“Not a lot of fire in your belly tonight.” John looks concerned. “You sick?”
“Just … my family.” I really, really, really don’t want it to matter. But it does.
He pats my arm. “Just be happy you have one.”
“Whatever.”
He glares and gestures at the mike. If I don’t get the next song ready, I’ll have dead air.
“So, Ugly Children, how about those parents? Like ’em or hate ’em? I can’t decide these days. They take care of me, feed me, and let me sleep in their house, but they’re seriously clueless, you know? Don’t you ever just want to stand in front of them and yell, ‘THIS IS ME—WHY DON’T YOU LIKE ME?’ Is there a Bureau of Parents? Can I get another set? But enough of that. We’re here to focus on those lovely, kind, sweet women who are our mothers. Or at least someone else’s mothers. How about a little Frank Zappa, something catchy but messed up? Here’s ‘My Guitar Wants to Kill Your Mama.’ ”
John looks like I slapped somebody.
“Yes, I’m crabby.” I glare, and he doesn’t say a word.
Songs go on and come off. I keep getting angry so John shuts off the mic, and eventually I give up and just play music.
I try one last time before everything’s over. “Maybe, friends, our moms could remember their own crappy teenage lives. That would help. Back when they were stuck doing what someone else wanted them to do.”
John’s reaching for the mic to shut it off again, but I grab it. “Before I go, Ugly Children, your task for this show is to decorate the statue of our local founding father, Merriweather Maxfield, since he’s also kind of the mother of our town. He’s a uniparent! And he’s bronze and pretty ugly, so he could use some sprucing up. Remember the side seam in his crotch? Make sure you restock the condoms, but see what else you can do to it. And thank you for the B side wall. It’s … it’s just … wow. Thank you. It’s awesome.” I can’t say any more, and they’ll probably paint over it after this show, but I have to thank them before it’s gone. “I’m Gabe, this is Beautiful Music for Ugly Children on 90.3 KZUK, and for our benediction, here’s ‘Stacy’s Mom’ from Fountains of Wayne. She’s the ultimate MILF. See you next week.”
There really is a crevice in his crotch, like the one in the front of tighty whiteys. People leave all sorts of things in that spot besides condoms. We want an accurate historical picture, the town bigwigs said, and this is what a Civil War uniform looked like when First Lieutenant Merriweather Maxfield came here to settle our fine community.
I probably sucked so bad they won’t do it. I don’t blame them.
Saturday noon. I check my email and see nothing, then decide to get on my bike and work off a little of the Pepsi spare tire. Plus, I’m curious to see if I sucked as bad as I thought I did. When I go by the Merriweather Maxfield statue, there’s an entire bouquet sticking out of the side of the crotch of his pants, and “UCB!!” chalked all over him, including on his dick, or where I’d imagine his dick would be. Maybe Merriweather Maxfield is a trans man—maybe he has no dick. I take a couple photos with my phone, since I’m guessing someone will come by and fix it later. We don’t want the town father to be defaced, after all.
Then I ride my ass all the way out to the B side wall, and the graffiti is still there. Amazingly. I take another picture, just in case, and I solemnly swear to be better next week.
I need them.
Michael Jackson is the new Elvis
since The World Went Crazy
When Each of Them Died
Wednesday noon. I’m in the caf, drinking a Pepsi. Heather waves and smiles, and I try not to look too interested or desperate. Then Paige comes and sits with me, because she says I look sad. Less than two weeks left, she says. Even though I’m not sad, that news instantly makes me feel better.
Algebra, then study hall. I let my mind drift to the Vibe contest and radio songs, but it strays to Heather, and I feel a little bad. It’s kind of like cheating on Paige, even though there’s nothing to cheat on.
But letting myself think about a girl is new for me. Another B side track.
I imagine softness, sweet smells, pretty hair, pretty eyes, and Heather’s there, smiling that lovely smile, waving her lovely hand. Then Paige storms into my mind and starts yelling at me for thinking about some other girl. Imaginary Heather slinks away.
