Drama Queers! Read online

  The second we hit the pavement, I bust out my purple Bic and fire it up. I know we’re not supposed to smoke on school property, but with only forty-five minutes for lunch, it doesn’t give me much time to jump in Max’s car, get outta the parking lot, head over to the BK in BF Warren, scarf down a couple bacon double cheeseburgers, and indulge myself in my dirty habit.

  “Roll ’em down.”

  There’s nothing worse than sitting on boiling hot vinyl, you know what I mean?

  Crawling into the passenger seat, I immediately crank the window down. I hate Indian Summer. After spending the last three months in nothing but shorts and sandals, it always sucks being back in school all bundled up in jeans and shoes and a shirt.

  “Dude!” Max groans the second I kick off my topsiders. “Your feet stank.”

  He turns on the stereo, as if cranking The Cure is gonna mask my stench.

  Catching a glimpse of my freckled face in the sideview mirror, I drape my arm ever so dramatically out the open window, hitting my cigarette hard. I love the way the paper crackles as it burns. The orange-red glow reminds me of campfire coals on a cool summer’s night.

  I realize smoking is totally bad for me, but I gotta know how to do it, as an actor—yes, I’m also a Drama Queer. I mean, what if I get a part in a movie and my character calls for it?

  “Step on it,” I order, soon as Max puts the LeMans in reverse.

  “I’m stepping, I’m stepping,” he replies, sounding a tad annoyed.

  We file in line behind all the other late ’70s and early ’80s model cars making their exit. Suddenly, I shout, “Honk!”

  In front of us, I notice the blue Chevy Citation belonging to HPHS’s own Viking Marching Band drum major, Ava Reese. In the passenger seat sits Ava’s Best Friend and fellow clarinet player, Carrie Johnson. Both brunettes turn around and give a wave before Ava makes the right turn onto Felker.

  “Where they going?” Max wonders, taking us in the opposite direction.

  “Probably to Carrie’s house to watch Days of our Lives.” She’s a big fan, and tapes it every day on her VCR…Must be nice!

  Me and Max have both known Ava since elementary school, but Carrie I didn’t meet till 7th grade Varsity Band at Webb Junior High. In fact, she was my first French kiss. Too bad big mouth Max went and told my mom about it on the way home from the Fun Night. I got grounded for a week.

  “What class you got 4th hour?” Max asks, after I remind him we don’t have to hurry back.

  “Chorale.”

  “What is that,” he snorts, “some kinda horse thing?”

  I roll my eyes. Max knows perfectly well that Chorale is the top choir at Hillbilly High in Hazeltucky, taught by Mr. Harold “Call me Hal” Fish.

  Not that he’s not a nice guy, but sometimes I think Mr. Fish—I mean, Hal—thinks he’s one of us students and not our teacher. Sure, it’s cool he lets us get away with stuff like being late for class and smoking when we’re out at a gig, but it’s like, Dude…You’re thirty! Not to mention the fact that he’s sorta heavy and he sweats a lot.

  I mean, it wouldn’t be so bad except he carries this rag around that he uses to mop himself off once the works start flowing. And since it’s seventy-five degrees on the first day of fall, I can just imagine the mess Hal’s gonna be by the time I finally show up to his class.

  Oh, my God…Don’t look now!

  Burger King is packed with a bunch of obnoxious, post-pubescent, hormones-raging high schoolers, but at least the air-conditioning works. Only I’m more in need of a cold shower when a maroon and gray Vikings Varsity football jacket catches my eye.

  “What’s up, Bradley?”

  As me and Max snake around the mile-long line, who do I see coming towards us?

  None other than #23: Rob Berger.

  “Nothing much.” I feel my face go flush the second his brown eyes meet my blues. “What’s up with you?”

  “You know…Getting some grub.”

  Rob flashes a sheepish smile. When I see the space between his two front teeth, it’s just about all I can do not to wet myself right then and there.

  “’s up, Berger?” asks Max with a nod, as if seeing Rob out in public is totally no biggie.

  I’m sorry, but you should see this guy…For starters, he’s got on these totally tight jeans, pegged at the bottom, with gray slip-on shoes, and no socks—love it! He’s also SWB (Short With a Bod), which I also love. Like 5’8”, 190 pounds, and built like a brick shithouse, with dark brown hair, cut over the ear, and buzzed in back. Did I mention his beautiful brown eyes?

