All You Need Is Love

by Russell J. Sanders

  I wish that was what had happened.

  I called her friend, and on the phone, we hit it off. I picked her up Saturday night. We went downtown to the Hollywood Theatre to see Elvis in Charro! It was okay, not a great movie, but anything with Elvis in it is worth watching. I would say we both liked it. She wouldn’t quit talking about Elvis in the car. I took her to Kip’s for burgers and hot fudge sundaes. She made some funny crack about the Big Boy statue in front of the place. Again, we liked our food. She was suitably appreciative for the movie and the dinner as I walked her to her doorstep. She even leaned in toward my face when I said good night. But I didn’t kiss her.

  I did not kiss her. Here she’d been willing, even eager, but I did not kiss her. What’s wrong with me? I’ll catch hell from Jo when she finds out. I blew it. I could have started something good with a simple kiss. She was beautiful, funny, and, most of all, willing. But I just mumbled, “Good night,” and walked away.

  And the weird thing is as I drove home, I searched the depths of my brain for her name. Her f-ing name! Shit, I’d just spent four hours with the girl, had said her name at least four or five times, and it had vanished from my consciousness. I had to wait until I got into my room and picked up the slip of paper I had her name and phone number on: Vickie. Her freaking name was Vickie. How did I black that out?

  I am one f-ed up person. Truly.

  I was still meditating on that when Butch showed up to school this morning.

  “Guess what?” he said.

  He startled me because he hadn’t done his Dew-ey! call.

  As he sat, I said, “What?”

  “I made pork chops yesterday for Sunday lunch. Mama doesn’t work on Sundays, and I told her she could just sit back and relax ’cause I had it covered.”

  “That’s great, Butch,” I said, amazed at his news but still a little lost in my own thoughts. “How’d they turn out?”

  “Dewey, I couldn’t believe it. The kids were all screaming for more. Pork chops are something we don’t have much, and Mama usually only buys one each for us. Well, the kids gobbled theirs up and wanted more. But Mama just told them—and these were her exact words, ‘Fill up on the potatoes, gravy, and peas. Butchie made enough of those for Coxey’s Army, and I’ve never eaten anything better.’ Then she smiled at me.”

  Butch was so happy I forgot all my own troubles. “That is the best thing I could have ever heard, Butch.”

  “And you know what? When we finished, Mama came over to me and gave me a big hug.”

  “Wow. How’d your daddy like your cooking?”

  Butch got quiet. He said, “Well, he ate it all. But when Mama gave me that hug, he mumbled, ‘Goddamned faggot, cooking like some girl.’”

  “Oh, Butch. I’m sorry.”

  Butch shrugged. “That’s just Daddy.”

  The bell rang, and Butch walked with me to the office door. As I opened it to go to the intercom room, Butch touched my hand on the doorknob and said, “Thanks, Dewey. You’re a good friend.”

  A simple statement in Morning Devotional, a bag of cookies, a cooking lesson, and no more “baby girl.” Funny how things go. A life can be changed in an instant by simple acts.

  My mood lightened considerably, and I put all my troubles away for the day. My Monday at school is a lot better than the end of last week. By drama class, I am ready to enjoy what is left of the school day.

  Jimmy greets me as I walk in. I don’t know how he’s always there before me. I guess he either has a fifth period class nearby, or he rushes to drama for some reason.

  “How was your weekend?”

  I tell him about my date with Vickie—the one I’d blocked until now. Why I tell him, I don’t know. Maybe I want to purge my system.

  “Bummer, man,” he says. “Why didn’t you kiss her?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Jimmy looks at me. He punches me on the shoulder. “You better step up your game, bud, or you’ll be going to the prom with your cousin.” He laughs wickedly.

  Prom? That’s months away. I hadn’t even thought about it. Maybe I need to make up with Lisa. No, that’s too great a price to pay. I may just skip the whole thing.

  “Dewey! Come here!”

  The way Mr. Waters is shouting, I’m afraid I’m in trouble. I double-time it to his desk.

  “You mad at me?” he asks. I’m totally puzzled. I could never be mad at Mr. Waters.

