Remembering Christmas (19 page)

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Authors: Drew Ferguson

BOOK: Remembering Christmas
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“I should probably get home,” I say. “I told my mom I wouldn't be out too late.”
“What did you do that for?” Joey scolds, playfully. “I was thinking we could go down to Menjo's.”
“I guess. . . .” Though I didn't really dress for the bar, it might be fun. I'm sure the place will be packed full of cute boys home from college. Just like me and Joey.
“Awesome!” Out of nowhere, Joey reaches down, scoops up a ball of dirty ice, and pelts me in the face with it.
“Watch it!” I cry. Not only does it hurt—that shit is cold. “I said I'd go.”
“What's-a-matter?” Joey says, putting on his tough guy act. “Can't take it?”
Back and forth we start beaning each other. Closing my eyes, I don't so much aim as I just let the snowballs fly. Like I've said before, for a gay guy, I've got a pretty good arm. And Joey was always the athletic type, so we're pretty well matched in this battle. Down behind a bank I dive, popping my head up like a periscope. Nowhere do I see Mr. Palladino when
BAM!
He gets me from behind. Not only does Joey hit me full force—the next thing I know, he's taking a flying leap through the air and landing on top of me.
“You give?” His groin presses into my backside. With his left arm, Joey pins me to the ground while his right takes ahold of the back of my head. “Somebody's gonna get a white wash!”
With all my might I manage to flip myself over. Joey's still on top of me, his face mere inches from mine. He really is a beautiful man with his olive skin and prominent Italian schnoz. Obviously, he's been trying to make it clear to me all night that he's interested in being more than just
mon ami.
It would be so easy to allow whatever is happening to happen.
Wouldn't it?
Chocolate eyes peer down at me as Joey licks his cherry lips. “Had enough?”
My chest heaves up and down as I struggle to catch my breath. “I give.”
But Joey doesn't take this as my surrender. Instead, he uses my own game against me. “What would you do if I kissed you right now?” he says, grinning his sunshine smile.
“I don't know,” I respond, playing my part. “Probably kiss you back.”
And with that, Joey Palladino's full lips press firmly against mine.
I've Been Thinking about You
We must have been stone crazy
When we thought we were just friends . . .
—Londonbeat
 
 
 
 
 
