Outtakes Of A Walking Mistake (2 page)

“We got a sub,” Kim Dexter tells Jenny outside of their classroom. To their right, two soccer boys compete for attention in a game of hacky-sack

“Dammit, subs don’t give tardy slips. Now, I’ll never get detention!” Jenny gripes.

“Don’t worry. You’ll get it someday. I believe in you,” I joke.

Pursing her lips, Kim is not amused. Now let it be known, Kim and I – drum roll please – don’t get along. It all started two years ago when dad had Kim arrested for stealing a bra at Wal-Mart, and I accidentally informed the whole school about it. She’s been livid with me ever since. Well, unless there’s an exam in our psychology class. Then she’s my best bud. “Ooh, I just love me some fags,” she told me last week. We were five minutes into a pop quiz on Sigmund Freud. “You know, fags founded this country. Ever hear of Plymouth Rock? Fags know good landscape when they see it. By the way, got the answer to question two?”

Thank god Kim is absent a lot. Part-time student, part-time model and full-time skank, Kim only blesses us with her presence when she’s not posing for some teenybopper magazine. Though noteworthy for her height, I often wonder how Kim can be a model at all. Her red hair resembles a forest fire, with burnt and brittle roots, and her Casper-white skin drowns in ashes of brown freckles. Besides that, her eyes are too far apart, resulting in a fish-like quality. I just don’t get it. To me, Kim Dexter is a total bottom-feeder who claims to be rich and popular yet drives an ’86 beater and sits alone at lunch.

“Later, Jenny,” I say, parting ways.

“Have a nice day, pillowbiter!” Kim yells, seconds later, when I’m out of her line of sight. On my way to personal fitness class, I freeze the instant I hear her voice. Part of me is angry. Part of me knows I’m late to class. Part of me can’t recall what the term pillowbiter means. The laughter from her male entourage tells me it’s bad.

Still, I refuse to let her words beat me down. Being gay is not a curse; it’s a gift. Repeating this over in my mind, I near the guidance office and two sophomore boys from last year’s rendition of
Oliver
come into view.

Thank heavens I’m not crying. I can’t appear weak in front of them. I am raw talent without seasoning; they are experienced thespians. Maybe I’ll make their acquaintance. Who cares if I’m late? I only have personal fitness class. I always arrive last anyway. It’s safer.

“What’s going on?” I ask, approaching the dramatic duo from behind. Studying a poster on the wall, they grunt in unison, barely acknowledging me. It appears auditions are to be held for an untitled film project, the black and white poster reads. Mr. Dolby is directing.

According to the poster the film is an experimental love story. To me, experimental sounds dangerous. I’m dangerous too. Believe it or not, I was a Boy Scout when I was eight. How much more dangerous can it get?

With my pinky as my guide, I scan the name of the students already listed on the sign-up sheet taped beside the poster.

Let’s see.

David Freder: Senior Class sexy pervert.

Parker Cummings: Junior Class hippie-freak.

Stella Stevens: Never heard of her.

Ashley Hewitt: Delusional drama queen.

Billy Greske....

“Billy Greske!” I shriek. One of the drama boys, the grungy one with the pierced lip and pubic hair on his chin, raises a questioning eye. “I mean, he’s just so talented and stuff. I’ve always wanted to work with him.”

Reality check: I’ve always wanted to work him. Oh, to be wrapped up in Billy’s arms in a classic Hollywood embrace. What a brilliant thought! We could be silly star-crossed lovers like Romeo and Juliet. Yes, I know, I’m not a girl, but if kissing Billy is part of the equation, I’m totally willing to convert. After all, this may be my chance to break through to him!

Signing up, I giggle with glee and memorize my audition time before launching into a light jog toward gym class, located beside the football field just adjacent to the main hub of the school. On the glass exit door I notice a pumpkin-shaped sign promoting the Monster Mash and my brain grumbles thinking about what happened at the dance last year. But I can’t think about that now. Soon I make my way outside and arrive at the tennis courts where Coach Guido and my classmates are warming up beneath the bright Florida sun. Still, I must go to the locker room and change.