  Oh! And he’s got the sexiest little mustache. Plus a totally hairy chest and a totally big dick.

  Wanna know how I know this?

  Every day after Swimming back in 7th grade, Rob used to walk around butt naked in the locker room. You can bet I took my sweet old time getting dressed while I secretly checked him out toweling himself off. I’m pretty sure Rob Berger was the first guy in our class to grow pubes.

  “Hey, Asshole!”

  Suddenly, I realize Max is barking at me.

  “Huh?”

  This is about all the response I can muster up.

  “What do you want?”

  I’m thinking, Rob Berger’s totally hot bod. Until I discover I’m at the front of the line where the nondescript middle-aged woman behind the cash register patiently awaits my order.

  “Two bacon double cheeseburgers, small fry, and a medium Pepsi,” I tell her, polite as punch. Followed by, “Please.” And then I’m right back to my staring.

  “I’ll see you in Drama,” Rob promises, catching my eye. “Don’t be late.”

  Again, I’m gonna wet myself!

  I watch his every move while he picks up his double Whopper with cheese, large fry, and large pop at the opposite end of the counter. As he slips away joining his jock friends at a booth in the corner, I take in one final glimpse of Rob Berger’s totally hot ass…5th hour can not come soon enough, you know what I mean?

  By the time 1:00 PM rolls around I’ve endured about as much of “Call me Hal” and his sweat dripping as I possibly can. The second the bell rings, thru the Choir room door I fly, like a bat outta hell.

  “Brad!”

  I’m about to enter the auditorium across the hall when I hear a voice call out my name. I turn to find fellow Drama Queer, Liza Larson, dressed in her uniform—black spandex pants, and black leather jacket complete with fringe. Her bottle-blond hair is perfectly feathered, and her signature penciled-on spider sits dangling from the web its spun in the corner of Liza’s left eye.

  “What’s up?” I ask, slightly outta breath.

  Liza gives me a look. “You gotta pee or something?”

  “No.”

  I can’t help but wonder why she’s questioning me like this. Until I realize I’m hopping back and forth on one foot like I gotta find the nearest boys’ room. Really, I just wanna get into the auditorium ASAP and save a seat for somebody…Guess who?

  “Wanna head out to Skid Row real quick?”

  In addition to being one of my Senior classmates, Liza is also my post-Chorale/pre-Advanced Drama smoking buddy.

  “I think I’m gonna pass,” I decide, even though I can’t believe the words just came outta my mouth. Mind you, I’m not a Burn-Out myself. I don’t partake in the whole Mötley Crüe, knee-high moccasin boot worn over tucked-in tight jeans-wearing culture. I just love to smoke.

  “Your loss,” Liza sighs, sauntering away.

  For a second, I think about running after her as she heads down the hall and out the side doors. For the life of me, I can’t figure out who started calling the spot across the street from HPHS Skid Row. They didn’t see Little Shop of Horrors, I guess. Me and my friends used to always call it The Log. Until we discovered it’s really a downed telephone pole laying on its side. Regardless, it’s in front of the Blue Building, and where all the badass Burn-Outs go to do their thing.

  Unfortunately, I got other business to attend t
o.

  “This seat’s saved!”

  My fellow fire-haired Senior, Audrey Wojczek, just tried to join me in the third row of recently reupholstered auditorium chairs, complementing the newly painted walls: maroon and gray, respectively.

  “Who you hoarding it for?” she asks, as if it’s any of her business.

  “Um…” I start to say. “Somebody.”

  Aud turns her head slightly to one side, furrows her brow, and purses her lips. “Somebody who?”

  Thank God I’m saved by the ringing bell, freeing me from having to succumb to this infernal interrogation. Only I don’t see Rob Berger anywhere.

  What the fuck?

  Audrey takes a seat beside Tuesday Gunderson, a slightly overweight Senior girl with stringy black hair, just as our Drama teacher calls out, “Dayton!”

  “Right here, Dell.”

  I give a wave in case Mr. Dell’Olio can’t pick out my Howdy Doody hair in this low-level light from where he sits on the lip of the stage, scratching his receding hairline.

  “Where’s your scene partner, Mr. Berger?”

