Party Monster

by James St. James

  “What’s going on?” I asked a jumpy-looking stewardess.

  “Bomb threat,” she said, with a twinge of hysteria in her voice. “Somebody called in a bomb threat.”

  We all turned to Michael, who smiled proudly. “I told you we’d make it on time.”

  The next day, it was on the cover of the New York Post.

  Meanwhile, passengers on the 11:40 to Chicago, leaving several hours later than its departure time, were compensated by an all-out club kid extravaganza they will probably never forget. There was a runway show down the aisles, a vogueing battle, drugs consumed off the seat-tray tables (which should have been in their upright, locked position). There was a spirited debate over who it would be more fun to fuck: Macaulay Culkin or Emmanuel Lewis (that would have been my choice). A heavy hail of peanuts rained down on most all of the passengers. And of course a few dozen cocktails were consumed before takeoff (by me—Oh, my nerves!).

  Before we made our final descent into the Windy City, Michael and Karlin Supersonic decided to steal the emergency oxygen tanks in the rear of the plane.

  “It’s a fabulous cyber look!”

  “We’ll charge people for gulps of air at the club, and tell them it’s all the rage in New York.”

  I don’t remember how they thought they were going to smuggle their contraband off the plane. The tanks didn’t fit into a lunchbox. And they might look conspicuous down their pants.

  The crew foiled their plan, though, before they could give it a whirl.

  “Nobody is getting off this plane until the culprits confess and return the oxygen tanks!”

  Two hundred angry passengers turned to our little section.

  It obviously wasn’t any one of the sweet Midwestern couples onboard. They had all long since had strokes, after Michael showed everyone the scabs on his penis.

  Outside the plane, police cars were waiting with swirling lights.

  Michael and Karlin sheepishly gave up, and the rest of the passengers were allowed to disembark.

  The police still wanted to talk to us.

  “Hey! Aren’t you Michael Alig? From the Geraldo show?” they said.

  I AM NOT MAKING THIS UP.

  Then: “Didn’t we arrest you for breaking into Al Capone’s vault and having a party there, last time you were in town?”

  They patted him on the head affectionately. “Now no more monkeyshines out of you, mister!”

  They laughed and got back in their cars.

  Oh, those wacky club kids!

  STORY NUMBER THREE

  Now we all know how much Michael LOVED HIS LEGOS. Like nothing else on earth.

  He loved his Legos so much that he would FLY TO GERMANY once a year to visit the original Lego factory, where he could purchase the NEWEST and RAREST Lego paraphernalia.

  No half-hearted hobby THIS! No siree! GO THE DISTANCE! TO THE EXTREME! You have to admire that in a person, right?

  And one year—it must have been winter 1989—he happened to be there on a Lego-buying mission when they took down the Berlin Wall.

  So he was a witness to history.

  But being a witness was never Michael’s way. He needed to be a part of it.

  Now, I’m sure MOST of the people relocating from East Berlin to West Berlin were hardworking, honest folk. Salt of the earth. GOOD PEOPLE.

  But Michael noticed an inordinate number of amoral young Easterners SURGING across the border, eager to live a life of Capitalistic Excess. DRUGS! SEX! MONEY! FAME!

  They would do ANYTHING to purge themselves of the dreary world they had left behind.

  So, of course, Michael scooped one of them up—a sweet young thing, still wet behind the ears—and took him out, showed him off, fed him drugs, and showed him the MYRIAD OF POSSIBILITIES Michael’s world had to offer. He decided to take him back to New York with him and get him a job at the Limelight.

  And that’s when he got AN IDEA . . .

  Now . . .

  If all these hot, horny, HIGH-SPIRITED, and EXCESSIVELY ENTREPRENEURIAL boys wanted to get out of Germany and do drugs and have fun and didn’t care WHO they had to fuck to do it. . . .

  . . . And if Michael knew lots of wealthy old reptiles who would love nothing more than to have a naked East German houseboy, and didn’t mind a little bit of miscommunication and occasional kleptomania . . .

  WELL, WHAT COULD BE BETTER THAN SETTING UP A SERVICE TO BENEFIT BOTH PARTIES? The hustlers would get to live in America with socially connected men who would gladly cover a few vials here and there if it meant they would have hot, young flesh to squire them around town.

