
didn’t need to be so bad.
As Stephen put himself in his happy place, the
Kleenex met his cheek with a slap. Big Bitch took a swipe, bringing the tissue
to his algae eyes, “what is this?”
Panic ensued and the first bead of sweat rolled
down Stephen’s neck like fucking spider. This was it, he thought. Over before
it began. Motherfucking asshat!
Big Bitch shoved the tan-stained tissue under
Stephen’s nose. Everything stopped. The birds outside stopped chirping. The
wind rustled the trees, newly planted by ex-con janitors. The asshole on the
intercom spoke in a demon whisper. The Queen momentarily stopped foaming at the
mouth and the whole world ceased to rotate on its axis. It’s moments like these
when you’re faced with a life-altering decision. You could-
The bell rang.
“It’s Maybelline you big bitch!” Stephen’s
loafers clicked as he ran out of the room.
Chapter Three
Safety First
First class.
Shop Class.
8:43 and Stephen was already bored to tears. He
pretended to take notes by drawing squares and connecting the corners to make a
box. At the front of the class, Mr. Pennypacker held court like a stupid jester
from behind a suspicious, homemade-looking work table. In his hand, a small,
wood box. He demonstrated with questionable integrity how the class might go
about making one of their own. Great, Stephen thought, maybe he could hide his
feelings for this class in it.
Something crawled in Stephen’s hair. Smacking
the back of his head was met with inappropriate laughter. Odd. He did not turn
around. Stephen CHOSE not to turn around.
More crawling. Stephen swatted the air at the
back of his head. Again, laughter. Now, the time, too, went into a crawl as he
watched the clock on the wall.
“Is there a problem?” Pennypacker asked from
behind plastic goggles. When the fuck did he put those on? The laughter stopped.
No one responded. He continued the lecture.
Again, crawling. Stephen spun around in his
seat like a top, his eyes the size of dark moons. There sat Big Bitch, digging
his crusty fingers into the back of Stephen’s scalp. Stephen barked, “do you
mind?” Laughter.
“What is the problem?” Pennypacker scoffed,
pointing towards Stephen. But, where he fixed his gaze from behind what Stephen
referred to as “handicap glasses” was
vague, to say the least. “What is your name?”
No response.
“What is your name, young man?”
Stephen looked from side to side as Pennypacker
dangled his corndog finger on air. Stephen gestured towards himself. “Yes, you.
What is your name?”
“Shhtephen.”
“Would you mind telling me what I just said?”
“What is your name?”
“No, wise ass. What I said before.” From behind
Stephen, the stifled cackling between dry lips made sounds like pigs fucking.
“Stephen.”
“Well, Sssstephen,” Pennypacker lisped, “maybe
you’d like to tell me and the entire class what it was I was saying about the
importance of safety goggles?”, tapping the front of the handicap glasses with
his index finger.
“I don’t, no,” adding, “if the class were
paying attention, Mr. Pennypacker, they’d hardly need it repeated.”
Nervous laughter broke out like acne. Stephen
was certain he’d overstepped, but if these teachers didn’t learn what he was
all about right up front, they’d never learn.
“I’m sure everyone would benefit from your
insight. So, please, come up to the front of the room and tell all of your
classmates about the importance of these,” tap, tap tap, “safety goggles.”
Christ.
Reluctantly, Stephen smoothed the front of his
Lee’s and made his way up to the wood, craft table. Taking a place next to
Pennypacker, the turned to face the captive audience of pre-alcoholic deviants.
Pretty much everyone’s faces echoed the same thrill he was feeling. He thrust
his hand out to Pennypacker, palm up.
“Glasses, please.”
Resistant, Pennypacker placed them into the
palm with a labored sigh. With a flourish, Stephen put the glasses on,
finishing off with a single-fingered push-press up the bridge of the nose. He
picked up a pencil from the table, tapped it several times while clearing his
throat, placing it into an imaginary front shirt pocket. Pennypacker followed
the pencil as it dropped to the ground and rolled towards the feet of a girl,
chewing the ends of her hair in the front row.