  I look around the auditorium again. Finally, the place is starting to look like a real theatre. My first year in Drama, you should’ve seen it…Torn curtains, lights that didn’t light, graffiti spray-painted on the backstage wall by some Class of ’86 breakdancer dudes.

  “Not sure,” I sadly report. “I seen him at lunch.”

  How am I gonna make it thru the next fifty-eight minutes when I’m wracked with worry?

  “Right here, Coach!”

  All heads turn towards the deep bass reverberating thru the room. I don’t know why Rob insists on calling Dell Coach. Maybe because he plays a lot of sports. If you ask me, it’s fucking charming as all get-out.

  “You’re late, Berger!” Dell shouts, taking on a tone only a Varsity football player could relate to.

  I can’t say I’m attracted to Mr. Dell’Olio—he’s at least thirty-five. But whenever he talks to Rob, it’s like he becomes a totally different person. Like maybe when he was in high school, he always wanted to be a jock, but instead he got stuck being a Drama Queer. I never realized it before, but it’s sorta hot the way he butches it up.

  “Sorry, Coach.” Like an embarrassed little boy, Rob’s cheeks burn bright red. “It won’t happen again.”

  When I see him looking around for somewhere to park his totally hot ass, in my best stage whisper I hiss, “Berger…. I saved you a seat.”

  Rob nods and smiles.

  Scootching in beside me, he puts an arm around my shoulder and gives it a manly squeeze. “Thanks, Bradley.”

  I think I’m in love.

  Let’s Hear It for the Boy

  “Maybe he’s no Romeo

  But he’s my loving one-man show…”

  —Deniece Williams

  The only thing worse than being a Band Fag is…Being a Drama Queer.

  At least according to the Hillbilly High Handbook.

  I see why being in Band can be viewed as sorta lame. I mean, there you are, wearing this wool uniform along with this funny plumed hat and spats, stomping around the football field while all the Cool Kids sit up in the stands enjoying the game. Not to mention having to wake up at the butt crack of dawn for practice. Plus giving up your weekends to march in some stupid parade somewhere.

  But how can Drama possibly be considered geeky? You perform plays in front of an audience of admiring fans. What person in their right mind wouldn’t enjoy the applause? I know I do. Why does everybody think movie stars are totally cool, but not the ones on stage?

  Back in 10th grade when I decided I wanted to be an actor, I didn’t realize this would be the case. I totally thought cheerleaders such as Shelly Findlay and Betsy Sheffield or Vikettes like Lynn Kelly and Angela Andrews would be trying out for Drama Club. Maybe even a few football players like Tom Fulton. I remember he seemed to enjoy himself performing in this play we presented back in 7th grade in Ms. Lemieux’s class.

  Well, it wasn’t so much a play as it was a skit, but I did have the lead opposite Tom’s then-girlfriend, Marie Sperling. I guess maybe it wasn’t real acting since I didn’t have any lines or anything—it was a silent skit. I did get to soft-shoe to Scott Joplin’s “The Entertainer” as this strobe light flashed around us the entire time, making everything look all Charlie Chaplin-esque.

  Don’t bring this up to Max. Originally, Ms. Lemieux cast him in the lead, but after a few rehearsals, she decided he didn’t quite cut it. Not to brag or anything, but once I took over the part, she told me I was a natural talent. Did I mention she was our hot-to-trot Enriched English & Social Studies teacher and her first name is Cinnamon?

  Wanna know who showed up to try out for Okla-homo!—I mean, Oklahoma!?

  When I walked into the auditorium that afternoon in March ’86, I seen none of the kids I expected to see. Instead, there sat Pee-wee Herman’s #1 fan, Charlie Richardson, and the slightly overweight stringy black-haired girl I mentioned before, Tuesday Gunderson.

  “You slumming or something?”

  Outta nowhere, the only person I recognized as being remotely acquainted with appeared, her bright red locks falling past the bottom of her purplish pink striped sweater.

  “Hey,” I said, happy to see Audrey Wojczek for the first time in my life.

  We may seem like pretty good pals now during Senior year, but at the time, I barely knew her. I mean, we went to junior high together and all, but we weren’t exactly friends, you know what I mean? Audrey only transferred to Webb during Freshman year, after spending 2nd thru 8th grades at St. Mary Magdalen’s. Judging from the mouth on her, you’d never know it!

  “What the fuck are you doing here, Dayton?”

