Drama Queers! (16 page)

Oh, my God…I just asked The Sophomore out on a date!

“Strawberry waffle.”

Have you ever seen the episode of
Laverne & Shirley
where Lenny hires L & S to run the greasy spoon diner he inherits from his dead Uncle Laslo, and he and Squiggy rename it
Dead Laslo’s Place?
Only for whatever reason, Laverne (the cook) takes to calling Shirley (the waitress) by the name
Betty
.

It all starts when Miss DeFazio’s manning the grill. She’s cracking eggs onto it, and throwing the shells over her shoulder, all the while wearing this white poufy chef’s hat. Every time she gets an order, Laverne leans over and talks into this silver microphone attached to this bendy microphone stand-thingie.

“Betty, please…”

She drones this over and over, till finally Shirley’s like, “Why are you calling me
Betty?
”

And Laverne’s like, “I don’t know…Betty sounds so much better than
Shirl
.”

Well, eventually the place becomes packed. Laverne’s in the kitchen, boiling spaghetti and flinging it against the wall before drenching it in ketchup. Out front, Shirley’s bopping between tables taking orders from a gang of bikers. When she gets one for chicken tetrazzini, Laverne doesn’t know how the hell to make it, and ends up cramming an entire plucked
poulet
into a pot!

But the
pièce de résistance
has gotta be the pancakes.

Not realizing what she’s done, Laverne douses the entire grill with batter. She leans over into the mic and croaks, “Lucky, lucky, lucky…For the next ten minutes, everything comes with
free
pancakes.”

Meanwhile, the male customers start groping Shirley. She’s screeching and screaming, and getting totally pissed because everybody keeps calling her Betty—including Laverne, who uses a dustpan to flip the flapjacks prior to loading Shirl down with a dozen plates, shoving one directly in her mouth.

One by one, the natives get restless. They’re banging on the tables, brutally chanting, “
Betty…Betty…Betty
.” Until finally Laverne gets on the horn and begs them, “Please don’t harass Betty, please.”

Now for my point…

At Big Boy’s, we have a similar microphone system, complete with bendy microphone stand-thingie. Whenever I have to use it, I can’t help but think of Penny Marshall as I call out my order to Tony (the cook) in the kitchen.

“Strawberry waffle.”

Picture a guy with fat forearms, wiry whiskers, two teeth in his head, and you’ll get Tony. I’m sure he’s got a MOM tattoo somewhere. Lemme tell ya, the guy thinks he’s Mel Sharples from
Alice
. All he needs is the beanie. Any day now I expect him to bang the bell with his spatula and shout out, “Dingy!”

Plopping a side of fries onto a plate, Tony bellows, “Couldn’t hear ya!”

Oops!
I forgot to hit the ON switch.

So I repeat the order, using my best stage speech. “Strawberry waf-fle.”

The menu may read:
Our scrumptious Belgian waffle made with farm fresh eggs, served with succulent strawberries and creamy whipped topping
. But when you boil it down,
strawberry waffle
says it all.

“Somebody sure could use a drink.”

Around 7:00 PM, me and my manager, Shir, pop into the back room to take our break together.

I ask, “You or me?” thinking how fun it would be to knock back a few fuzzy navels right about now.

All day at work I haven’t been able to concentrate. Richie’s parents went to Chicago for the weekend to bowl in some tournament. So he invited me to spend the night.

“What are we gonna do?”

This I asked him yesterday when he asked me yet again if we were still on for our Saturday sleepover.

“I don’t know,” he replied sheepishly. “Play pool, watch a movie, hang out.”

I been giving The Sophomore a ride home from play rehearsal since the Monday after Thanksgiving, two weeks ago. I figured it was the least I could do to pay him back for keeping me from freezing my ass off at the parade. Plus I feel terrible for being such a jerk to him these past few weeks. It’s not Richie’s fault that Mr. Dell’Olio gave him
my
part in the play, you know what I mean?

By the way, we didn’t end up going to see
Dirty Dancing
. Nobody in Richie’s family bothered to check the mailbox because it was a Sunday, so he didn’t even get my letter till that Monday
after
he got home from school.

“I gotta work till ten.”

I reminded him this, thinking it might be too late to play pool, watch a movie, and hang out by the time I finally got over his house.

Richie replied, “So…? I’ll be here all by my lonesome waiting for you.” Did I mention he looked totally cute all bundled up like an Eskimo about to brave the December cold?

Like me, The Sophomore’s got three sisters, but his are all older and either married or moved out. He claimed it’ll be a Total Blast having the whole house to ourselves. I think he’s a Total Baby and is terrified of staying home alone.

“Sounds cool.”

This I concluded after realizing I been wanting to see what the inside of Richie’s house looks like and not just the front.

Back in the Big Boy’s break room…

“Fuck!”

I fish into my shirt pocket, and discover I’m totally outta cigarettes.

“Have one of mine,” Shir offers, extending her half-f pack in my direction.

Normally, I admire the fact that she partakes in the Virginia Slim Menthol Light 120. ’member, I had those exact same ones (minus the menthol) on Halloween night when I dressed up as Columbia and went to see
Rocky Horror?
But right now, I can’t bear the thought of accepting such a girlie gift. Instead, I get a pop from the vending machine.

Shir lights her smoke and takes a seat. “Somebody’s got something on their mind.”

Sure enough, Shir is right.

All evening I been wondering what is gonna happen once I get over Richie’s. I mean, I won’t assume anything will happen, but let’s face it…Why is he so keen on having me spend the night at his house while his parents are away if he doesn’t have something planned?