  It was a WIN-WIN situation!

  Michael and his hustler friend took Polaroids and phone numbers of lots of cute underage boys to bring back to America.

  Then Michael went through his Rolodex.

  That Michael was heading up a ring of underage virtual white slaves to be sold into a life of prostitution, never even entered his head.

  He was just trying to make everybody happy. Laws were silly and old fashioned and just put there to ruin everybody’s good time.

  IT WAS UP TO HIM to break these laws for the good of the people.

  Of course, none of it ever worked out. Michael’s boyfriend was so smitten with our demon Western civilization that upon arrival in America he quickly became a junkie-klepto nightmare. Michael and Keoki had to give him the boot. He cashed in the plane ticket back to Germany that they had thoughtfully provided, and he went and bought lots of drugs and disappeared forever.

  And the logistical nightmare of Michael’s scheme meant that very few other people followed through with it, either. Visa problems, etcetera. One poor man tried, and he, too, was burned badly.

  But this just goes to show you: with Michael, it’s the idea—not the execution—that lets you glimpse into his mind and really almost understand him.

  STORY NUMBER FOUR

  You always remember your first overdose.

  Other turning points in your life—your first words, your first step, your first wet dream—may be more important, but who can remember them? But your first overdose. Now there is a story that can be trod out time and again. It’s appropriate at nearly all social functions. You can tell it with glee to your old drinking buddies. You can tell it with a wry, ironic tone to impress that cute little nephew of yours when his mother leaves the room. Or you can shed a few crocodile tears when addressing your recovery group.

  Everybody enjoys a good overdose.

  Especially other drug addicts. They love to steer any and all conversations toward past drug glories. They speak wistfully of stomach pumps and ambulances. With cannibalistic zeal they eagerly devour tales of “bottoming out.” No humiliation should be spared when telling them the particulars of your case. Any and all degradation will be licked up and picked clean by wild-eyed compatriots who remember only too well.

  And so it is. The time has come for me to share my first overdose with you.

  Coincidentally, it’s also my first experience with Special K. But that is almost incidental. In fact, it doesn’t even count, because I didn’t enjoy it.

  But I tell this story now not to impress, or show regret, or even share a chuckle, but to illustrate how far the pendulum had swung in my relationship with Michael.

  Remember the reverential way he treated me in our early days together? GONE. Gone the way of Stacy Q and men in pearls.

  During this period, when he was flushed with nouveau-superstardom, he took special delight in picking at my scabs and finding new ways to humiliate me. We were still best of friends, we still had moments of great fun, and there was no denying the preternatural way we could connect on certain mental planes.

  But still, it was payback time. Listen:

  I was at the Palladium to judge some silly contest. I had had a bit too much to drink perhaps, and I found myself in a bathroom stall telling someone (I don’t know who) that my biggest fantasy was to try a nine-inch line of Special K off of a ten-inch dick. What a surprise to fin
d he had both! I happily indulged myself with shameless gusto.

  But like the old 1930s Hays code in Hollywood, where no crime goes unpunished, I, too, was made to pay for my excessive behavior.

  That last snootful of K must have been a doozy because immediately after taking it, the world burst into a brilliant but complex series of geometric patterns so elaborate that no mere mortal could even BEGIN to comprehend their true significance.

  Only God and I understood—and He and I walked hand in hand, exploring their intricacies. This lasted about six or seven years, as far as I could tell, during which time I heard people crying, saw a lot of strange lights, listened to some policemen talk about me, and felt someone taking off my clothes.

  I came to in the hospital. “What fresh hell is this?” I mumbled.

  How long had I been gone? How many months? Years?

  What strange new world had I awoken to?

  And what of my family and friends? They must be worried sick!

  I struggled to speak: “Nurse,” I rasped weakly, “nurse, please, I need to tell everyone I’M OK! I’M ALIVE!”

  She looked at me like I was some pathetic psycho strapped to a bed—which I was.

  But what if everyone has moved or changed phone numbers? What if I don’t have a home anymore? What if . . .

