“That’s quite a story. I’m glad you told me, but I’m sorry to hear it. Just this afternoon, I thought for a while my daddy was the worst daddy in the world….”
She cuts me off, crumbs falling from her mouth. “Why? What did he do?”
My story doesn’t even begin to compare to hers. “Not much, really. We just had a disagreement. That’s all. But I got over it.”
“Good for you, Dewey, good for you. ‘Sunshine, Lollipops, and Rainbows,’ like that old Lesley Gore song says. That’s the only way to get through life.”
I hear a catch in her voice that suggests a sadness. Somehow, as positive as LuLu is, I know it’s not all sunshine, lollipops, and rainbows no matter how much she wants the world to believe it.
Chapter 5
I AWAKE, drifting from a dream I don’t remember. Sun shines through the window. It’s a beautiful Saturday morning, one of those February mornings that gives you assurance springtime, indeed, will make its way to North Texas before long.
After throwing back the covers and hauling myself out of bed, I stretch. A greasy, salty aroma entices me as I breathe in deeply to wake my body. Mother has fried bacon.
I follow the beckoning phantom as it wafts from the kitchen. Sure enough, beautiful, crispy strips of bacon await on their paper towel bed. Next to the plate is a note: “Your grandma and I have gone shopping. Your daddy is working overtime today. The bacon’s probably cold by now, but I didn’t want to wake you. There’s hotcake batter in the refrigerator. See you later, Sweet Pea.”
I move the griddle pan from the back burner to the front, set the gas flame on medium low, grab a strip of bacon to munch on, and take the mixing bowl of pancake batter from the fridge. The bacon, stone cold, is still so crispy and delicious I don’t mind its temp. I run my fingers under the faucet and sling a few drops on the griddle. It sizzles. Tipping the spout of the bowl over the hot pan, I pour a perfect round circle of batter. Waiting for the bubbles to appear that will signal it’s time to turn the hotcake, I look at the clock on the stove: 10:30. I’ve slept half the morning away!
I flip the hotcake, wait for that side to brown, slide the spatula under it, and then place it on the plate I pulled from the dish drainer. I repeat two more times until I have a stack of three steaming golden hotcakes. I pile the rest of the bacon on top of the stack. Grabbing the plate, I head for the table. Mother has left Aunt Jemima waiting for me. I flip the top on the bottle and pour the golden maple syrup onto my breakfast. Its gooey goodness puddles, and I almost drool. Setting the bottle back down, I look at the smiling mammy on the label. I pick the bottle back up and take a long, hard look. I know it’s a time-honored brand, and the newest label makes her look less fat, less mammy-ish. But she’s still a slave symbol. A thought I’d never have had until I met LuLu. I’ll have to remember to ask Mother to buy Log Cabin brand instead next time.
I finish the delectable Saturday morning treat and wash up the leavings. Mother, in a hurry, I guess, has left her and Daddy’s plates stacked in the sink, as well. There’s even a third one, so I guess Grandma also had Mother’s famous hotcakes this morn. I flood the sink with hot water and soap bubbles, then quickly scrub everything up.
I had planned to spend the morning studying my script. Since I was a lazy butt this morning, my studies will be shorter than I’d thought. First up, I want to build a backstory for my character, Randy. I’ve thought about him some. In the few rehearsals we’ve had, I’ve grown to know him, understand him a bit. But a character’s lines are never enough to flesh him out totally. I need to decide on his life story. What motivated him to come to this meeting of radicals? I decide Randy is an only child. He has been loved and pampered and indulged by both his parents. Not in a bad way, but in a good way. He’s somewhat sheltered by them, and he wants to break out. He has only recently realized he is gay. It’s hard for me to even think that word, much less say it. In fact, he didn’t even know what he was until an encounter with a choir member—a guy who’d come to his school recently. As I write that “fact” down, it comes to me. I’ve been channeling Charles. I still don’t know if Charles is that way or not, but I’ve been building my character based on him since the first moment I stepped on stage. The way he walks, the way he talks, the way he gestures, the way he reacts to things. I’ve been Charles all week. Weird. Characters come from many places, from many depths.
