FRUITCAKE, Chap. 5 + 6

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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.