A
s anticipated, Menjo's is packed! First off, the line for valet spills out from the front lot and onto Six Mile, aka McNichols. There must be at least a dozen cars all vying for a spot. Per usual, nobody wants to risk their lives parking on the street. Being that it's already after midnight, I thought most people would've gotten down here by now. Or moved on to another location. But this is Detroit we're talking about. Not only is there a shortage of gay bars, the ones that do exist only do business depending on the particular night of the week. Ever since I officially started coming out—of the closet and to the clubs—Sunday nights have always belonged to Menjo's. . . . I wonder who exactly established this tradition and when?
“We don't have to wait,” I inform Joey. After a good fifteen minutes of inhaling fumes from the Ford Tempo in front of us, I'm ready to call it quits.
“Shut up!” he says. “We drove all this way. . . .”
Again, I can't help but worry what my mom's going to think when I don't come home immediately following the movie. I'll be so glad when I get back to Michigan State. As much as I love my mother, I do
not
miss having my comings and goings carefully monitored.
Freshman year when I first moved into Shaw Hall, it was like,
“Woo hoo!”
Me and my roommate at the time went to some kegger at some frat house with some kid he knew from Port Huron. We got totally trashed off our asses and didn't come back to the dorm until four in the morning. Of course I had a 9:00 a.m. class five hours later. Totally sucked! But I couldn't believe how cool it felt rolling in at all hours, all like, “Yeah, I'm wasted.... So what?”
Eventually, the line starts moving, and we make it inside the bar right before 1:00 a.m. Unfortunately, this only gives us an hour. But it's not like I'm looking to get drunk or pick anybody up. I'm with Joey. I still can't believe it: Joey Palladino and Jack Paterno, out together at a G-bar. What would our Hillbilly High classmates think if they ever found out? Probably not a whole lot!
“What are you drinking?” Joey demands over the blaring beat of Black Box. (At least this time it's not Christmas music blasting in my ears. If I hear one more rendition of “Carol of the Bells” or worse yet, “Grandma Got Run Over by a Reindeer,” I'm going to ralph!) Taking the lead—and my hand—Joey pulls me along through the crowd, past the piano near the front bar, and into the room on the opposite side. Thankfully, the lesbians aren't playing pool tonight. Not because I've got anything against them, there's just not enough room right now for a game of eight ball. I swear this place is
never
this crowded except on Christmas break. Whenever Brad and I come down here during the summer when I'm home, it's busy. But not like this.
“I'm really not that thirsty,” I decide.
Again Joey orders, “Shut up! We came all this way. . . . You're having a drink.”
“Fine,” I say, giving in. “I'll have a Sloe Gin Fizz.” Don't ask me where that came from. Call it a throwback to my youth, when all Brad and I ever drank were sissy drinks like Strawberry Hill and Fuzzy Navels.
Joey uses his hotness to flirt his way to the front. He orders our cocktails. We carry them back to the open area over by the dance floor where, like the rest of the place, it's wall-to-wall bodies, bumping and grinding against one other. Fortunately, we left our coats in the car. It's like a sauna in here, and I'm way too overdressed in this turtleneck sweater.
“Do you see somewhere to sit?” I shout. Don't know why I bother; there isn't a vacant seat to be secured.
“Let's stand over here,” says Joey.
I follow him to a darkened corner over by the DJ booth. He raises his beer bottle to my plastic cup, and we clink. Then Joey presses me up against the wall and leans in for a smooch. Looks like we're picking up where we left off back at the old shopping mall snowbank.
A firm hand grips my shoulder. Soon after, I figure out it doesn't belong to my new boyfriend—if that's indeed what we're calling Joey. I haven't made up my mind. Fearing that some perv is trying to trap us into a three-way (there's a time and place for everything, and this isn't it!), I open my eyes, turn my head, and who do I see standing beside me?
“Kirk?”
As in
Bailey.
“What's up?” he says, oh so nonchalantly. Like I didn't just catch him hanging out at an establishment for homosexuals. (Or he caught me. Still . . .)
“I thought you were in Toronto.” If memory serves, he and Raquel weren't scheduled to return from their trip until tomorrow morning. Believe me, I've been counting the minutes.
“We got back early,” Kirk slurs, adding, “Not my idea.”
From his tone when he says this, coupled with the fact that he looks as if he's been knocking back the booze for quite some time, I can only conclude that there must be trouble in paradise. Now I want details!
“Hi, I'm Joey. . . .”
How could I forget my manners?
My date extends his arm, and he and Kirk take hands. I can't tell if Joey senses something going on between me and Mr. Bailey. Considering technically there's
not,
it shouldn't be a problem. Though it sure does seem like Joey's sizing up the competition, the way he gives Kirk the once-over, looking him up and down.
After the introductions, I invite Kirk to join us. “That's okay,” he declines. “I'm here with Bobbie. She wanted to go dancing and invited me to tag along.”
While this makes total sense, I know for a fact that there are plenty of other (read: straight) clubs in the city of Detroit. Why did Bobbie and Kirk happen to choose this particular party pad for their Sunday evening outing? Because the music is good?
I think not!
“Where is she?” I wonder, more to make conversation than because I want to say hello. We did just see each other last night at dinner. (Note to self: Refried beans do not agree with my stomach. That's all I'm going to say!)
“Waiting in line for the bathroom,” Kirk answers. “I told her good luck!”
