Читать книгу Drama Queers! - Frank Anthony Polito - Страница 11

“I’m taking a ride

With my Best Friend…”

—Depeche Mode

“Your other left!”

The following Wednesday, me and Rob Berger are up on stage, during 5^th hour. We’re working on a scene from a play called Brighton Beach Memoirs. You know, by Neil Simon. He’s the guy who wrote Barefoot in the Park with Robert Redford and Jane Fonda. Dell picked it out for us. I didn’t realize the play starred Ferris from Ferris Bueller’s Day Off when it premiered on Broadway in 1983. Until I opened up the script, and there he was: Matthew Broderick as Eugene Jerome…So much for stage actors not being stars!

“For Pete’s sake…This isn’t rocket science.”

I watch as Mr. Dell’Olio literally slaps his furrowed forehead. Meanwhile, all the other Drama Queers stare at us in silence.

“You said ‘move to the left’ didn’t you?”

Poor Rob Berger…He looks like he’s gonna bust a nut he’s so confused right now.

“My left, your right!”

Rob looks at me.

I look at Mr. Dell’Olio for clarification. “You mean, stage right?”

Stage left. Stage right. Up stage. Down stage.

Sounds easy, huh? Try being the one up there taking direction. Especially when your director is screaming out your blocking at you.

“Just move, Berger,” Dell orders, “and say your line while you’re doing it…Got it?”

Rob mumbles softly, “Got it.”

You’d think Mr. Dell’Olio would know what he’s doing by now. He’s been teaching Drama for how many years? And prior to that, he worked as a professional director Off-Off Broadway in New York City. It’s not our fault some Russian guy, Stanislavsky, decided back in the late 1800s that stage right meant the actor’s right and not the director’s.

“Is it Christmas Break yet?” Dell asks aloud, to nobody in particular.

“Seventy-eight more days,” a voice responds from somewhere in the void.

“Thank you, Audrey!”

“No problem, Dell.”

That’s Aud, always being a smart-ass!

I look out to see her slumped down in her seat next to Tuesday Gunderson, both girls trying not to chuckle at mine and Rob’s expense.

“Whenever you fellas are ready,” Mr. Dell’Olio says to us now. “Preferably sometime before I retire in the year 2007.”

In the scene, me and Rob play brothers: Stanley and Eugene. Stanley’s eighteen and Eugene is fifteen, which is perfect casting if you ask me. I don’t look the least bit my real age (seventeen) and Rob looks like he’s at least twenty. Must be the mustache…and the fact that he’s had pubes since he was twelve!

The only thing is, Stanley and Eugene are Jewish. Not that I got a problem with Jewish people, I just don’t know any. The closest thing you get to a Jewish anything in The Friendly City of Hazel Park is when the cross-country team has a bagel sale.

“From the top?” Rob asks, looking in my direction.

“You got the first line,” I remind him.

“Oh…”

Not that he’s not a cool guy, but you can probably imagine why Rob Berger’s a Varsity athlete. As hot as he may be, he isn’t the brightest bulb in the bunch, you know what I mean? Surprisingly, he’s a fairly decent actor—for a jock.

We been in Dell’s Drama class together since Junior year. This past spring, he played the role of Dr. Orin Scrivello, DDS in Little Shop of Horrors to my Seymour and Liza Larson’s Audrey. Picture Rob in a black leather jacket sucking on that nitric oxide. H-O-T!

Poor Audrey…She desperately wanted to be Audrey, but Dell decided to go with a blond, like in the movie. Not to mention the fact that Audrey is more of a character actress. This is why she ended up playing Chiffon, one of the three street urchins.

“What are you doing here?”

I remember asking Rob this when I saw him at the auditions.

“You think I can’t act just because I’m a jock?” he joked.

The second he flashed that fucking grin of his, I was smitten.