“Clashh. Please turn your attention to my face.
These are called handicap glasses-”
“Safety goggles!” Pennypacker barked.
“Safety goggles. Does anyone here know what
these are used for?”
Blank stares.
“Don’t all raise your hands at once,” Stephen pressed.
“Anyone? Anyone?” Stephen crooked his head at an angle and pursed his lips, tapping
his foot.
Raising her hand, the hair-eater said in a
hushed tone, “safety?”
“That’s right! Clashh dishhmisshhed!”
Pennypacker growled, gesturing for the goggles
and waving Stephen back to his seat like he was clearing a fart.
“From here on out, I’m going to need everyone
to pay attention. Safety is no laughing matter. Now, if everyone can follow me
to the band saw.”
The Big Bitch seemed momentarily bemused and
Stephen rewarded his feat with a smirk.
Packed around the band saw like sardines in
stupid glasses, the class yawned their way through a long explanation that was
neither here nor there, but stuck corpse-like, dead center. Pennypacker read
from a manual he dug out of a box. Excusing his gross lack of knowledge, he
directed blame on the school board’s purchase of “new machines”. The “new
machines” looked fresh from an episode of Antique Roadshow and as such, Stephen
couldn’t imagine what the “old machines” looked like.
Storytime with Pennypacker
was well underway. Reading from the manual, “using a band saw is fun. As with
any tool, proficiency comes with practice. Follow all safety rules with your
saw. Keep your hands clear of the cut line. A band saw is a relatively safe
tool, but the blade is sharp and fast and can inflict serious injury in a
fraction of a second. Hold your hands on both sides of the cut line and clear
of the blade.
Well, okay. Why don’t we try
this thing out?”
Pennypacker fished a small,
square piece of wood from a trash can. Taking a pencil from his pocket
protector, he drew a lazy circle on to the square. The hair-eater dislodged her
mane from her mouth and let out an “ooo”. She was ignored. What did catch
Stephen’s attention was the squeaking sound coming from a short girl next to
him. No one else took notice and so, he thought, his ears were deceived.
“Mark the cut line and move the stock slowly,
steadily and firmly against the blade.
Okay.”
But, it was not okay, as the blade lurched
forward, cutting straight into the middle of square and immediately, becoming
stuck. The more he cranked the lever, the more the blade was unmoved. Pennypacker
floated curses like a gypsy, through clenched teeth. The saw dust that had collected
on the glasses from the first cut had rendered Pennypacker blind, and with one
flick of his hand, they were on the ground.
The squeaking returned.
Pennypacker shook the machine with increasing
force, wrestling with it in a maneuver that could be described as Fish Stick
Fingers of Death. Stephen watched as Short Girl brought her cupped palms to her
face, blowing tiny, idiot kisses. What the fuck? Between her hands, a mouse.
The scene turned avant-garde, and the lever was now in Pennypacker’s hand.
He roared, “what is that squeaking?!” as the
machine suddenly went full Star Trek reengagement. Pennypacker turned and the
square dismounted, flying directly into his naked eye. Blood sprayed on to
Short Girl, who screamed, dropping the mouse. Hair-eater shoved more hair into
her mouth. P-Packer grunted, smashing his hands over the dismembered eye,
screaming, “somebody call the nurse!”
Everyone panicked for different reasons. Big
Bitch adjusted his balls. Stephen sighed. He wasn’t any less bored, but found the
scene mildly amusing. And, for the first time, he felt he wasn’t the weirdest
person in the room. The bell rang.
Mouth agape, a teacher appeared at the door
entrance, quickly thrown to the floor by the exiting students, leaving foot
prints on her pleated skirt. The mouse was the last to leave but didn’t make it
further than the skirt, burying itself deep within. Pressing herself to
standing, the mouse fell from the pleats, landing on her Naturalizers. In mere
seconds, she was back on the ground, having fainted.
Stephen really wanted some popcorn to enjoy the
unfolding mayhem. Pennypacker moved to exit but didn’t quite make it, getting
caught in the skirt and landing on to Fainter with a thud, who in turn,
released a guttural sound.