Yes, finding a place to pee can be a real chore for any girl in a gay bar. So long as she doesn't mind discovering that the stall she selects is occupied by two dudes doing God only knows what . . . And if I know Bobbie, she won't. She'll most likely get a kick out of it.
“I love this song!” Joey lets out a squeal at the sound of the new Stereo MC's. “Wanna dance?”
“You go,” I tell him. “I'm gonna stay here and catch up with Kirk.”
Joey walks away in a huff. Even though I can tell he's pissed, I don't care. I need to get the skinny on what brought Kirk back from his trip so soon.... And what he's
really
doing down here at this so-called den of sin.
Luckily, a seat opens up, and I lead Kirk over to it. Helping him along, he leans his arm on my shoulder to steady himself as he slides into it. I hate seeing him this way, all drunk and disorderly and unable to handle himself. I wish we were somewhere by ourselves right now, and not in this sardine can, where I could care for him.
“So Toronto was a bust?” Getting a whiff of Kirk's cologne as I lean in close to talk into his ear makes me realize just how much I've missed that smell—and the man sporting it.
“Pretty much.” He sips his Heineken. “All me and Raquel did was fight the entire time.” Kirk makes a sour face like he's had enough, slams the bottle down on the ledge behind us. It almost tips over and spills onto the drag queen duo seated to our right. Thank God it doesn't. I don't think I could handle finding myself in the midst of a bar fight tonight.
“I'm sorry,” I say. Though secretly I'm thinking,
Sa-weet!
But I'm not about to utter this aloud. Not when Kirk seems so down in the dumps. Of course now I need to know
everything.
“Don't tell me. . . . Your
Phantom
seats weren't good enough?”
He ignores my smart-ass remark. “Everything started out fine. We had a nice dinner at the Old Spaghetti Factory. The show was good. Afterward, we went for drinks, then back to the hotel. . . .”
“Feel free to skip this part,” I plead. The last image I need in my mind is Kirk and Raquel, postcoital.
“Pretty soon,” he says, “she starts talking about what happens after we graduate and we get
married
.”
Everyone's always assumed that this was part of the plan since K & R have been a happy couple for over two years now. They're like the Tom Cruise and Nicole Kidman of the Theatre Department, destined to be together forever. Only without the scary Scientology aspect.
“Sounds like you don't want that,” I say, trying to be sensitive.
Kirk says, “Maybe some day . . . But not now.” He pauses a moment to reflect on some profound thought. “This isn't the 1950s. Who the hell gets married when they're twenty-two years old?”
I remind Kirk that my dad was seventeen and my mom fourteen when they were wed back on January 3, 1970. But that's because they got themselves “in trouble” and had no other alternative. Other than abortion. Or pawning me off on my aunt and uncle. I can't imagine Raquel Loiseau doing anything that would involve bloating her body or running the risk of stretch marks.
“Besides,” I interject. “What's the point in dating someone long-term if it's not going anywhere?”
“Yeah, but . . .” Kirk gives this some thought. “Why are we both getting our degrees in Acting if we're not gonna be actors?”
“I thought you wanted to go to New York.” On more than one occasion we've discussed this option for him. In fact, Kirk's the one who put the idea of moving to the Big Apple into my head in the first place.
“I do,” he sighs. “And Raquel knows this. Suddenly, she's all about staying in Michigan.”
Other than Meadow Brook and The Attic, there aren't any professional theatre opportunities in Metro Detroit. It's not like you can audition for any of the touring shows that come through the Fisher. They're all cast out of NYC, according to Kirk.
“What's she going to do here?”
“I don't know!” Kirk shakes his head in exasperation. “She says she wants to get in with one of the local agencies and start doing commercials or industrials. Either Affiliated or the Talent Shop, maybe Productions Plus.”
Not knowing the first thing about the whole biz, I ask, “Is there a lot of that kind of work available?”
“Not really . . . There's always the Auto Show,” he says with some spite. “Who wants to stand around all day talking about cars?”
“So what are you going to do?” I have to wonder.
At this point, Kirk Bailey drops the bomb on me. . . .
“Nothing,” he says with a shrug. “We broke up.”
Oh my f-ing God!
Finally, some good news.
But really, what can I say?
Other than, “I'm sorry to hear that.”
“No, you're not!” Kirk snaps. “You don't even like Raquel. Why should you care?”
He's got a good point. Though has my—I won't say hatred—
dislike
of Ms. Loiseau been that transparent? It's not even that I don't like her. I just don't believe she deserves a beau like Kirk Bailey.
The way I do.
With total sincerity I answer, “Because I like
you.
”
Kirk turns his attention toward Joey dancing up a storm in the dark, gyrating himself between the hips of two total hunks. “What about your boyfriend?”
There's no denying Joey's dazzling. Since the day I first laid eyes on him, I've made that claim. But after all these years, I've come to this conclusion: Joey Palladino is
not
the Man of my Dreams....
That honor belongs to Kirk Bailey.
“He's not my boyfriend.”
“How come? He's totally hot. . . .”
“How would you know?” I ask. “You're not gay.”
Kirk turns to me, tears swelling in his eyes. “I'm not?”
Thinking back on all the pressure I've felt along this familiar road to accepting my sexuality, I wouldn't wish this moment of realization on anyone. Least of all Kirk. But we all go through it. Every single one of us gay men—and women. We grow up thinking we're “the only one.” That we're all so unique. No one else can possibly understand what we're struggling with. The kind of suffering we fear causing our family and friends by revealing our secret selves . . . No one else can possibly understand what it feels like to be such a bitter disappointment.

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