  Audrey served as treasurer of Drama Club. She also played the mother in The Skeleton Walks, the fall play first semester. Her performance came as a bit of a surprise to me when I seen the production, but as the recipient of the Class Clown mock award, I guess Audrey has never been much of a wallflower.

  “I’m trying out for the play,” I remember telling her. “What do you think I’m doing?”

  Back at Webb, me and Audrey constantly fought whenever we found ourselves together. She loved picking on me, saying my hair would fall out someday just because our Health teacher, Mrs. Strong, said that most redheaded men eventually go bald. Shit like that.

  “The word is auditioning” Audrey corrected. “And it’s a musical, not a play.”

  Whatever…

  The spring play—I mean, musical—that year, like I said, was none other than Oklahoma! You know, “where the wind comes sweepin’ down the plain,” and the “shiny little surrey with the fringe on the top.” By the guys who wrote The Sound of Music, Rogers & Hammerstein. Well, I never seen it before, but I knew the movie version had the mom from The Partridge Family in it, who happens to be the real-life mother of my very first crush ever. No, not David, but Shaun Cassidy.

  Growing up, we never had much money. Evidently, James Dayton didn’t make a whole lot working as a cop in Troy while getting his degree in Physical Education from Wayne State. And once Laura Victor married him, she gave up the job she had since turning Sweet Sixteen working as a secretary in the tissues and pathology lab at Detroit Osteopathic Hospital to stay home with me and my sisters, Janelle, Nina, and Brittany.

  Yet every so often, Mom found a little extra cash stashed somewhere. Her (quote-unquote) mad money, she liked to call it. I used to think so because she spent it whenever Dad made her mad, which seemed a lot more frequent the longer they stayed together and the older me and the girls got…No wonder their marriage ended in D-I-V-O-R-C-E in 1983.

  I’ll never forget this one time my parents were out bowling on their bowling league…

  After we put on our footie pajamas, me and Janelle gathered in front of the television with our babysitter, Sheryl Killian. Nina and Brittany must’ve both been in bed because they were still babies. I’m pretty sure I was in 1st grade at the time, so they were like t
hree and two.

  “Ooh, he’s cute!”

  I’m sure I thought it first, but Janelle beat me to saying it out loud. After all, she is two years older.

  “That’s Shaun Cassidy,” Sheryl informed us when The Hardy Boys came on channel 7 at 7:00 PM. “Isn’t he a fox?”

  At the time, we were living in Center Line. The Killians lived down the block from us on Sterling, and Sheryl went to high school at St. Clement’s. I remember her being very glamorous in her bell-bottom jeans with her long blond Bionic Woman hair. Me and Janelle liked to sit on the back of the couch and braid it for her while we all watched TV.

  “Is he your boyfriend?” I asked, feeling a tad jealous that Shaun Cassidy just might be.

  Sheryl laughed. “I wish!” Then she told us, “He sings ‘Da Doo Ron Ron.’”

  How could I not know that? I loved “Da Doo Ron Ron”! Except I always thought it was “Da Doo Run Run.”

  Every time we took a ride somewhere in Dad’s car, me and Janelle would hear it on CKLW, so we knew all the words by heart. Boy, did I wish my name was Jill!

  Thus began our weekly ritual…

  Every Sunday night while our parents were up at Pastime Lanes, Sheryl would pop the Jiffy Pop, melt an entire stick of (“Everything’s better with…”) Blue Bonnet on it, while me and Janelle waited patiently in the family room, counting the seconds till show time.

  From the moment Frank and Joe appeared in twelve-inch black and white, we sat glued to our seats, not even getting up to pee unless we absolutely had to. This was back before they invented the VCR, you know what I mean? And even if they’d been around, the Daytons certainly couldn’t have afforded one.

  Wanna know what I remember most about The Hardy Boys, other than how cute Shaun Cassidy looked in every episode?

  That creepy music from the opening montage! And all the various book covers appearing one by one: The Clue in the Embers, While the Clocked Ticked, The Hidden Staircase.

  Back then, I didn’t know the Hardy Boys and Nancy Drew were literary characters that had been around for fifty years, but oh how my 6-year-old heart skipped a beat when Shaun Cassidy began clapping his hands high above his head, wearing that groovy striped sweater with the scarf draped around his neck.