Grabbing his backpack, Stephen made his way out
of class. Stepping gingerly over the bodies, a sense of hopeful abandon fanned
through his hair. As he passed, he looked down at P-Packer and concluded the
first class of the day with grand finality, “safety first!”
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,
this sight brought forth a mesmerizing display of fireworks, both breathtaking
and awkward. His entire body convulsed and the alien lifeform 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.
Chapter 5
Small Parts
“Jean Valjean?” Stephen screwed up his eyes, reading the
cast list again, “this is a nightmare!”
“At
least you have a name! Who is Factory Wench #2, as assigned?” spat Short Girl. Grabbing
the Xerox from Stephen’s shaking hand, she placed it back on the auditorium
door, adding, “I think it’s pronounced Jean like Levi’s.”
“It’s
French, Short Girl.”
“I
have a name! It’s Evelyn.”
“Don’t
tell anyone else that.”
Stephen
questioned the validity of this mess, the image of the beautiful, lace costume
of Fantine, sized to fit his husky jeans body, turning to shit-stained, horizontal
stripes and stippled, brown beard. Even worse, spirit gum brown beard. Shit
turd! This spelled humiliation with a capital fuck off! He took Evelyn by the
arm and dragged her down the hall, up the stairs, and straight to the source. Lemon-lipped,
he marched with Short-, Evelyn, through Mr. Drama Teacher’s classroom door.
“There
seems to be some kind of mistake, Mr…,” Stephen searched, eyes landing on the
chalkboard, “Smith. Mr. Smith.”
“Congratulations
are in order, Stephen,” Mr. Smith babbled, peering up from a stack of papers on
his desk, with the grin of a child, like he just discovered the extra row of
Twizzlers.
“I’m
far too young to play Jean Valjean.” In his mind, Stephen really argued “far
too attractive” and “unhelpful”.
“Quite
the audition, young man! The emotion! The connection to the song! You
definitely have the makings of a thespian.”
“My
cousin is a thespian and she plays a lot of sports.”
“Thespian,
Stephen. As in, stage actor.”
Stephen
and Evelyn share a moment of confusion.
Evelyn
sucked the mystery out of everything, and as such, made no effort to hide that
she felt some kind of way for Mr. Smith. She had a thought or three about playing
Factory Wench #2, yet, she trilled, “Thank you, Mr. Smith. I’ll be the best
wench of them all!”
Stephen
and Mr. Smith share a moment of confusion.
“Are
you up for memorizing the lines? Quite the undertaking! I’m certain you’re up
for playing one of the great roles in the canon.”
Stephen
pictured a turd canon. A canon to shoot large turds, aimed directly for him. However,
Mr. Smith’s flattery did not go unnoticed. Maybe, this wasn’t a complete bus
crash. Maybe, this designer imposter musical might offer up a nugget or two in
the form of power ballads.
Stephen
deflected, “Yes to the lines. Now, what am I singing?”
“Stephen,
it’s not a musical. It’s a play with music.”
“I
don’t get it.”
“A
play. With music.”
“My
brain hurts. Make it stop!”
“We’re
adding two songs from the Broadway vocal selections book for Fantine and Marius,
to, as you say, beef up their roles.”
“Treason!
And, I’m not playing Marius, I’m playing Jean Valjean!”
“That’s
right! You have the most lines.”
“Son
of a,” came up from Stephen’s gut like bile, Evelyn quickly blocking the last
word with her palm. Shooting knives from his eyes, Stephen propelled through
several emotions in a few seconds. He turned and walked out of the room,
leaving Evelyn behind to gawk.
“Short-,
Evelyn!” he yelled from the hall.
With
a smirk, Evelyn walked out of the room backwards, unlike a normal person.
“I
feel very attacked,” ranted Stephen in the hall.
“Isn’t
he just, you know?” licked Evelyn.
“Does
he think I look old? Do you think I look old?”
“I
think you look smashing.”
“My
face looks smashed?!”
“The
way he speaks. I just wanna eat his mouth with a spoon.”