I continue writing my character sketch. The realization I’ve just come to is a marvel, but this story I’ve been writing is not Charles’s story. Well, it may be. I don’t know him that well and shouldn’t judge him. I read again what I’ve written and find an awful lot of what I’ve decided is Randy’s life comes from my own life. That’s good. We should put a little of ourselves into every character. I have the doting, sheltering parents. Granted, my daddy can be a pain, but he is good to me. And that part about not knowing what gay is. That’s true too. I didn’t know a thing about it until a couple of years ago. A local TV station showed The Children’s Hour, the movie where Shirley MacLaine’s and Audrey Hepburn’s lives are ruined because of a lie a little girl tells. In the movie, Audrey becomes convinced the lie is true, and she eventually kills herself because of it. The lie is the two women are lovers. That word is never said—that’s why I’d not heard it before in that context when Jeep used it—but you understand what the little girl is saying. Well, a local talk radio show blasted the station for showing such “filth,” as they labeled it. Daddy was livid. I defended the movie, not because of the thing everyone was talking about, but because I thought it was a great movie, and I love both the actresses. I just didn’t think the subject matter was all that dirty. Another instance where Daddy and I didn’t see eye to eye. But, back to Randy and how he’s like me, I didn’t have a clue, really, about men being that way until a long time after that movie was shown.
Randy, I write, had thought about all the times his heart swelled when a good-looking boy his age came into a classroom. Charles again. I’ve seen that look on him, but I never thought much about it. It’s hard now to think anything but that Charles is just curious. I can’t imagine Charles is gay. He may look that way, but I don’t know.
Forget Charles and back to Randy. He’d tried all sorts of things to get close to guys. Like brushing up against them a little, or offering to help them with homework. Randy wondered why he felt such things for other boys. He decided it was just a crush, like the one he had for Ann-Margret.
But life lessons happen. Randy meets the guy in his choir. Eyes meet. An instant stirring. Randy is confused, but this guy knows exactly what he wants. In a dark corner, far away from all the classrooms and foot traffic, Randy is led. The boy kisses him.
And Randy knows.
So now fully aware he likes boys instead of girls, Randy researches the whole thing. There is not much in the library, but what he finds is enough to convince him not only is he gay, but that men like that are an oppressed, hated minority. And he thinks of black people. They are that. And so many of them are getting shipped off to Vietnam. There are white kids getting sent too—poor white kids. They don’t have the money to go to college to get deferred. So many guys Randy’s age being slaughtered in Nam. Most of them there against their will, oppressed. Randy is convinced he needs to join movements. And that’s what brings him to the rally meeting.
I sigh. Great backstory. Plenty for me to make Randy a real person, not just a character on a stage. I read it all again. And again. This time, I stop at the part about Randy’s guy crushes. My mind starts to race. No. No. This is just a character sketch. It’s not reality.
I will myself to discard Randy for a moment to study the script and my blocking. I don’t have to think about my character to get his movements on stage to stick with me. I need to be the objective physical actor right now.
After an hour of analyzing every step Randy takes, I decide it’s time for a shower. I want to cleanse this character from me, just for a bit. There’s time enough for him to overtake me again.
I looked at LuLu. How would she get out of this? But she was the first to speak up. “I’m ready for a big, juicy burger,” she exclaimed. I heard the courage in her voice. I also heard a trace of apprehension. I wanted to protect her, but LuLu is her own woman. And I guess, like everyone else, she was riding the crest of a great rehearsal. Theater lifts you up and gives you wings.
With everyone else clamoring assent, we headed to the diner. Ben led the pack. The place was almost deserted. I glanced at the hours on the door, and it was about twenty minutes from closing time.
We quickly pushed several tables together and sat. An overweight, middle-aged blonde waitress approached us. Her hair was coming out of its haphazardly placed bobby pins. Her cheeks were too rosy from rouge, her lips bled red lipstick, and her eyeshadow looked like she’d used a trowel to smear it on. She was scowling.
“I ain’t serving no nig—” She stopped herself. “—no colored people.” Scanning the black people in the cast with disgust, she continued, “Either they leave, or you all do. Your choice. Or I can call the manager over.”