Above the locker room entrance I read a purple and gold banner that proclaims “Go Rivershore Tigers.” Go where? I think. And who’s paying for the gas? School spirit is something I’ll never understand, much like I’ll never know why the boy’s locker room has to be so gross. Opening the heavy door I’m assaulted by the stench of boy sweat mixed with the harsh chemicals the janitor uses to cover it up. As I head inside, the floor is sticky from soda cans leaking from the trash. Suddenly all these inane questions flood my mind. Do I belong here? Should I close my eyes? Should I be cool? Should I act tough? I never seem to know which way is safe to look. It’s sad. Being gay, I’m supposed to embrace opportunities like this. Where else can I stumble so easily upon a naked boy?

Dave Loves Sara. Sara’s a slut. Sara’s your mom. Your mom is a slut. Sluts are fags. Fags blow.
Along with some other illegible scribbles, I find these statements on the yellow tiles by the showers. Pausing to read them, I wonder if the fag statement is about me. After all I’m a fag, but then again I don’t blow, even though I wish someone would give me the chance. Either way, it’s good to be recognized, unless your name is Danny Schmidt that is….

Veering around the lockers, I come upon Danny whimpering while he pulls a ‘Go Tigers’ tee over his hairy, bowling ball belly. Seeing Danny, I have mixed emotions. Personally, I like him. I just don’t like being exposed to his bare chest. He has pasty man-boobs that totally make me want to gag. Now, I admit, there was a time when I had man-boobs too, but I knew enough to wear a sports bra.

“How’s it going, Danny?” I ask, setting my bag on a bench.

“Eh, it’s going.” He combs down his frizzy brown hair.

“You’d better hurry,” I tell him. “Coach Guido will have a cow if we’re not out there soon.”

“Yeah, I know,” he sighs, even though this seems to be the least of his worries.

You see, Danny has bigger problems. Beginning in middle school, he made the terrible mistake of telling everyone he was different. His story revolved around some big lie that he was a vampire from Transylvania who washed up in a coffin on the Gulf of Mexico during a tropical storm. To prove this he carried two things daily: a black umbrella for shade and a can of V-8. The latter, he professed, contained the divine blood of his mistress: the school nurse. For whatever reason he thought the story would make him super popular with girls. Of course it backfired on him. Boys still toss garlic cloves in his boxers and pelt him with holy piss-water balloons. As for girls, they’re just afraid of him. I wonder why? Short, round, and out for blood, what’s not to love?

“Hey, you know how random chicks can be, right?” he suddenly asks, in frustration.

“Not really.”

“Well, do you know anything about them?”

“I know they don’t like being called chicks. It makes them sound like they’ve just hatched and have yet to evolve.”

“Whatever,” he replies. “So listen, I met this…girl online, ok? She agreed to meet once I sent my pic. Now, every girl online is a ten, and she is too except for the missing tooth thing, but whatever. She’s still hot, and I’ll tell you the whole truth. I wasn’t ready for her. I screwed up. I sent her a pic of Brad Pitt, and now she won’t even spit on me. She says I’m afraid of being myself.”

In the background, a leaky showerhead drips, drips, drips. “Are you?” I ask.

Avoiding the question, Danny shifts the conversation. “Hey, you want to know what else I found online?” he says. Then taking a tall glass perfume bottle out of his basketball shorts pocket, he generously sprays the contents on his neck. Oddly enough, there’s no odor. “Bottled pheromones,” he says. “This stuff drives women wild.”

“That junk doesn’t work.”

“Bullshit. The website says I’ll have girls begging to call me daddy.”

“Gross!” I yell, with a chuckle. “What about guys? Does it attract guys too?”

“I’m not sure. Here! Try it!” he demands. I step back, but before I can get away or object, he screams with laughter and empties the bottle on me.

Welcome to my life.

Later in the day, my only response from dousing my body with the supposed love potion is a wink from some sixty-year-old janitor with a limp. Boy, won’t dad be proud.

“Well, at least SOMEONE gave you attention,” Jenny says, as we speed off campus in her cherry red vroom-vroom.

“I just wish Billy was the one doing the winking,” I sigh, knowing that Billy had to leave campus early. On weekdays, he mentors kids at Becker Elementary. My heartthrob with a boundless heart, that’s Billy. Nevertheless, I feel abandoned. “I mean, how could he leave without saying goodbye? I expect more from my man.”

“He’s not your man,” Jenny reminds me.

“Lovely. So not only am I desperate but delusional as well.”