“I
put everything into that song.”
“Those
eyes. I just wanna lick ‘em.”
“I
have the best voice in this shit show school!”
“I
just wanna eat his fucking hair!”
Stephen
grabbed Evelyn by the shoulders and gave her a good shake, “Get a hold of
yourself! Are you paying attention to me?”
“Yes.
I think.”
“Do
you think I look old?”
“No.
Not really.”
“Not
really?! Do I look old or not?!”
“Why
are you screaming at me?”
“Listen.
I’m going to make a pact with you right here and now. Got it? We always tell
each other the truth. Thick or thin. Rain or shine. We’re always honest with
each other, cool?”
“A
secret pact?”
“Sure.”
Evelyn
did a little dance. “Yea, baby!”
“Gross.”
Stephen
and Evelyn took their seats in art class.
“Isn’t
Mr. Turner cool? He’s like, really, really cool.” Stephen was beginning to
think Evelyn had some sort of complex, as she bit her bottom lip and sized up
the art teacher like a Happy Meal. Mr. Turner was black. Most of what Stephen
knew of black people came from In Living Color and much of the music he
listened to. This amount of in-person black time sparked a bevy of questions
that pried at the front of his lips.
“Class,”
Mr. Turner instructed, “I want you to delve deep into your imagination. Let the
brush instruct the watercolors upon the paper. What do you dream? What is
calling forth from your subconscious?”
Stephen looked around the room. A girl painted
her entire paper the color red, periodically jamming her brush with clenched
fist into red paint, and then continuing to paint in long, slashing movements.
Another girl painted her forearm. Minnow tried his hand at tasting the paint,
turning his tongue a putrid green.
“Evelyn,”
Mr. Turner said from behind her, sending shivers up her spine, “tell me about
this story.” Stephen brought his gaze to Evelyn’s “art”, struggling to find
anything concrete.
“It’s
my dad’s auto shop. And this is in the future and I’m the owner of the shop,”
Evelyn boasted.
“Very
interesting, Evelyn. Could you dream bigger? What is inside your heart? What is
your passion? Be passionate. Be fire!”
Evelyn
looked like a deer caught in headlights after getting shot by hunter. She
didn’t move. It was difficult to believe she still drew breath. If the wheels
were turning in Evelyn’s mind, they were lubed as to not make a sound. Then,
without warning, Evelyn made a high-pitched squeak and swung into gear, startling
Mr. Turner, who jumped.
Stephen
and Mr. Turner watched something from deep within Evelyn stir the paint to
paper in speeding fury. When she was finished, she sighed theatrically, dropped
the brush into the water and placed her palms on to the table like the end of a
hot dog eating contest.
It
was obvious Mr. Turner was searching for the best wording. “Hm. Evelyn, tell us
about- what you’ve- added here.”
Evelyn
slowly turned towards Mr. Turner with a kind of demonic possession, eyes wide
and grin pulled taught in the direction of her ears, adding, “it’s private.” She
stared, unflinching. Now, Mr. Turner was the deer.
“Alright,
Evelyn, I’m gonna let you get back to that,” Mr. Turner said over his shoulder
as he walked away.
As
Stephen didn’t fully trust Evelyn, he was not about to broach a conversation
regarding the white and black paints co-mingling in a frenzy before her.
Stephen took to his own art, unenthused and barely inspired, picking the brush
from the water, dipping it into blue paint and dabbing the paper three times.
He was finished.
“Mr.
Turner smells real good,” Evelyn said, “like peanut butter. Anyway. So, that
Drew can really sing, huh?”
“Who
is Drew and what are you talking about?”
“Drew,
the dude in the denim jacket!”
“What
do you mean?”
“Didn’t
you look at the rest of the cast sheet?”
“No.
Duh.”
“He’s
playing Marius!”
Stephen
didn’t see the truck coming before it hit him. Denim was playing Marius?
Denim’s name was Drew? Denim could sing?! Wait, what?! Stephen stood up from
his chair, turned around three times, flinging his hands about and then, sat
back down.
