Читать книгу Band Fags! - Frank Anthony Polito - Страница 14

“There’s a world outside your window

And it’s a world of dread and fear…”

—Band Aid

“Where to next?”

I can’t even believe Brad’s asking me this question…With only twelve Shopping Days left till Xmas, here we are running around Universal Mall like Chickens with our Heads Cut Off. Does he not realize he’s the one who needs to shop and should have planned out exactly where we’re going?

Every Christmas back when I was a kid, my Mom would take me to see Santa Claus at Universal Mall on 12 Mile and Dequindre. Which is pronounced “Dee-qwin-der,” in case you can’t figure it out. Not the real Santa Claus, mind you. But one of his very convincingly disguised Helpers. After giving Santa’s Helper my “What I Want for Christmas” spiel, I’d go for a ride on the carousel in front of his Village before my Mom would treat me to a frozen Coke and giant soft pretzel—hold the mustard.

Of course, back then it was called Universal City. I’ll never forget the humongous mosaic on the building’s façade depicting Saturn and her rings, smack-dab in the middle of the Universe. I could stare at it for hours!

So far Brad and I have been to Kresge’s, Crowley’s, and Montgomery Ward’s. On top of spending forty-five minutes in Spencer’s looking at Chippendales greeting cards, don’t ask me why!

“I’m getting my Mom a book,” Brad decides. Then he heads off, weaving through the crowd of other Xmas Shoppers towards where he thinks the bookstore is located.

B. Dalton’s is a Total Nightmare once we find it. Full of rummaged-through display tables and scattered books everywhere! Though a stack of 1985 Garfield calendars remains perfectly intact on their shelf. But maybe it’s because Garfield is sooo 1982.

“Any idea where they keep the Danielle Steel?” Brad asks. Like I’d know.

“You’re getting your Mom a Sex Book for Christmas?” I question. I can’t even imagine Brad’s Southern Baptist Churchgoing Mom looking at a trashy romance novel, let alone reading one.

“Hell no…You think my Mom would even look at that trash, let alone read it?” he responds, reading my mind.

“Then who’s it for?” I wonder. Though I’m pretty sure I can figure it out for myself.

“Duh!” he answers. Then he makes his way to the back of the store.

I follow Brad into the stacks marked “Adult Contemporary Romance.” I can’t even believe some of the titles: Leftover Love…A Ruling Passion…Dark Remembrance. And the covers! Half-naked guys with long flowing hair. Totally hairless, totally muscular bodies.

“Check this out,” Brad says, handing me some piece of trash he’s just found on the shelf.

“‘They wanted to love…in a world that worshipped only pleasure.’” I read the words printed on the cover. “Gordon Merrick…Now Let’s Talk About Music.”

A dark-haired, well-tanned, shirtless man wearing light blue swim trunks rests poolside, a chilled bottle of champagne on ice in a silver bucket beside him. On the man’s right shoulder rests a diamond pinky-ringed hand…Belonging to that of another man!

I shove the book back in Brad’s direction, hoping nobody’s seen me touching it. “Gross!”

He echoes my sentiments with, “I know!” Then he reads me a passage, all about some guy named Ned totally coming onto another guy named Gerry.

To which I reply, “That’s disgusting.”

“Wait…It gets better.” With dramatic flair, Brad continues to the part where Ned drops down to his knees…and gives Gerry a blowjob.

“Gross!” I gasp, looking around to make sure nobody’s paying attention to us. Which nobody is—thank God!

“Pretty trashy, isn’t it?” Brad smiles before adding, “Let’s buy it!”

I can’t even tell you how shocked and totally appalled I am at this moment. Which explains why I blurt out, “No fucking way!” Which is probably the first time I’ve ever used the F-word in my life.

“Jack!” Brad gasps in mock-horror. “Your Mom is gonna wash your mouth out with soap when I tell her what you just said.” Then he laughs.