Of all people, I never expected to see Rob Berger trying out for a play, least of all a musical. Back in junior high, he never did anything artistic. He didn’t sing in Choir or play an instrument in Band or even take Creative Academics with Ms. Lemieux. Now of all a sudden, there he was…From Total Jock to Drama Queer!

Only Rob Berger is far from being a queer of any kind as far as I can tell. Sure, he’s popular, and we already established how hot he is, but like I said, he’s a Varsity football player. How come he doesn’t have a girlfriend? In fact, I’ve known Rob for over five years now, and in all that time I can’t remember him ever going with anybody.

He did bring this one girl, Katy Griffin, to the 9^th grade Carnation Dance. She used to play trombone and sat next to me in Band all three years at Webb, but I always thought Katy might be a lesbian so she doesn’t count.

“Hold!”

The second we finally get rolling, Mr. Dell’Olio starts screaming at us again. Personally, I thought the scene was going good. So far I didn’t drop a single line.

Too bad I can’t say the same for Rob.

“Are we doing something wrong?” he asks, more to me than to Herr Director.

“Yeah, Dell…What’s up?” I wonder. “Do we totally suck or something?”

“You’re fine, Dayton,” Mr. Dell’Olio replies. “I can’t say the same for your partner.”

Rob’s face goes raspberry-beret-red. “Sorry, Coach.” Frustrated, he kicks at some nonexistent fuzz on the lip of the stage.

What’s happening in the scene is…Eugene is playing with his football when Stanley enters, all freaked out. He just got fired from his job for disrespecting his boss, this German Nazi-type guy who naturally must hate Stanley since he’s a Jew, and vice versa. Being a comedy, it’s pretty funny shit, even though Dell’s taking it super seriously.

“Berger,” he says to Rob, sounding like a dad about to have the (quote-unquote) talk with his firstborn son. “Tell me something…”

Rob looks up without saying a word.

“What’s your motivation?”

After a slight pause Rob asks, “What do you mean?”

Dell loses it. He throws his arms up in defeat. “How many days till Christmas Break?”

“Seventy-eight,” Audrey pipes up from the Peanut Gallery. “You already asked.”

I can’t help but laugh when I see Dell shaking his head, looking like he can’t take much more. Really, he’s not a crabass. He just can’t resist acting all dramatic. In fact, he’s just as much a Drama Queer as the rest of us. Except he’s not a homo, he’s totally married.

“In the scene,” Mr. Dell’Olio says slowly, trying a new tactic, “what is your motivation?”

Rob repeats, “What’s my motivation in the scene?”

I think he thinks if he stalls, the answer will come to him.

Poor Rob…I can’t stand to see him suffer. Not with Audrey and Tuesday and all the other Drama Queers sitting in their seats scrutinizing him as he starts to sweat. Where’s Mr. Fish with his rag when you need it?

“He means, what do you want?” I whisper, trying to talk without moving my lips, à la Laverne DeFazio from Laverne & Shirley.

Rob’s face lights up. “Oh! What do I want?”

“What does Stanley want?” Dell corrects.

“What does Stanley want?” Rob repeats, like it’s finally starting to sink in. “Beats the hell outta me.”

Thunderous applause!

Finally, the bell rings, signaling the 2:00 PM end of Advanced Drama, putting both me and Rob outta our Brighton Beach Memoirs misery…

“Good scene, you guys.”

Audrey approaches from the aisle, her long red hair swaying behind her back. I can’t tell if she’s being sarcastic or not.

“Seriously,” Tuesday snorts, bringing up the rear. “You’re a really good actor, Berger.”

“Thanks,” Rob mutters, avoiding eye contact with the ladies.

Tuesday looks at me, forgetting I’m also standing there. “You too, Brad.”

Rob hops off the stage. “Later,” he tells us before making his way towards the box office in the back corner.

I can’t help but notice the way Aud watches Rob’s every move. In fact, Tuesday practically drools down the front of her maroon Flaggots—I mean, Flag Corps—windbreaker till he disappears thru the EXIT doors into the front lobby.