“Everything
alright, Stephen?” asked Mr. Turner from across the room.
“Yes,
Mr. Turner. Just finding my passion and fire!” Mr. Turner continued on, as
Stephen leaned in to Evelyn, “I didn’t hear him sing. This must’ve been after I
left.”
“You
left in a hurry.”
“I
was busy. Wait a minute,” Stephen worked through the story of Les Misèrables
from beginning to end, finally landing on something of interest, “this means-
oh my God.” He turned pale at his recollection of Act Two. In Act Two, Jean
Valjean would scoop up Marius’ lifeless body, throw him over his shoulder and
carry him through the Paris sewers, saving him. Also, something about taking
him back to his adopted daughter Cosette so they can fall in love and get
married, but whatever. The important thing here is that Stephen would have to
touch Denim. He would have to be in close, physical contact. He would get to
feel the denim all over his body.
Stephen
added, “how much do you think he weighs?”
“I’m
not sure-”
“Nevermind.”
Mr.
Turner leaned over Stephen’s shoulder, “Minimalism. I think you’re on to
something. Nice work, Stephen.”
“Mr.
Turner,” said Stephen, “do you think I can ask you something if you promise not
to get offended?”
Mr.
Turner paused. With mixed hesitation, he said, “Go ahead.”
“Are
these watercolors cheap? I think I’d like to buy some and paint at home.”
With
relief, “Yes, I think so.”
As
Mr. Turner walked away, Stephen heard his father’s voice say “hardworking” in
his head. It was the only thing he said when he referred to a black co-worker. Stephen
had to agree that Mr. Turner appeared to enjoy his job as a teacher. He hadn’t
seen anything that would suggest otherwise. And he would also add, “very
creative” and “cautious”. But there was something about “hardworking” that
didn’t sit well with him. Were the other employees lazy? And if they were lazy,
why weren’t they fired and replaced with “hardworking” employees?
Chapter 6
Gym class
Stephen
was in no mood to run a mile. The whole concept of running around in circles
was beneath his talents, some evil plot by the school to turn every reject into
a lab rat. A pond of the mindless, setting up shop for a future in manual labor.
This did not fit into his dreams. In his dreams, he imagined himself for a life
on the stage, where there were no sports, only emotions. Also, Stephen couldn’t
run further than a quarter of a track lap without having to stop to catch his
breath. If they were so concerned with keeping students healthy and in-shape,
they could stop serving mac and cheese with cut-up hot dogs at lunch and avoid
this gym crap altogether.
Denim
was barely recognizable without his denim jacket. Stephen watched at a relaxed distance
from the bleachers, Denim out-pacing everyone on the track, the hair on his
legs whistling on wind. He desperately wanted to hate him, but something under
his skin betrayed. He could attack the moment and get all of this out and over
with, if he made his way down to the track, stood in the middle and used his
body like a wall, forcing he and Denim to become one. Worried about his face, that
wasn’t an option. How would this even work in the school’s non-Broadway play
with music? It would be obvious to everyone in the school that Jean Valjean,
not Marius, should be the one carried over the rats and feces. Oh, the
conundrum! Later, he could work out this frustration with watercolor paints.
“Stephen,
I need you down on the track,” Coach yelled from the track.
“I
can’t run today. Or, any day.”
“Do
you have a Doctor’s note?”
Did
Stephen have a Doctor’s note? What a valid question. He could have a Doctor’s
note. From what Doctor and how he went about getting the note was another
matter, but he was good with scissors and forgeries, a tool he picked up in
junior high school after he found himself thrust into a typing class he had no
business being in.
“It’s
forthcoming!”
“Well,
until it comes, I’ll need you down here on the track!”
Christ!
This place is a fucking trap!