  “You screwed up the devotional this morning. I caught h-e-double-hockey sticks from Mrs. Haynes.”

  I tried to remember what I’d done, but I was blank. I guess I really was distracted.

  “You stumbled over the author’s name, and you turned the mic off before you said amen. Ring a bell?”

  I shake my head back and forth, truly trying to be contrite. “I’m really sorry, Mr. Waters. It won’t happen again.”

  He smiles. “Don’t worry, Dewey. Mrs. Haynes wasn’t as mad as she was concerned. She knows you don’t make mistakes unless something’s wrong. I was afraid you were mad at me for bursting into rehearsal the other night and changing everything with you.”

  “No,” I quickly say. “You helped me. I was glad you worked with me.” I think, however, what he and Ben had said as I was leaving—that stuff I’d overheard—had been eating at me ever since. But I don’t dare tell him that.

  “Good. Ben does nothing but praise your work. You and that LuLu. He thinks you two are star material. And Ben doesn’t hand out compliments lightly.”

  I beam. I can’t help it. “That’s good to hear.”

  “By the way, you know that show still doesn’t have a name. Ben and I were discussing it yesterday. So far, he and Anna Maria haven’t come up with anything they like. So if you can think of something, share it at rehearsal tonight. They need to get the publicity going, ASAP. You open in two weeks, you know.”

  Ben had extended our rehearsal time. We will open in two weeks, for three performances only. The Monday after we close is tryouts for Lion in Winter, our one-act play contest entry Mr. Waters decided on. He’s been working on cutting it. It can only be forty minutes, and it’s a play that’s rich with good lines. I’m determined to win the role of Henry, but I’ve also heard Charles is trying out. He’s good.

  “I’ve been thinking about it,” I tell Mr. Waters. That’s a lie. But a white one. Early in rehearsals, I’d given it some thought. But my mind was on other things last week.

  “Good, because I think Ben’s opening tonight’s rehearsal with a call for suggestions. Your idea will be as good as anybody else’s.”

  I spend the remaining afternoon thinking. That’s good because it keeps my mind off girl troubles and Jeep troubles.

  At last, the blissful time for rehearsal arrives. Ben stands before us, hands clasped as in prayer. “Please, Dionysius,” he says to the heavens. Theater people love to act like they’re worshipping their theater god. Full of drama, he continues, “Please, please, breathe life into these lowly actors and give them the power to name this play whose first performance is fast approaching. Amen. Can I get an amen, brothers and sisters?” He lapses into Southern Baptist preacher mode.

  We all laugh at him.

  “Laugh all you want, but unless you want the poster to say The No-Name Play, you’d better help us out here.”

  I raise my hand.

  “Speak out, Dewey. This ain’t no classroom, and I ain’t no teacher. Cry out, speak in tongues, dance in rapture as you talk, but tell us your idea, brother.” He is still doing his preacher, and everybody else is in hysterics.

  “Okay,” I say, “I don’t know if I’m on the right track or not, but here is what I’ve been thinking. My character Randy was torn apart by his gayosity—is that a word?—so he has searched his soul and decided first and foremost, he loves himself, no matter who he is. He comes to the protest group because he has a need to spread the love. He never says it, but I believe he loves the soldiers who are fighting, not in a sexual sense but in a humane sense. Because he loves hi
mself, he can love others. LuLu’s Molly is in the group because she is afraid for her boyfriend, who is over there fighting. So that’s another instance of love in the play. The Jewish guys are here because they equate the killing with the senseless killing of the Jews by the Nazis, so their love is for their people, again extended to the soldiers in Nam. The others, well they just have this overwhelming sense the killing is wrong, and that’s a love for their fellow men. So….” I take a big breath. “I think we should call the play Love. I know it’s simple, but it really is a powerful word.”

  “I’m down with it,” one of the black guys says. “The play says it, and it’s true. Our people don’t want to fight in that war. We fightin’ right here for rights we deserve. Why is this country fighting for somebody else’s freedom when they won’t fight for ours right here? We love ourselves, our brothers, our sisters. We ain’t got no bidness fighting a million miles away when there’s fightin’ and lovin’ to do right in our own backyards. So, yeah, Love is a great title, Dewey.”