Tempted as I am to bear my soul to Shir about my man troubles, I decide I’d rather not get into the whole Richie thing.

As all
“To thine ownself be true”
as I’m trying to be, I still haven’t told anybody I work with that I’m gay. Not even Shir, who’s like my second mom. I mean, I know she’d totally be cool with it. I just haven’t found the right time, and refilling the Heinz 57 bottles with Del Monte at Big Boy’s certainly isn’t the right place. Besides, I don’t even know if there
is
a whole Richie thing to get into.

Looks like I’m about to find out…

Ka-thunk!

The second the time clock strikes 10:00 PM, I punch my card. As quickly as I can, I make my way to the men’s room where I wash my pits, put on some Speed Stick spice, and a splash of Lagerfeld. Next, I change outta my black-and-white waiter uniform into a pair of Downy-fresh Guess? jeans, along with my new favorite Gap sweater. Did I mention I applied for a part-time/over-the-holidays job after all?

Wish me luck getting it because I am B-R-O-K-E!

Nauseous
is the word to describe the feeling I feel fumbling with my keys out in the parking lot, trying to open my car door. I don’t know why I bother locking it, the piece of shit!

“Sorry, Val.”

Once inside, I apologize. Nope, nobody’s with me riding shotgun. Val is what I call my car—short for
Valiant
, get it? Originally I thought about calling it Prince, as in
Prince Valiant
, but I feel that she’s a girl. Plus people might think I’m talking about Prince, as in
The Revolution
, and get confused.

Truth be told, Val’s a bit temperamental, but what can you expect? She’s almost twenty years old! In the months we been together, I found she responds better when I give her a little love and affection. And if I wanna make it the almost-mile over to Richie’s, I know I better treat her right.

Pulling outta the Big Boy’s parking lot, I cut across the 1–75 overpass before making a “Louie” on the northbound Chrysler service drive, taking me past the Holiday Inn. I can’t believe I lived in Hazel Park/Ferndale my entire life, and the first time I set foot in the joint was just last year. “Call me Hal” booked a Chorale gig in the banquet room for some club of some kind—Elks, K of C, Kiwanis, maybe? I don’t know what I was expecting, but it sure as hell wasn’t fancy.

At the 9 Mile stoplight, I think of Jack. Probably because of the Farmer
Jack’s
on the corner where his dad works. The other day, my mom made me run in to pick up some milk, and I totally avoided cutting thru the Produce department just in case Mr. Paterno might happen to be chopping broccoli or something. I don’t know what I was afraid of. It’s not like Jack’s dad is gonna be rude just because me and his son are no longer friends, you know what I mean?

In a way, I sorta hoped I
would
see Mr. Paterno. If I did, I could’ve inquired as to how Jack is doing. Last I heard he’s been hanging out with Betsy Sheffield and Tom Fulton in all his free time.

Whatever…

Knock knock!

I guess I should’ve called first before coming over The Sophomore’s, but I didn’t wanna waste any more time than I already did fucking around with my hair in the bathroom. I swear every time I take a shower, the drain is more and more filled with my locks. Lemme tell ya, the day I go bald, I’m shaving my head.

Peeking thru the tiny cut-out window in the Tyler’s front door, I see a cozy room, complete with couch and matching love seat. A leather La-Z-Boy rests in one corner, a Windsor rocker in the other. Except for the light coming from a small lamp on the table between the two, the house looks dark.

Great!

I bet Richie got sick of waiting for me and decided to go to bed…So much for our sleepover!

This time I ring the bell.

Ding dong!

Thru the archway separating the family and dining rooms, I catch a flash of something furry leaping from the pedestal table onto the oval-ringed rug below.

I coo, “Kitty-Kitty,” thinking that the Tylers’ cat might actually open the front door and let me inside.

Wanna know what the stupid Siamese does?

She (he?) sits there in the middle of the floor, licking her/himself inappropriately.

“Go tell Richie that Brad’s here,” I whisper, not wanting to wake him, but also not giving up the fight just yet.

The cat turns and bolts in the direction from whence it came.

Down the block, bright headlights from a passing car. I’m sure I look totally suspicious standing on the Tylers’ porch, peering inside. It’s only a matter of minutes before the HP PD will arrive to arrest me for B & E, you know what I mean?

In the words of Shellee
What’s up, Fox?
Findlay: Looks like I won’t be “getting some gravy” anytime soon.

Jesus!

From outta nowhere, a face pops into frame, scaring the bejesus outta me.

“It’s about time…”

Richie flings open the front door, giving me a heart attack—and a hard-on.

‘member how much I’m into bare ankles? There he stands in nothing but a skimpy pair of Champion short-shorts. His practically hairless legs lead down to white Adidas hi-tops worn with matching footies.

“I thought you were never gonna get here,” says The Sophomore, beckoning me inside.

I explain what a nightmare my entire day has been, and how it took me forever to get the fuck outta Big Boy’s and over here. “Sorry…”

“That’s okay,” he replies. “I just didn’t hear the door…I was downstairs lifting weights.”

As if the sweat dripping down your totally bare-chested bod didn’t tip me off!

Richie leads the way thru the family room, dining room, and kitchen to the basement where he’s got a black aluminum weight bench set up. A plethora of plastic donuts in various sizes clutters the carpeted floor. From a boom box sitting atop the billiards table, I recognize the voice of former Wham! front man, George Michael, belting out one of my new favorite tunes.