Ben stared her down and quietly said, “No one’s leaving, so I guess the manager it is.”
She humphed, turned on one heel, and sped away. In a flash, she was back. A very tired-looking, world-weary, little balding man trailed behind her. She stopped with a look of triumph on her face.
The little man spoke: “What’s the problem?” His words were measured. His tone was not disgust, just an I don’t want to deal with this. “Look, we don’t want any trouble here. It’s late. We’re ready to close out. Why don’t you folks just go someplace else?”
Ben looked at him, his eggshell complexion glowing in the fluorescent light. “Sir, I’m a proud black man, and I would like a hamburger, fries, and chocolate shake.” He said it with no irony. Like it was the truth, unequivocally.
As soon as Ben finished talking, his lover spoke up, “I’m a proud black man, and I’ll have the tuna sandwich and a CoCola.” He smiled, disarmingly, as if this were the way he always placed an order. Part of it was that uniquely Texas way of saying Coca-Cola.
Dumbfounded, I guess, by the cheekiness of these people, the manager and his waitress just stood there as one by one, each of us around the tables declared our pride in being black and placed our orders. When we finished, there was total, empty silence.
The blowsy waitress glared. The poor little man looked like he wished he’d called in sick.
As the air grew thicker with anticipation, with no one knowing what would happen next, the manager slowly shook his head and declared, “Bea, write down their orders. It’s too late and I’m too tired. I guess we’re an integrated establishment now.” And he walked away.
The woman looked like she wanted to and could spit nails as she pulled out her order pad, looked once again at Ben, and spat her words. “I know, bud, a hamburger, fries, and chocolate shake. Next.” And once again, we all spoke our orders, not a trace of triumph in our voices, but if everyone else was like me, a big swelling was pushing at their hearts.
When Bea the waitress waddled away, LuLu said, “Thanks, guys and gals.” It was simple. But it was profound. And the tears glistening in her eyes spoke for her. And as she finished, the other black cast members echoed her.
Ben said, “Look. We’re a family. We may have only known each other for a few short days, but we are a family. And never forget that.”
As I switch off the shower tap, I reach for my towel. A family. That’s so true. The power of the theater.
After I’m dressed, I reread my character sketch, channel Charles, and start practicing lines and gestures. Charles is not a nelly queen, but he definitely is distinctive. He may be that way, who knows? Another thing I realize as I play with inflections and gestures: Jeep is right. A lot of what I’m doing is just me, heightened. Funny.
That afternoon, I take out a stack of three-by-fives to take notes for a report I have due in government next week. Like I told Jeep, this is the best way to do a report. Write everything down on index cards. I practice what I preach. And a little homework is medicine. A salve on the blister living and breathing theater can sometimes grow.
Finally, I stare out the window. Reflecting. Internally and externally. I see me staring back. I see Randy. One and the same.
I piddle around the rest of the day until it is time to get ready for Jeep’s gig. I’m not usually a snappy dresser, but I feel like dressing up. This is Jeep’s big night. I know the kids who go to the Box probably just dress in regular clothes—jeans and button downs—but if I had a tux, I have a feeling I would show up in it, just to make Jeep laugh. And to show him I care about his big night. I shove shirt after shirt aside in my closet until I come upon one I decide is nice enough. A lavender oxford cloth. What the heck? Shit, I decide I’ll put on a tie—I have the perfect purple paisley number—and even wear my dark gray sport coat and light gray slacks. All dressed up in my finest, I look in the mirrors that line my sliding closet doors. I look good, if I do say so myself. Purple’s my favorite color, and it, with the grays, sets off my gingery hair. I smile. Jeep said he likes the way I look. With this getup, I’ll make him like me even more. Or give him a good belly laugh. Either way, I can’t go wrong.
He’d said he would have to go early for sound check and set up, so I told him I’d meet him there. The gig—I love that word—starts at seven. Jeep explained most clubs start later, but since this is a teen club, the festivities commence earlier. They will take the stage promptly at seven. He imitated the woman who owns the club, sounding like a bullhorn in heat. That’s the way he described her voice. He makes me laugh. Festivities? Commence? I doubt seriously anyone else involved tonight, performing or watching, would use those terms.