  One of the Jews—I’ve learned they really are Jewish—shouts immediately, “Yeah! That’s a great idea. I can see the poster: Four big capital letters, with the O a peace sign.”

  Lots of agreement erupts from the group. I look at Anna Maria, and she is grinning.

  LuLu breaks the noise with, “What about the L being a rifle with a daisy sticking out of the barrel, like in that hippie photograph?”

  Ben points at her. “I think you have something there, LuLu!”

  “And what about the tops of the letters being red, white and blue, fading into rainbow colors as the colors go down the letters?” another kid says.

  “I love it, I love it,” Anna Maria shouts, clasping her hands to her heart.

  There is total cacophony as everybody talks about this idea.

  Ben’s lover rushes from behind us, carrying a sketchbook in his hand. “You mean like this?” He holds up a rough sketch of the exact thing we’ve just been talking about. Everyone screams. Shouts of “How’d you do that so quick?” and “That’s it” and “Wow! That’s perfect” and bunches of other good things erupt.

  Ben says, “Paulie, you’re a genius!” And he hugs him, then kisses him smack on the lips.

  Breaking from Ben’s clutches, Paul looks at us. “It’s nothing. From the minute you”—he looks at me—“started talking, Dewey, I was captured. When you said the word, I did a mock-up, and as each idea was offered, I filled it in. This is absolutely perfect, I think.”

  Anna Maria walks to Paul and kisses him on the cheek. “I think we not only have a name for our show, but we have a powerfully beautiful poster. Thank you, love.”

  Rehearsal proceeds. We are all energized so much we are on fire. I have not thought one time about my pitiful problems because I’m too wrapped up in Randy, in stopping the war, in anger at the bureaucrats who think this war is just, is necessary. I am alive with indignation, and when I die on stage, I die for a cause that is noble, is right, is far greater than what our soldiers are dying for.

  When we are released, like always, LuLu walks me out. At my car, she grabs me and kisses me. It is a full, on the mouth kiss. But there is no passion in it. Only love. The kind of love friends share. The kind of love theater imparts.

  “DewDew, you were near perfect tonight. I felt like Molly was better than ever because I was playing off your passion. You’re going to be the breakout star of this show.”

  I love her so much. I don’t want this night to end. “Hey, LuLu, you want a burger? Diner’s right there.” I point. “No barriers. We proved that.”

  She nods, and we walk. Bea, the frazzled waitress, glares at us as we stroll to a table. But she comes over with her pad, saying, “What’ll you have?”

  We order and sit. Bea brings our drinks and says, “It’ll be a few. Chef’s backed up.” As she walks away, we laugh. No way this place has a chef. Short-order cook, that’s all. But we do look around. The place is packed for some reason.

  LuLu says, “I can see why the chef’s backed up.” She says chef with great irony. And she cracks me up once again.

  “So, tell me again why you are here, in this show.”

  “You know why, LuLu. My drama teacher Mr. Waters got me in it.”

  “Yeah, I know why you came to the first rehearsal, but what made you stay?”

  “I don’t know. I love Mr. Waters. I’d probably jump off the Belknap Street Viaduct if he told me to.”

  She interrupts, “Wha? What’s a viaduct?”

  “Does nobody know what the thing is called? It’s not a bridge, it’s a viaduct. That’s a bridge that goes over land, not water.”

  “Well, aren’t we a smarty-pants.” She smirks at me.

  “I know, I know. I’ve got to quit using that word. I get into this every time I say it. It’s just that my grandpa built it, and he insists I call it what it is. Jeep laughed at me too.”

  “Jeep? Who is Jeep?”

  Shit. Now I’ve done it. All this time I’ve managed to keep my personal life out of my LuLu life. “A friend.” I say it so quietly that, of course, Loudmouth LuLu won’t let it go.

  “A friend? Or a friend friend?”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “You know. Is this Jeep just someone you know? Or is he your boyfriend?”

  My mouth drops. I stare at her. I am utterly speechless.

  “Come on, DewDew, you haven’t fooled your LuLu. You’re gay. You know it. I know it. So quit pretending. Is Jeep your boyfriend?”