“I mean it,” I tell him, putting my foot down. “We are not walking up to the register with that thing and buying it!”

“Watch me,” says Brad. Then he walks right up to the register and hands the trashy book to a middle-aged librarianesque-looking lady working behind the counter. “Good afternoon, Ma’am,” he says politely.

Without blinking an eye she tells him, “$3.95, Dear.”

At which point, Brad turns to me. “I need to bum a dollar, Jack.”

To which I hesitate…Before reaching into my JC Penney Plain Pockets and pulling out a $1 bill.

“Merry Christmas,” Librarian Lady says once our transaction is complete.

“Merry Christmas to you,” Brad replies, all sweet and innocent. Then to me he says, “Let’s get the fuck outta here!”

Five days later, we’re back at my house…

“Oh, my God…I had another one!”

“When?” I ask. Though I’m wondering if I really need to know.

“This morning,” Brad informs me. “Right before I got up.”

“I hate you!” I hiss. Because I still haven’t had one. Then I ask, “What’s it feel like?” Because I have no idea and I’m dying to know.

“Good, I guess,” he tells me. Like it’s no big deal. “Sometimes, I don’t even know I’m having one till I wake up and I’m all wet and sticky.”

In case you haven’t figured it out, we’re talking about Nocturnal Emissions. Being a young boy, this is one of the first things they prepare you for in 6^th grade Sex Ed. “Whether you like it or not, one day, you will have a Wet Dream.” Though I suspect my body didn’t get the memo because at the ripe old age of 14-going-on-15, I’ve yet to experience the pleasure.

Meanwhile, Brad’s been having them every morning for like the past year and a half. It’s getting to the point where all he has to do is close his eyes and BAM! Or should I say, “Squirt?”

“This sucks!” I declare. “I’m never gonna have one.”

“Maybe if you didn’t beat off so much…”

To which I give Brad a look. Does he really think I do that? I mean, all the guys at school say they don’t…But can you honestly believe them?

I ask, “Do you remember what you dreamed about this time?” Only because he’s my Best Friend and we tell each other everything.

Which is why I’m surprised when Brad answers, “I don’t know…I think somebody was giving me a blowjob. But I’m not sure exactly who it was.” Then he totally changes the subject. “Pass me the glitter.”

Yes, you did hear correctly. Yes, Brad did say, “Pass me the glitter.” As in that sparkly colored stuff used for writing your name on the top of your Christmas stocking. Or for decorating homemade Christmas wreaths. Which is exactly what we’re doing at the moment. Making Christmas wreaths and decorating them.

The question you’re probably asking yourself now is…Why the Hell are you guys making Christmas wreaths? To which the answer would be…Spring Break ’85.

Shortly after Brad started working at Country Boy’s, he got it into his head that we should go to Florida on Spring Break. My Grandpa Freeman lives down in Winter Haven from January till May and he says we can stay with him, no problem. The only thing is…not only do we need to save enough for the plane tickets, we also need spending money for when we’re down there. And $2.92/hour busing tables is not gonna cut it! Not even with tips. Which explains why we’re making Christmas wreaths out of cardboard, tissue paper, and glue. With a dash of glitter.

“First you take your tissue paper and cut it into squares…”

A long time ago in like 1965, when my Mom was a kid, she used to make Christmas wreaths with her Mom and sell them door-to-door. Or wherever she could get people to feel sorry for her and buy them. Which is why Brad and I spent the entire Saturday after Thanksgiving sitting around our kitchen table learning the Finer-Art-of-Christmas-Wreath-Making…

“Next,” my Mom continued, “fold the square in half, long-ways.” Which she did, demonstrating as she went along on a 4" x 6" piece of white tissue paper. “With your pinking shears,” she explained, “make four or five cuts along the fold.” This she demonstrated to perfection, taking up a pair of yellow-handled scissors with funky jagged teeth. “Then fold your square back the other way.” At which point, she used her nose to assist in turning the square/rectangle inside out, revealing five or six puffy loops where she had made the cuts.