“Lucky you,” Audrey sighs, “getting to work with Mr. Varsity Football.”

“Yeah,” echoes Tuesday. “You sure are lucky.”

I agree, “Yeah…”

What else am I supposed to say in response to their remarks? Now if he’d only make out with me.

After an awkward moment of silence, Audrey asks, “Wanna help me and Tuesday with our scene sometime?”

“I’m free on Saturday,” I offer, since I don’t have to work at Big Boy’s till the evening and I got nothing else going on during the day.

“Awesome!” exclaims Audrey.

I never noticed she’s got a space between her teeth when she smiles, just like a certain football-playing Lesbian—I mean, Thespian—we know.

Tuesday parrots, “Yeah, awesome!”

The girls are working on The Effects of Gamma Rays on Man-in-the-Moon Marigolds. Back in the ’60s, it played Off-Broadway. They also made a movie version with Paul Newman’s wife, Joanne Woodward, which I never seen.

Audrey plays the crazy mom, Beatrice, and Tuesday is the daughter, Tillie, who’s all into science and shit. So far they’re doing a pretty good job, but if you ask me, the play’s totally fucked up. The mom kills the daughter’s pet rabbit for chris’sakes, you know what I mean?

“We can hang at my house,” Aud informs us. “My mom’ll be at work.”

I’m about to follow my classmates’ lead and get my ass moving to 6th hour French III Independent Study when Mr. Dell’Olio stops me on the stairs leading down from the stage.

“Good work today, Dayton.”

I can feel my face matching my hair as I humbly tell him, “Thanks.”

I don’t know why, but I’m a little embarrassed by Mr. Dell’Olio’s praise. I mean, I certainly wanna do a good job. I live for the day others will laud me for my acting ability. Except right now, I don’t know what else to say. So I just stand there with a stupid smirk.

“You’re a natural,” Dell flatters, patting me on the back. “I’ll see you at auditions, won’t I?”

This semester we’re doing A Christmas Carol. You know, by Charles Dickens. Same guy who gave us A Tale of Two Cities and Oliver Twist. The first one, we read in Mrs. Malloy’s English Lit, the other, I seen the musical years ago. Auditions are coming up the second week of November.

“I’ll be there,” I confirm.

I can’t say I read the script yet, but I watched the movie of A Christmas Carol on TV when I was little. I heard the boy who played Tiny Tim is now Artistic Director at Meadow Brook Theatre out in Rochester…God, he must be ancient!

I’m still not sure what part I want. Sure, Scrooge has got the most lines, but I don’t see myself playing an old man. Being that I’m a Senior, I’m sure Dell will cast me in one of the leads…Why wouldn’t he, if I’m such a natural?

“What’s up, Fox?”

In the commons outside the auditorium, I run into Shelly Findlay—I mean, Shellee Findlay. I keep forgetting her and a bunch of the other Varsity cheerleaders officially changed the spelling of their first names. Karla Carlson is now Karlah and Melody Carnes is Mellowdeigh.

Don’t ask!

Me and Shellee go way back to 7^th grade at Webb. We used to be in Band together, but like a lot of the junior high Band Fags, Shellee dropped out once we got to high school, which is a damn shame if you ask me because she was a very talented flautist.

I don’t know why, but a lot of people don’t like our HPHS Band teacher, Mr. Klan, just because he’s a Total Fag. Well, we don’t know if he is for sure, but he is over thirty-five and he’s never been married, so the odds are in favor. Not that I want him to be or anything. I don’t find him the least bit attractive. In fact, he reminds me of my dad, which is totally bogue!

“What’s up?” I wonder.

Shellee hands me one of the mimeographed flyers she’s been Scotch taping to the glass doors outside Principal Messinger’s office. Her brunette head bobs back and forth as she cackles at me. “Duh! It’s all right there.”

Sure enough, so it is.

Don’t forget to Vote!

Homecoming “Top 25”

10/1/87

Ah, yes…“Top 25.”