If anybody could ruin a fantasy, it would be Paige.
But it gives me an idea.
Thursday after school. “John, do you think we could do a show about … ”
“Sex? Drugs? Rock and roll? All of the above?”
I gulp. “Well … sex. Maybe seduction?”
“Give me three seconds and I’ll get you three hundred songs.”
“Don’t you think your lady friends would like it if you lasted longer than three seconds?”
“Watch your mouth, sonny.” But he grins.
A new kind of conversation for us. I think John likes me as a guy.
I take the deepest breath I can.
“Good evening, and welcome to your sexy midnight hour. I’m Gabe, and this is Beautiful Music for Ugly Children, on community radio KZUK, 90.3. I hope you’re with your sweetie, because this show is for anybody who wants to get it on.” And then the smooth sounds of Marvin Gaye float into the darkness. There’s no question what Marvin wants.
When he’s done seducing the world, I’m ready to go. “So, Ugly Children Brigade, are you into seduction this evening? I hope your lovely A sides are rubbing against other people’s B sides, making sparks between you. And speaking of B sides, that wall is so crazy cool I still can’t believe it. Thank you again for making it. Are you there right now? I hope so. For our next foray into seduction, let’s try on ‘Inside My Love,’ Minnie Riperton, just for that slow friction.”
Paige’s face floats through my mind. Then Heather’s.
The phone rings.
“KZUK, the Z that sucks.”
“You aren’t really doing this show, are you? Who the hell are you going to seduce?”
“Thanks for the support, BFF. Maybe Cher. Wouldn’t you like to know?”
She’s insulted, for real or for fake I can’t tell. “You have to tell me! I’m the only friend you have.”
“Not true. John’s my friend.” John gives me a thumbs-up while digging around in the crate marked seduction songs.
“You know what I mean. Back to the question: who are you trying to seduce?”
You, Paige. And if not you, maybe Heather. “Nobody in particular.”
“You’d better tell me when you figure it out.”
“What are you doing tonight, pray tell? Seducing Bobby X? Or reading a book?”
She snorts. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”
“That means you’re reading a book.”
“My parasitology textbook is way more exciting than you are.” She hangs up.
As the song ends, John hands me a CD and I get it into a player, looking at it just enough to know its name. “So, Ugly Children, maybe you’re dancing. I’ve heard it’s a good seduction technique. Here’s Rihanna and her not-so-subtle sexual requests for her Rude Boy. Then we’ll slow it down for some real dancing with Usher. And remember, if no one’s around to dance with, a broom will do. And that’s my request for tonight, since you all seem willing to do my bidding for some odd reason. Get those dancing brooms and mops and make a crowd near City Hall, by the fountain. I bet that’s a lovely spot for tonight’s midnight tryst.”
Then I’m off the air, and John’s giving me the eye. “Who was that on the phone?”
“Paige.”
“Your smart friend?” He doesn’t see her often, but he thinks she reads too much. Which she does.
“She’s not that smart.” I don’t tell him she’s got the third highest GPA in our class.
> The phone rings again.
“KZUK, the Z that sucks. What do you want now?”
The voice at the other end is startled. “What do you mean, what do I want?” It’s not Paige.
I’m caught completely off guard. “Uh … ”
Then the voice gets a little sexier. “I want to know who you’re trying to seduce.”
My brain has exploded. “Well … ”
“Do you know who this is?”
“It’s … ”
“It’s Mara! Who else would it be?” The bounce is back in her voice, but she pauses. “Maybe you have other girls who call you.”
I try to sound macho. “Tonight you’re the only one.”
“That’s not true, if you asked me what I wanted.”
“I … ”
“Would you like to hang out sometime?”
“Pardon me?” I’m not sure what she said. I think I know, but I need her to say it again.
“Would you like to meet me sometime for coffee?”