At which point, Brad said, “I’m confused.”

At which point, I concurred. “Me, too.”

“Why’d you smell the tissue paper like that?” he asked, referring to that weird thing my Mom did with holding it up to her nose.

“I don’t know,” she admitted. “It’s just the way I’ve always done it ever since I was little.”

For a moment, I watched my Mom travel back in time. Long before little 14-year-old Dianne Freeman ever got It on with 17-year-old John Paterno in the back of his ’67 Mustang at the Galaxy Drive-In, resulting in my not-so-Immaculate Conception.

Yes, you did hear correctly…Yes, my father’s name is also John. And like me, everybody calls him Jack. Though I’m not technically a “Junior” on account of we have different middle names. He’s John William and I’m John Robert. Which does indeed make my parents “Jack and Dianne.” Like the John Cougar song. Though for some reason, my Grandma Freeman decided to spell my Mom’s name with an extra N, don’t ask me why!

For a moment, she’s no longer 29-year-old Dianne Paterno, sitting with her 14-year-old son and his Best Friend since 7^th grade in their modest three bedroom home in Hazeltucky, MI. She’s a 10-year-old girl again, making Christmas wreaths with her own Mom across town in Ferndale. Too bad my Grandma Freeman died when I was 7 and my Mom was only 22. I can’t imagine losing my Mom ever, let alone at such a young age. Right then, I felt like giving her the biggest hug and telling her how much I love her. But since Brad was sitting there at the table next to me, I decided I’d better not.

Now with only seven Shopping Days left till Christmas, here Brad and I sit on my bedroom floor making homemade Christmas wreaths. Like a couple of Total Losers…

“Can I ask you a question?” Brad says to me as I fold over my bijillionth white tissue paper square the way my Mom expertly taught us. “Who on Days of our Lives do you think is cuter? Pete or Bo?” By which he means Pete Jannings or Bo Brady.

Why Brad’s developed this fascination with cute guys over the past couple months—and is always asking me if I’d think they were cute or not if I were a girl—is totally beyond me. I’m beginning to think he’s testing me or something. Trying to see if what certain people at school, like Craig Gershrowski, say about me is true or not. How many times do I have to tell him, I don’t judge other guys?

Though I probably would think Pete Jannings is cuter. If I were a girl, he’d totally be my type…Dark hair, dark eyes, and a totally smooth and perfect body. Not to mention his washboard abs, muscular arms, and beefy chest that pushes together in the middle kinda like cleavage.

Which is why I tell Brad, “I guess I’d think Pete’s cuter…If I was a girl.” Though being a guy myself, I can’t stand him!

“You’re kidding?” says Brad, making a face. “I’d definitely think Bo is cuter than Pete.”

“You would?” I can’t help but call his criteria for judging men into question. “I don’t think I’d like kissing a guy with a beard.”

“I would!” he exclaims, eyes lighting up.

“Bo’s got a hairy chest,” I remind him.

“I know!”

“You like that?”

“Well…My sister Janelle says hairy chests are sexy,” he informs me.

“Really? They kinda gross me out.” I hope to God I don’t have a hairy chest when I grow up.

Brad adds, “Jon-Erik Hexum had a hairy chest…You know what I mean?”

Which is true…JEH was totally hairy, and it totally worked for him!

“I guess maybe I’d think they both were kinda cute,” I say. “If I was a girl.”

“Me, too.”

Suddenly, I remember something I forgot to tell him…“My Mom got us a booth at the Longfellow holiday craft show this weekend.” For a mere $5, Brad and I get an entire folding table to ourselves where we can display and sell our wares to the General Public.

“Ooh, that’ll be fun,” he teases, trying to unstick white tissue paper from his thumb and index finger. “You, me, and a bunch of old ladies!”

Even though Brad’s probably right, I remind him it was his idea to spend Spring Break in Florida…Not mine!