  MICHAEL!

  Of course, I’ll call Michael! Michael would never change his number. He’s solid. Reliable. The Rock of Gibraltar. Yes, I’ll call Michael and he will be so relieved . . .

  The nurse relented and dialed the number for me. I heard the familiar voice on the answering machine. How comforting.

  “Michael!” I sobbed, “I’m OK. I’m back! I’m at St. Vincent’s and they say I’ll be all right!” and I wept tears of relief, “I’m going to be just fine!”

  Feeling much better, I ripped the IV from my arm and fell out of bed. There was blood spurting everywhere. I was chased by a squad of goons with restraining belts as I stumbled naked into the hallway, flowers falling from my hair and elf ears still attached. I was quite a sight, I can tell you that. The blood, the green hair, the bobbing penis, the ears . . . I gave the staff something to talk about for days.

  When I finally made it to the lobby, I was greeted by a touching group of ex-boyfriends, ex-roommates, and one confused little Spanish boy I was supposedly still on a date with. That they were all riffling through my lunchbox and doing my drugs, bothered me not a whit. These people were there for me.

  Not so Michael.

  My so-called best friend.

  Later I learned that upon hearing that I had OD’d and was in the hospital, he had rushed as fast as he could to Save the Robots, an after-hours club that we were working at the time.

  “James is in the hospital, so I should get all his drink tickets,” Michael gleefully screamed to the owner. “And you might as well give me his pay, too. He won’t be earning it tonight.”

  Hmph.

  Then!

  The next day, on Michael’s outgoing message, was my sickbed message of hope from the hospital! “Michael, it’s me, James—and I’m ALIVE!”

  For everyone to get a good laugh over.

  Isn’t that hysterical? Evil, evil boy . . .

  AND IF THAT WASN’T BAD ENOUGH—

  There was a dinner party that night at a club in a diner, and when the food arrived, Michael jumped on top of the table and grabbed a plastic butter knife.

  “EVERYBODY, LOOK AT ME! I’M JAMES ST. JAMES,” he mocked. He held the knife to his wrist: “PAY ATTENTION TO ME OR I’LL TRY TO COMMIT SUICIDE AGAIN!”

  And that got a big laugh.

  Later, he turned to me and said: “That’s what you get for doing drugs, you big loser.”

  Funny how the pendulum swings.

  STORY NUMBER FIVE

  “This is the AT&T operator, collect phone call from a Michael Skrinkle Skroddle. Will you accept the charges?”

  “Grudgingly, Yes, operator, I will accept. But very grudgingly.”

  Click. “Halloa? Skrod?”

  “Yes, dear.”

  “Ech. These doughnuts are stale.”

  “Where are you?”

  “Jail ska-da-da.”

  (Sigh.) “What are you doing in jail ska-da-da?”

  “Eating doughnuts. Watching cable. Quick, turn on channel eleven . . . Lucy in the vat of grapes!”

  I listened as he held the receiver up to the television for a full five minutes.

  “MICHAEL! MICHAEL! GET BACK ON THE PHONE!”

  “Yeeeeees?”

  “I mean, what did you do to land in jail? . . . And how is it that you’re watching cable and eating cake?”

  “I told them I have AIDS. And my lawyer got me a special room. With my own phone. Quick turn on The Simpsons!”

  This was going nowhere.

  “Oh, and Skrod? I hope you don’t mind, but when they arrested me, I gave them your name and Social Security number.”

  “Oh no, Michael. I don’t mind. It makes MY jailhouse experiences that much more . . . exciting. You see, this way, I’m always surprised to find out how much trouble I’m actually in, when I see all the warrants you’ve piled up for me. No, really. Thanks loads.”

  “Want to hear why you’re here?”

  “I hope I at least had fun.”

  “Oh, you did. Believe me.”

  He told me a wildly convoluted story about picking up a hustler at the Port Authority and then breaking into a stranger’s apartment to have sex and urinate on the furniture. Then somehow, after the cops came and there was a crazy chase sequence that ended up at the Javits Center, Michael took a two-by-four and broke a window to get in. And then assaulted the chasing officer with it.