She’s asking me out.
I’ve never been on a date in my life.
“How about the Hag?” She doesn’t seem to sense my cluelessness.
The Coffee Hag is a very funky coffeehouse, very left-wing alternative. I can fit in there. Or at least not stick out. “The Hag is fine.”
She sounds pleased. “How about next week?”
Do I really want to do this? Can I really pull it off? My brain ticks through a thousand thoughts in a second. Then I make my voice as low as possible. “Let’s do it after graduation.”
“Are you a senior?”
Shit shit shit. “No, but my cousin across town is, and I have to help with his reception.” Not a bad save. Hopefully.
“Maybe the week after? Can I call you?”
“Sure.” That gives me time to figure out what to wear. Or to chicken out, whichever comes first.
“Great! I’ll be the one with the daisy on my bag.”
She may be way too perky for me. But meeting someone as Gabe—that’s exciting. And scarier than wearing a Mango into a men’s room.
“I’ll be the one with the red Chuck Taylors.” Red shoes will make me seem manly—won’t they?
“See you soon!”
I hang up and wonder what I’ve done.
It’s all right, Gabe. You know it’s all right.
Elvis could be completely full of shit.
No time to think. Dead air. “Still out there seducing each other? That’s good, Ugly Children, that’s good. Spread the love but wear a glove. How about a little Whitesnake? Hmm, is that a pun?” I give up before it gets any weirder.
John’s eyeing me from the back of the studio, where the music crate ended up. “Paige again on the phone?”
“Nope.”
“Another girl?”
“Yup.”
“You’re kidding!” He puffs up his chest. “My best record was fifteen in an hour. And women can be pretty vicious, you know. They’d line up outside the window of the studio and wave at me, then go to the pay phone to call me, then pull each others’ hair and scratch each other and do it all over again. Good times, I tell you … good times.” His face is dreamy as he remembers.
“I don’t think I’ll ever get to fifteen.”
“So what did the other girl want?”
“To ask me out.”
He can see my hesitation. “What’s the problem?”
“When did you find out I’m a guy?”
“Three weeks ago? I don’t know.”
“So imagine what it’s like to be asked out—as a guy—when I couldn’t even tell you my secret, and I’ve known you forever. She thinks she’s asking out a bio guy.”
“What’s a bio guy?”
“A biological guy.”
“But what’s the problem?”
“This is ME we’re talking about. There are a thousand problems.”
John pats my shoulder. “Women are just plain scary. Sometimes, though, you just gotta take the plunge. Test the waters.” His southern twang is showing. “What’s the worst thing that could happen?”
“If she has an older brother, he could bash my head in if she thinks I’m lying about being a guy. That’s not usually a factor in other guy’s dates.”
“Well, your water probably has more sharks in it than most people’s.” He flings me a CD of Insane Clown Posse. “But what if the sharks are taking a nap and it’s smooth sailing?”
There’s a seduction song by Insane Clown Posse? “Throwing CDs isn’t the best way to treat your music collection, is it?” I fling the CD back to him. “I’ll try to imagine the sharks doing something else. Like listening to shark music.”
“Do you think there’s such a thing as shark music? Maybe in the sixties, with surfer music and all that.” He hands me the last CD and fixes me with a look. “Think positive. This song will bring the house down, by the way.”
I glance at it, and he’s right. Then I’m on. “For our last song this evening, here’s ‘Pour Some Sugar on Me’ by Def Leppard. Just make sure to clean up your mess, Ugly Children. We don’t want things all sticky.” John is trying not to laugh out loud. “I’m Gabe, of course, awaiting your seduction. Like Elvis says, don’t be cruel, and I’m back next week right here on KZUK, community radio, 90.3.”
John claps. “You are amazing.”
I feel like I’ve run ten miles.
And now I have a date. Obviously, pigs are flying somewhere, and Jesus will be back tomorrow.