“Do you think we’ll ever sell enough of these damn Christmas wreaths to get the money?” he asks me.

“I hope so,” I reply, “’cause if we don’t, we’ll have to start saving our lunch money.”

“Then I’m fucked,” says Brad. “I’m on the Free Lunch plan since my Dad left.”

Which I totally forgot. “Sorry…”

“Don’t be sorry,” he tells me. “Be happy your parents are still married after all these years.”

I sprinkle a dash of glitter on my finally-finished Christmas wreath, not wanting to address the fact that Brad now comes from a Broken Home. Meanwhile, Life is still Fine and Dandy here at the Paternos with Jack and Dianne.

I attempt to liven up the conversation by saying, “I can’t wait to go to Disney World on Spring Break.” Even though I’ve already been twice, I can’t help but get excited thinking about watching Brad totally freak out on Space Mountain.

He gives me a look. “We are not going to Disney World on Spring Break…We are way too old for that.”

“What are we gonna do instead?” I wonder.

“All I wanna do is lay on the beach and get a great tan,” he replies. “And get laid!”

I try my best to conceal my laughter. “Like there’s even a chance.”

Brad gives me another look. “It could happen…We’re in 9^th grade, aren’t we?”

“So…?”

“So…People have sex when they’re in 9^th grade,” he insists.

“No, they don’t.” What person in their right mind would risk having S-E-X at such a young age?

“Your Mom was in 9^th grade when she got pregnant with you!” Brad reminds me. In case I forgot. “Dianne was the exact same age we are now and she was totally having sex.”

“Yeah…But she’s a girl.”

“So…?”

“So…Girls mature faster than boys.” Which is another thing they’ve been cramming down our throats since 6^th grade Sex Ed.

“Whatever,” says Brad, blowing me off. “Bobby says it’s gonna happen…Soon.”

Which is fine for somebody like Bobby Russell to say. He’s got a different girlfriend every week. But I don’t. And neither does Brad…Which is what I remind him.

“Duh! When you’re on Spring Break, it doesn’t matter,” he quips. “There are tons of people on the beach and everybody is hot and it just happens.”

“But we’re staying with my Grandpa Guff,” I tell Brad, hating to burst his bubble. “And he doesn’t live anywhere near Daytona.” Which is where all the Hazeltucky Hillbillies go on their wild Spring Break adventures. “I just don’t see us having much opportunity to get laid…Sorry.”

Now Brad looks totally disappointed. But come on! Does he really think we’re gonna go from being Total Band Fags to Spring Break Studs? Then he says, “You’re my Best Friend, aren’t you?” Getting all serious.

“What are you talking about?” I’m dreading Brad’s gonna say something mushy and embarrass me. “You know I am.”

“And we’ll always be Best Friends, won’t we?” He avoids my gaze. “No matter what?”

“Of course,” I affirm. “How could we not?”

At which point, Brad looks at me, sticking out his right pinky. Like he expects me to link mine with his or something. “You have to promise, Jack.”

So I do…I link my pinky with Brad’s and I promise.

“Good.” He breathes a sigh of relief. “’Cause whoever gets laid first has to tell the other one everything about it…And I mean, every detail. Who, where, when. What it feels like…Okay?”

“Okay…” Why am I not crazy about this agreement?

Having eased his troubled mind, Brad goes back to the wreath he’s been working on for what must be like the last hour…

“How’s this?” he asks, finally. Then he holds up the most pathetic looking thing I’ve ever seen. I’m not even kidding when I say this…It makes the tree on A Charlie Brown Christmas look like the one in Rockefeller Center in New York City.

“Um…You might wanna fluff it up a bit,” I begin my criticism. “And go a little easier on the glitter next time.”

At which point, Brad throws down his pathetic excuse for a Christmas wreath, scattering loose white tissue paper squares everywhere. Then he reaches for his duffle bag. Which can only mean one thing…

“I need a cigarette!”