  I find my voice. “First of all, I’m not what you say. I just play one on stage.” I laugh, hoping to deflect this whole conversation.

  “Yeah, keep telling yourself that.” She won’t let up.

  “It’s true. I have—had—a girlfriend for since I don’t know how long.”

  “Is your girlfriend’s name Jeep?” She smiles, and I want to slap her.

  “No. It’s Lisa. We’ve liked each other since first grade. At least until a few weeks ago.”

  “What happened a few weeks ago? You met Jeep?” She won’t let up.

  “Stop it with the Jeep stuff!” I say it too angry, too loud. I look around to see if anyone has heard me, and I see looks from some of the nearby customers. I lower my voice. “You’re making a scene.”

  She leans in, kisses my cheek, and whispers, “No, you’re making a scene. Now answer my question, or you’ll see what a scene is.” She pulls away, triumph all over her face.

  My mind flashes. I met Jeep and broke up with Lisa all in the same week. But the two are not related.

  “Lisa and I have been at odds for a long time. She got too possessive. And when she finally just assumed I was taking her to a dance she was supposed to have asked me to—”

  “I may be a cullud gal,” she says, her voice betraying everything the doctor and his wife ever taught her—despite how she told me the wife can get pretty ghetto herself, “but I knows what a Sadie Hawkins’s daince is.” It does lighten the mood some, but I still want this conversation to end.

  “Good for you. And stop playing pickaninny gal. What would your parents say?”

  “Do I cares? Git on up with your story.”

  “Okay. Well, Lisa expected me to take her to the dance after we hadn’t talked in three days.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “Oh, she said something to me that pissed me off, and I clammed up, gave her the cold shoulder. But it didn’t work. She thought I was gonna come groveling back. I cut her out of my life, quickly and sharply.”

  “Sounds to me like you were making room for someone new.”

  “Enough, LuLu. Jeep’s not my boyfriend. I’m not that way. End of discussion.”

  She cuts her eyes at me. “Okay, okay. You’re not gay like I’m not black.” She leans back and whistles a little tune, trying to be oh so nonchalant.

  Bea comes with our burgers and fries. “If you two lovebirds are through fighting, you can eat and get out of here.” The disgust in her voice wh
en she says “lovebirds” is evident, and her “get out of here” is filled with hate.

  LuLu smiles up at her and says, “Why, thank you, Bea. So glad you noticed. Dewey and I are deeply in love.” She leans over and kisses me. Bea harrumphs and walks way, shaking her head.

  “You know, you’re going to get us beaten up,” I say.

  “That old hag? She’s not capable.”

  “No, but some of these other customers are. And they just might not be as tolerant as the lovely Bea is.”

  “Well, they can get over it,” LuLu declares as she grabs her burger and takes a big bite.

  Luckily, there are no violent rednecks in the diner tonight. We eat our meal in peace. Just as we’re finishing, a young woman stops at our table as her date goes to pay their check.

  “You two are a real cute couple,” she says, a smile as big as Dallas across her face.

  “Why, thank you, honey,” LuLu says, “I’m having his baby, you know.”

  That proves to be a bit much for the girl, because she lets out a gasp as she quickly retreats.

  LuLu guffaws.

  “You’re going to get us killed, girl.”

  She looks at me weird.

  What have I said? Was it the “girl” I added? The black guys in the cast call her that all the time. I guess I just picked it up and said it without thinking.

  “DewDew, if we were in a group of my people, they would take offense at your calling me ‘girl.’ Now that would get us killed. Or you, anyway.” She is deadly serious.

  “Now you see my point?” I say.

  “Okay, I’se be more careful when we’s around the white folkses.”

  I shake my head. There is no stopping her.

  She gets the last drop of her Coke from the glass, making bubble sounds as she sucks on the straw. Then she sets it down.

  “So you’re not going to tell me anything about this Jeep guy?”

  I thought that was over. Damn.

  “Nothing to f-ing tell, girl.” I emphasize the f-ing and the girl.

  “Well, touchy, touchy. End of discussion. For tonight, anyway.” She touches my hand to show she is not mad at me. “You ready to go?”