The yearly ritual to pick the twenty-five Seniors at Hazel Park High School most deserving to be elected to Homecoming Court.

Personally, I’m pretty bic-cited (excited).

Back in 10th grade, I had these two Senior friends, Alyssa Resnick and Cheri Sheffield. They were both on “Top 25.” I remember thinking what an honor being singled out by your peers must be. Not that I need validation or anything. For the most part, I already know that people like me…And if they don’t, fuck ’em!

I wish Shellee “Good luck!” even though she’s a shoo-in. She was always Most Popular Girl at Webb Junior High and continues to be to this day.

“You too, Fox!” she replies, waving with pinky, forefinger, and thumb extended. Then she gathers her flyers and moves on to the display case next to the library.

This is where, along with the VFW award, the American Legion award, and the prestigious Erickson Cup, sits the coveted “Thespy.” At least twice a day since Sophomore year, I stop by to stare at it. I imagine how the gold (plated) statuette will feel held in my hot little hand, how my name—BRADLEY JAMES DAYTON—will look engraved on the metal plate marked “1987–88.” What it will mean to be honored as Thespian of the Year.

For those not up on their Drama Queer terminology…Thespis is credited as being the first actor ever to appear on a stage in something like 600 BC. According to Aristotle, Thespis was a singer of dithyrambs, which were songs about mythology that featured choral refrains. He also invented the style that became known as tragedy (as in “comedy and…”), where one single actor performed all the characters in a play, using different masks to differentiate.

Hence the creation of the International Thespian Society by a group of college and high school teachers in Fairmont, West Virginia, in 1929.

“Act well your part; there all the honor lies.”

This is the motto of the ITS, taken from Alexander Pope’s Essay on Man.

I won’t presume I’m gonna get the “Thespy,” but I am President of Troupe #4443, so I know I’m in the running.

But first things first…

“Top 25.”

I can’t say everybody shares my attitude. Especially my Best Friend, Jack Paterno. Perhaps I should say, my other Best Friend, considering I already referred to Max Wilson as filling that spot. Jack spends sooo much time worrying about what other people think of him. In fact, he even dropped outta Band this year because he was sick of being called a Band Fag.

Or so he said.

Like Carrie Johnson, I met Jack in 7th grade Varsity Band over at Webb. Well, we didn’t really meet in Band, we met in the cafeteria during lunch. Jack was sitting with Carrie and Ava Reese and Katy Griffin (the girl I think might be a lesbian), going thru some stupid Sign-In Book: “Calvins or Jordache?” Well, I walked right up to the table, sat myself down, and was all like, “Fuck those! I like Sergio Valentes better ’cause they make your ass look hot!”

At least that’s what Jack says I said.

I seriously doubt I’d say something like that—not in front of a group of girls. Of course, knowing me, if I did say it, I was trying to get a rise outta Jack…Talk about a Persnickety-Persnick!

If it wasn’t for our junior high Band teacher, Jessica Clark Putnam, encouraging us to attend Blue Lake Fine Arts Camp the following summer, we would’ve never become Best Friends. I remember us bragging to all the other Band Fags about how cool we were and how swanky the whole thing was gonna be. Twelve days in the lap of luxury at an exclusive Summer Band Camp.

Or so we thought.

Imagine the expressions on our faces when Jack’s parents dropped us off in the middle of the woods in Bum Fuck Muskegon. Boy, were we surprised!

What the fuck?

I remember this being my first thought as me and Jack stood there, clad in our regulation robin’s egg blue BLFAC polo shirts and navy blue shorts, mouths totally agape.

This is what you get for $300?

Nothing but dirt roads and trees for miles…So much for being exclusive!

You should’ve seen poor Jack when we checked in with our counselor over in the Broadway unit at Cabin Cabaret. Try saying that three times. Right next door to Brigadoon, Carousel, and Okla-homo!—I mean, homa!

“Where are the walls?” he wondered, suitcase and pillow in hand.