“No sweetie, you’re horny. Delusions are a side-effect.”

“Perfect.”

“Ok, enough about Billy. Lighten up!” Jenny demands. As we hit the car-littered highway, tall palm trees act as breadcrumbs, leading the way. “Remember, I’m taking you to the mall.”

For Jenny, uttering the word mall produces oral ecstasy. “Shopping is a talent,” she tells me, and weekly I silently observe as she perfects her skill, sniffing out each designer clearance rack under the Southgate mall roof. She credits the feat to her sixth sense. “Some see dead people, I see bargains,” she brags, ringing up a pair of ‘70s retro bellbottoms. Less than five minutes after our arrival, Jenny has us red-tag shopping in an ultra trendy boutique where even the mannequins appear snooty. “Won’t these do wonders for my collection? I hope I can squeeze my stomach in them,” she says, smoothing her hands over the shiny, new jeans. Jenny has a fetish for everything ‘70s, the
Charlie’s Angels
era. She’s the angel that time forgot. This she reminds me every night we sit glued to reruns of the show.

An hour later, the shopping spree ends and Jenny insists that we get manicures. On our trek home, I’m quiet and calm as I stare at my buffed nails, but I can’t figure out why I agreed to such a thing. I mean, being gay is fine, but getting a manicure, that elevates the situation.

It’s like, hello, I have balls.

I’d like to keep a tiny bit of my masculinity.

Jenny doesn’t seem to notice my discomfort. On top of the world, she jets us along the tic-tac-toe roads of Rivershore Heights: a place where each house is a replica of the next and every road is named after a dead president. Dad and I live on Eisenhower.

Having done the trip a thousand times before, Jenny knows all of the short cuts, the quickest way to get from point A to point B. Still, it’s strange. Although she lives fifteen minutes away, I have yet to see her country club home. I’ve only heard stories about it, like how white pillars hold it up and how her housekeeper gets lost in the master bathroom.

“Out!” Jenny sings, braking in front of the cement driveway leading to my house. Then she speeds away, blasting an old southern rock song on the radio while leaving behind a cloud of white smoke.

Raising a balled fist at the commotion, Sergeant Dogshit, my aging-impaired neighbor, ceases waxing his new silver town car to voice his usual dissent. “Damn kids,” he bellyaches. “Have some respect.”

“What? I can’t control her,” I reply. “I’m an innocent bystander.”

Sergeant’s shaved head melts like an ice-cube in the hovering sun. “Bi my foot,” he says.

“Excuse me?”

“As you were, private.”

Welcome to the weird, wacky world of worthless spats with Sergeant Dogshit. Half of the time I can’t understand what he’s saying and most of the time I’m thankful for it. The man is insane. He carries a rifle when he walks his pug, Dookie, and just last week he told dad a secret: he’s fighting the big war, which would be fine had he not chosen our neighborhood as his battleground.

The truth is, Sergeant used to be semi-normal. However, after the death of his wife two years ago he nose-dived off the deep end of an empty pool. I quickly took note of his descent the day he started referring to Dookie’s bowl movements as liquid landmines. “Them are valuable tools to keep the enemies at bay,” he told me. Now he expects gratitude when his pug craps on our lawn. Lucky for him, his wife was nice. A former middle school teacher, she’d ask about my grades and bake sugar cookies for me. In return I would compliment her flower-print dresses.

Hastily making my way into the house, I close the door on Sergeant and prepare for my own personal battle, the one with dad.

“That you?” he calls from the kitchen.

“Yeah.”

“You’re late.”

So begins a typical evening with dad. Now, don’t get me wrong. I love dad. It’s just easier to ignore him, and right now, that’s exactly what I do. Setting down my back pack, I dash across the wood floor in the living room and plop on the brown leather couch for a quick nap and a chance to dream about Billy before dinner. In my head, I imagine the two of us strolling along the red carpet at our film premiere. We’re the stars, he and I, and standing outside of the Chinese Theater in Los Angeles, we’re smart enough to remain a few feet apart to keep the celebrity bloggers at bay. Yet inside the theater, we secretly hold hands as the lights go dim. His touch makes life seem easy, like I can handle any conflict with him at my side. The warmth of his palm, it melts my hand, connecting us. In my ear he whispers he’ll never let me go, even when the lights come up. Inside, my heart fries.