I pull up to the parking area. There are quite a few cars already. I’m glad. For Jeep’s sake. I know they are probably there to hear the Madmen, but the Goose Bumps are first, so people will have to listen to them too.
As I enter the building, I see Jeep and his friends on the tiny stage, arranging their gear—another word I’ve learned from Jeep. He looks up and sees me. He motions for me to come up.
“Guys,” he says to the other band members, “this is my best buddy, Dewey. Dew, guys.” They rush to shake my hand. Then Jeep says, “Okay, enough glad-handing. Names all around.” He points to each and tells me their names. It is good to have faces to fit with names. He turns to me. “Dew, I had them reserve you a table.” Many of the tiny tables have reserved signs on them, I see, peering out at the seating area. And a lot of them have people, kids mostly, already sitting at them. “Most of the guys in both bands have girlfriends, wives, lovers coming. So that’s why so many reserved tables. Have a seat. I’ll get you a nice cold Coke.”
As we step off the stage, he pulls out a chair at the center table, and I sit. He rushes off and before I can even think straight, he returns with a bottle of Nehi Orange, a straw in it. “I remember what kind of Coke you like, huh?” I love that grin. “You’re lookin’ mighty spiffy tonight, by the way.”
I feel the blush. “Thanks,” I say, quietly.
“Just sit tight, the place will start filling up quickly.” And, indeed, it’s not five minutes before it’s packed to the gills, and the noise is deafening. Since it’s a teen club, there is not a lot of smoking, but some of the older people have lit up. I hate cigarette smoke, but I have to admit, the blue haze adds to the idea I am in my first club.
As I sip, I smile as Jeep and his group slip away, backstage. Stupid me. A shit-faced grin. Just looking at Jeep. But he does that to me. I look around me, surveying the crowd, especially the ones in the reserved seats. Some are o
lder than the rest. Those are the girlfriends, wives, lovers Jeep mentioned. I know a couple of guys in Jeep’s band are older, plus the Madmen are all in their twenties. I notice, sitting alone at one of the reserved, a striking blond guy, tall, slender, nice smile. Is he that way? Is he one of the lovers, Jeep mentioned? I can’t take my eyes off him. I take in every gesture, every facial tic. I may be able to use this later. For Randy.
Five more minutes, and a woman takes the stage. She joggles up the mic. The moment she speaks, I know who she is. She does sound like a bullhorn in heat. Whatever that is. “Thanks for coming out tonight. I promise you won’t be disappointed. The Madmen are backstage as we speak, chompin’ at the bit to get up here and blow your socks off. But first, a new group. One you’re gonna love. I guar-an-darn-tee it.” She draws out the word. “Please, put your hands together for the Gator Baiters.”
A roar from the crowd as Jeep’s band takes the stage. So much for the Goose Bumps, I think. I like the new name. But I tell myself not to get too attached. It will probably be different the next gig.
The drummer beats off a two-three-four, and Jeep blasts out the guitar intro to “Lady Madonna.” It’s the Beatles, but it’s not the Beatles. Their version has an edge to it. It’s louder. More energy, if that’s possible. They finish, and the crowd erupts. The Gator Baiters go right into “We Can Work It Out.” A funky, more rocking rendition. Jeep had said they would open with the Beatles, and I questioned, to myself, whether that was wise. Well, it was wise. Very wise indeed. With the masses cranked up, Jeep intro’s a new song, one a band member wrote, he says. Jeep explained to me earlier in the week new songs didn’t always go over well, but this crowd is ready for anything. They scream all the way through the song. Four more covers—that’s what Jeep told me they called songs they did which were first done by famous bands—and their set is coming to an end. They finish with a rousing “All You Need Is Love.” The kids in the audience are eating it up. They sing along and when it is finished, they scream, “Again, again.” So the band starts the song all over. This time when they finish, the entire audience rises, screaming, applauding, beating on the tables. Jeep’s group has made their mark. Somehow I think their name will remain the Gator Baiters, for they have a following now.
All You Need Is Love Page 7