We decide on a McDonald’s trip after the show, before we check out the UCB’s work. I order a cheeseburger Happy Meal because my stomach’s still got Mara sharks in it, but John orders two Big Mac meals. Once we’ve got our goods, we drive around forever, to give them more time to finish things. Finally we drive by City Hall to see if there’s anything there, and there are at least twenty mops and brooms propped up around the fountain, some in embraces made by rope arms tacked onto their bodies, some lying down on top of each other, getting it on in that mop-ly way. UGLY CHILDREN BRIGADE—SEDUCED BY GABE is chalked on the flat ledge around the fountain.
Is anybody going to come after me for vandalism? That’s the last thing I need.
John’s just staring. “What a piece of work. Look—that one has an actual face.” Someone’s cut eyes, nose, ears, and a mouth out of felt and glued it to the broom. The mop that’s making out with the broom has a face too.
“Look at that!” I point to a Swiffer WetJet in a tight embrace with a barn broom. “Mops and brooms fraternizing, heaven help us all.”
John’s got his phone out, snapping photos. “We should make a Facebook page for this stuff. Show everyone the work of the UCB.”
“You’re on Facebook?” Just when I think there can’t be any more surprises in one night.
“Isn’t everyone?”
When we finally get home, I let John out in his driveway. “Thanks for hanging out.”
“You were awesome.” He waves and goes into his house.
I get parked and head inside, but not before I hear very loud AC/DC coming through John’s windows. Plenty of neighbors complain about the volume, and sometimes the cops come by, but they usually leave with smiles on their faces and CDs in their hands.
After I’ve brushed my teeth, I open my window and listen. Still AC/DC. I dust my Elvis 45 for a minute, admiring its label and its lack of scratches. If worst comes to worst, I could sell it and use that money to move away. But I don’t know if even that’s worth selling my connection to John and Elvis. I need them too much.
As I’m drifting off to sleep, I consider telling Paige about my date, but I decide to keep it to myself. I don’t need her crap if it doesn’t work out.
Elvis Costello is the new Elvis
because
He Changed his Name to Honor the King
Monday. I check my email to see if there’s an answer from the Vibe, and of course there’s nothing. They must be having big yuks at their staff meetings: “Hey, did you see this girl who’s a guy? What kind of stupid shit is that?” Every night, I listen for a while before I go to sleep. I imagine myself chatting, laughing, giving the promos, talking about concerts, playing commercials. Then I imagine going home to my apartment. Gabe’s apartment.
Sometimes, when I open the door of that apartment, Paige is there on the couch, reading her textbooks and studying for med school. It’s late at night, after my shift, and she’s tired. We curl up on the couch for a while, and watch some TV, and then we … I can’t even let myself go there. Too amazing. And it’s too sad, because it will never happen, so why bother?
Tuesday: no email. Paige comes over, drags me to my room, and demands my laptop. “You absolutely have to see this.” She pulls up Facebook and types in “Ugly Children Brigade.” A page come up. Paige clicks on it, and it’s a fan page, complete with an Ugly Children Brigade logo, photos, and 57 fans to go with it.
“No way.” I click around to see if there’s anyone I know. Paige is there, Heather Graves is there, and so is Mara, but I don’t point that out to Paige. There are even some grown-ups: a local DJ who’s not horrible, and Russ, the station manager of KZUK. “I’ll have to tell John about this. Who made that logo?”
Paige is surprised. “John’s on Facebook?”
“Evidently. Did you put this up?”
“Nope. I saw it on Allison’s page.”
I click through the photos. “Look—the wall, the mops, and check this out!” It’s a photo of a movie marquee, one over by our local college. The letters have been rearranged to say G BE R X—UGLY CH LDR N BRIG DE. Must’ve been a vowel shortage. And there’s a video of people setting up the mop display at City Hall. Paige and I fall over laughing when they set up the ones doing it by the fountain.
Beautiful Music for Ugly Children Page 6