  “OK—I count Solicitation, Breaking and Entering, Sodomy, Sex with a probable minor, Vandalization by way of Urination, Resisting Arrest, Willful destruction of public property, and Assaulting a police officer . . . Do I have any outstanding warrants?”

  “Just broken probation for the time I was caught buying heroin during my last arraignment.”

  “I did what?”

  “Oh, I never told you about that? It’s really a very funny story. That’s when the judge recognized me from Dateline and asked for my autograph . . . Oh look at Rhoda’s scarf!”

  “I know. Apparently Valerie Harper got all the different ways to tie them from her personal secretary. My favorite is the turban style with the big ball in front. Makes my nose look smaller.”

  “You really should have a nose job, James.”

  “Thanks. Listen, I gotta run. Lunch tomorrow?”

  “Stop by the club.”

  “Bye, Skrink.”

  “Bye, Skrod.”

  STORY NUMBER SIX

  For almost nine months in 1990, I wore a bloody wedding gown and glued flies to my face. Some say I was a bit touched that year, and to be sure, there was a slightly unbalanced look about me then. I just like to think I was being fashion forward.

  Anyway, after wearing this stunning ensemble day in and day out, every night for close to a year, I got a phone call from Michael.

  “Oh My God! I just had THE MOST ORIGINAL IDEA EVER for Disco 2000. You are going to be so jealous that you didn’t think of it first . . . ”

  “What now, darling? A party for the color green?”

  “I’m going to call it BLOOD FEAST and everyone is going to be covered in blood and lying around with their arms and legs cut off and the poster is going to be Jenny eating my brains . . . What do you think you can do? Can you come up with a look for it?”

  (Sigh.)

  “Gosh, Michael, I don’t know. I’ve never thought of anything as creative as wearing a FUCKING BLOODY FUCKING OUTFIT TO A GODDAMN NIGHTCLUB BEFORE! You’re right, boy, that is SO FUCKING ORIGINAL I WISH THAT I’D FUCKING THOUGHT OF IT.”

  “Well, get to work on something. It’s next Wednesday night.”

  And so it came to pass that I was strapped to a gurney and covered in raw liver and slabs of beef that very quickly t
urned rancid under the bright spotlights. There exists a videotape somewhere that documents me being wheeled about the dance floor by two burly “orderlies,” while I desperately search for a bathroom big enough to accommodate the stretcher so I can do a bump of cocaine. Watching me retch from the decomposing meat, and simultaneously fiend for drugs, makes for an entertaining time, indeed.

  When I told my mother the extremes I went to in order to make a living, she just shook her head and said, “Now don’t you wish you’d finished college, dear?”

  Mother’s are so wise, sometimes.

  STORY NUMBER SEVEN

  A city of cardboard dwellings had sprung up around Michael’s neighborhood.

  We had to stop and gawk—some of them were really quite amazing.

  “Oh, James! How fun!”

  He knocked on the flap of a two-story dwelling.

  “Woo-hoo? Anybody home?”

  A funny little man with an abscessed nose came out. He gave us the grand tour of his stylish split-level home. It was a triumph of architectural ingenuity. There was a massive foyer that led into a sunken living room. Then there was a hallway that led into a spacious sleeping loft.

  All made out of common, everyday grocery boxes!

  Of course, the plumbing was less than adequate. It consisted mainly of some jars that he labeled and saved, and a hole in the back of a box. But, hey, if that’s how he liked it, who am I to argue?

  “OH! OH! OH! OH MY GOD! I HAVE THE BEST IDEA EVER!”

  I could hardly wait for this one.

  And it was a doozy.

  We were going to rent the shanties from the homeless people and all the club kids would sleep in them for the whole night. It would be just like living in a little kid’s play fort!

  He ran home and had the club’s publicist call Phil Donahue—“To film it all, of course.” There’s no sense doing something if you can’t get a little publicity out of it.

  “It’s a perfect angle! The press will eat it up! ‘THOSE WACKY CLUB KIDS HAVE DONE IT ALL! THEY ARE SO JADED THE ONLY WAY THEY CAN ENTERTAIN THEMSELVES IS TO LIVE LIKE HOMELESS PEOPLE!’ ”