Exasperated,
Stephen huffed from his aluminum seat and took steps forward in thirty-second
increments, moving as slowly as he could, hoping the bell would ring and all of
this could be done with. After all, it was nearing the end of class, after
spending the first half playing a stupid game consisting of yard rulers and
stretching. Who tied their shoelaces with straight legs? Trying to hold the
last step as long as he could, his faulty balance betrayed, landing his
sneakers on the track dirt. The bell did not ring. In this moment, he was very against
the thought of running. He would do just about anything not to. And so, with
feigned determination, he moved to the middle of the track just as the herd of
boys were turning the final bend, Denim in the lead. It was the only lead he’d
ever get, Stephen scoffed.
Instead
of running with the flow of traffic, Stephen planted his feet firmly, dust kicking
up from the nearing runners. As they closed in, he could feel the rushing air
down the back of his neck. Time to take these bullies by the horns. Possessed
by a sudden death wish, Stephen spun around to face them, and like some kind of
demented bird, stretched his arms wide. The moment of impact approaching,
Stephen could smell the Colgate on Denim’s breath. But before two could become
one, Denim lurched to the right, avoiding the collision.
Stephen was not in the clear. What you’re about
to hear happened in less time than it will take to describe. In fact, it was
already over. But, not “over”. In the slowest motion you could possibly
imagine, Roseanne Barr on-a-treadmill slow, Stephen turned to come face to face
with the burden of teenage life, the marks of a road not-yet-traveled, the road
kill on the road to somewhere.
The festering pimple attached to the
vein-popping red-faced beast, otherwise known as Big Bitch, suddenly exploded
from the pressure of Bitch’s mouth stretching to capacity, spewing forth
“fuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuck” in a register unrecognizable to the human ear,
spitting oily residue on to Stephen’s lips. Stephen’s attempt to recoil his arms
from their bird position and protect his face, only got as far as Big Bitch’s
head, pulling him in for what seemed like a big, sloppy kiss. Scrunching his
face and closing his eyes as tightly as he could, the weight of Big Bitch
smacked him head on, sending both of them into the air. Under imminent death,
Stephen’s vision was what he interpreted might be that white light and the
hallway everyone talked about. He saw them floating on air, into the clouds,
and below, the boys looking up with pointed fingers. As they flew on this magic
carpet, bodies attached like synthetic fibers, Stephen thought this would be a
great time for a song. Singing was not possible, however, as Big Bitch’s mouth swallowed
his Adam’s apple. The vision subsided to the surmountable pain radiating from
Stephen’s chest, and shortly, they were back on the ground, choking on dirt.
Stephen was on his back like a cockroach. The
boys gathered around. Big Bitch pushed himself from Stephen, “Get off of me you
fag!”
And then, a strange, unexpected moment. The
boys began to point and laugh, but not at Stephen, at Big Bitch. There, as
plain as mother’s Naturalizers, was Big Bitch’s not-so-big penis, standing at
attention under his far-too-long mesh shorts. Big Bitch smacked the front of
his shorts, jostling them around, then, turning away, jamming his hand down
behind the elastic. The laughter grew, words were hissed here and there,
including Denim, who no longer stood in the shadow of the beast, but out front,
on his own. The kingdom had been usurped and the throne was taken by attack.
Finally, the damn bell.
“Break it up. Break it up,” lazily insisted
Coach, waving the boys off of the track.
“You’re fucking dead!” snarled Big Bitch,
running to catch up with the others.
“You’re nuts, man,” said Denim, now Drew,
reaching his hand towards Stephen’s corpse like an angel of mercy. As Stephen
took his hand, he felt the electricity of 80s synth-pop singe every cell in his
body. Bon Jovi was only appropriate in a moment like this. Stephen brushed off
the front of shirt.
“Thank you,” said Stephen, but Drew was already
gone. If skin to skin contact with Drew was that, rehearsal gloves were called
for.
Back in the locker room, there was no getting
out of this. Stephen was going to have to shower. Coach was watching. His
scheme of taking off all but his underwear, walking over to the communal shower
and then right back to get changed, wasn’t going to work. There was no other
boy present in the school hierarchy under him in the food chain, or at least,
on the same level, to distract attention.