“Maybe they can’t afford them,” I guessed, even though we were paying a shitload of money to be standing there. Somebody at BLFAC must have thought exposed beams were all the rage in early ’80s décor.

I realize when you’re little time goes by a lot slower, but they were the twelve longest (and poop-free) days of my life. Up at the butt crack of dawn for breakfast. Followed by Band practice. Followed by lunch. Followed by sectionals. Followed by dinner. Followed by whatever damn evening activity they had planned for us.

This one time they brought in this guy, Slim Goodbody, to put on a show. He wore this skintight bodysuit, painted to look like his skin was removed so you could see all his organs…Bogue!

Nobody wanted to sit and listen to good old Slim sing these stupid-assed songs about “Food is Fuel” and “Healthy Habits” and “Bones, Bones, Bones.” All the guys in our cabin thought Mr. Goodbody was a Total Fag, you know what I mean? Including me and Jack.

That was the one thing I noticed most about being at Blue Lake. Back at Webb, we had a tendency to get picked on—nothing major. We never got our asses kicked in the parking lot after school or anything, but people (guys mostly) would call us fag, just because we were friends with girls and liked to dance at the Fun Nights. Yet the entire twelve days we spent at BLFAC, the guys there were totally cool to us.

Even this one guy, Greg, who elected himself cabin leader.

“Hey, Dick Shine!”

Greg picked on everybody in Cabin Cabaret. He came from Kalamazoo, played alto sax, and was a year older than me and Jack. I’ll never forget he had bangs that hung in his eyes and hair on his legs…God, he was cute!

“Who, me?” asked Paul, a cellist from Southfield. He kept a stash of apricot nectar buried beneath his bunk. Greg nicknamed him “Berf.”

“No you, Faggot Ass!” Greg scowled at “Scooter.”

“What did I do?” Scooter wanted to know. His real name was Jay. He wore thick glasses, played baritone, and hailed from Milford. Or did he go to school at Mumford? I forget.

Scooter—I mean, Jay—was hilarious! Somewhere, I got a photo I took of him drying his tube socks with a blow dryer on the steps outside Cabin Cabaret. He had this totally nasal voice and he used to crack all of us up with the dumbest jokes.

This one was my favorite: “So there’s this lady, see? And one day, she sends her husband and kids off on a hunting trip…”

“Why, Jay?” I’d interrupt, even though I already heard him tell it a dozen times.

“Because,” Jay would answer. “She’s had enough.”

“So what did she do?” I’d prompt.

Causing Greg to yell, “Shut up, Dick Weed!” before he tossed a pillow at my head from his bunk beside mine and Jack’s.

“So,” Jay continued, “she makes a spot of chamomile tea, and she sinks herself into a hot tub. Just as soon as she’s all relaxed, there’s a knock at the door…”

Knock knock!

“The lady’s like, ‘I’m sorry, I can’t come to the door, I’m in the tub.’ And the guy at the door is all like, ‘Telegram…It’s important.’”

Meanwhile, I’m about to pee my pants!

“So the lady says, ‘Well…Could you just sing it?’ And the guy says, ‘But lady…’ ‘Sing it!’” (pause) “‘Dum dum dum dum dum dum…’ (singing) ‘Bob and the kids are dead.’ The End.”

Anyways!

Wanna know what Greg’s nickname for me and Jack ended up being?

“Brad the Nad” and “String Sucker.”

Wanna know why?

Well, Brad rhymes with nad, and Greg swore up and down he woke up in the middle of the night and caught Jack sucking on the strings of his sleeping bag in his sleep. But I didn’t believe him. By that point, I knew Jack for almost an entire year, and not once did I ever know him to suck on anything.

I don’t know why, but being picked on at Blue Lake never felt the same way as it does here in Hazeltucky. At BLFAC, if somebody called you fag, it was like a badge of honor. It didn’t mean they really thought you were one, even though I totally was—I mean, am.

You know I’m gay, right?

As in I like boys.

Just checking.