He undressed slowly, the other boys throwing
off their clothes and rough-housing their way to the shower. This was the most
unprotected he’d ever felt. Worse than the time he was seven years old,
swimming in his Aunt’s pool, when his cousin mounted a raft, holding him
hostage beneath, so that he could not come up for air. Even drowning, he was
surrounded by one terrifying thing, not multitudes, a feeling that would make
him reticent of entering any water deep enough to hold his entire body.
Stephen felt more peach than boy. His pink,
imperfect center, the place where he held most of his fears, was the center of
his comparing. Why couldn’t he be tight, toned, like the athletic boys who
appeared fearless? He blamed his mother. He blamed their poverty. And if it
wasn’t poverty of purse, it was a poverty of knowledge, the good and bad
dietary dance.
In removing his underwear, Stephen removed a
layer of skin. Now, he was walking skinless, toward the shower, where behind a
thin veil of steam were sharks. He closed his eyes. Felt his way with his
breath. The sounds of boys, barely imperceptible to his dog hearing. In the
corner, he turned the nob. The hot water scalded him. He could not feel it
boiling him, his nerves retreating deeper and deeper. No one seemed to notice
him. That was scarier. On dark evenings, after horror movies and ghosts, a
flashlight to illuminate the interior of the sheet fort he’d crawled beneath,
he’d discovered that if he closed his eyes and pressed his forefingers into his
ears, terror would retreat. And so, he used that tool wherever he felt exposed.
Stephen closed his eyes beneath the water, placing a finger in each ear. He
played a game. He would count to one hundred. One hundred solitary seconds. If
he could reach one hundred without incident, he would be free. He could
overcome this. He began. One, one thousand. Two, one thousand. Three, one
thousand…
…Ninety-eight, one thousand. Ninety-nine, one
thousand. One hundred. Stephen opened his eyes. Pulled his fingers from his
ears. Checked in with his parts. Still, intact. The steam was intense. The
sound, distant. Boys no longer growled. They were gone.
Stephen turned the water off. The dripping, an
echo. So that he could see, he moved the steam around with his hand. Suddenly,
he felt alone. Very alone. Not the relief he had anticipated. He stepped out of
the showers. The place was deadly quiet. Walking the row of lockers, he called
out, “Hello?” Emptiness. Not even the coach remained.
This place was criminally devoid of mirrors.
There was one mirror behind the weight scale, an early-learning technique where
young boys could imprint their expressions of worth, while being told whether
they were overweight. He stepped on to
the scale, sliding both indicators to zero. He smiled, avoiding the mirror. Then,
he looked at himself. Really looked. He mashed down the flesh around his
center. Sucking in his gut, he placed his hands on his hips and pressed his
chest forward, gutting his chin out to pronounce a jawline. He stared but did
not see the figure of an auto-mechanic. He did not see the figure of an electrician
or construction worker. He did not see the figure of his father.
Without averting his eyes, Stephen stepped down
from the scale. The urge to push the scale into the mirror with all of his
strength, so it might shatter and fall to the floor, never to harm another,
pounded at the tips of his fingers. He could be violence. He knew this. When he
was drowning in feeling, overcome by so many things that hadn’t been named, he
ripped every Broadway show placard he’d ever constructed, enraged, carrying the
remains to the backyard and lighting them on fire. But the fire grew more than
expected, igniting Fall leaves, on which he pissed to put out.
His energetic fingers reached worrisome level.
Just when he was about to go ape shit on the mirror, facing it dead on, he whispered,
“Patti LuPone”. He turned counter clockwise. He whispered, “Patti LuPone”.
Again, counter clockwise and a third “Patti LuPone”. He held his breath.
“Hello.”
Stephen screamed. This caused Coach to jump,
bringing his right hand to his chest. Wasting no time to bring this Lifetime
movie moment to an end, Stephen ran to his locker, rushed on his clothes and
ran past Coach before he had time to ask him any questions.
It was the end of the school day. Stephen had
almost forgotten. He must have stayed for longer than he thought, the exiting
rush was already thinning. In the parking lot, the buses pulled out. He would
walk home.
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JOHN MOLETRESS is a performance artist + writer living in Los Angeles. BOY TAIL is now available on Amazon.
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