More and more, she was wistful and watery, and sensitive as an eyeball. “Oh, Billy, Billy, Billy,” she’d sigh, and tug at my arm, “Tell me: Have you ever been happy? I mean, really, REALLY happy? BIRD-HAPPY?” This, in the middle of my tenth birthday party. Well, it brought things down a notch, I’ll tell you that. BIRD-HAPPY? What could it even mean?
Occasionally, I would catch her muttering to herself odd little snippets of long-ago conversations, maybe, or secret fantasy scenarios that she kept hidden from me. “They might think I will, but I won’t,” she’d say. Or: “If they do THAT, then I’ll just go the other direction!”
And that disturbed me.
Her outfits got progressively nuttier as the years passed. Then, zip, zip, they went from nutty to just plain batshit berserk: Christmas lights in her hair. Bells on her toes. Lots of swirling purple capes and scarves and ponchos. By the end, she was adding beaded fruit to the colored lights in her hair and drugging the cat and wearing it as a fur stole.
I could only watch helplessly as she floated farther and farther out of my reach. It seemed she was already just a speck on the horizon. I could hardly see her. Every day she was getting smaller and smaller. Soon she’d be completely gone, and then what would I do?
IX
My point, and I do have one, is this: It was always me and Muv—Muv and her Junebug—just the two of us. We were separate. Special. Different from the common man, and thank God for that. I had always been very proud to be included in her short list of acceptable companions, and secretly terrified that one day she would tire of me, and banish me from her charmed little circle forever.
Which, of course, is exactly what happened.
I should have seen it coming; I should have seen the signs. I knew her moods, or spells, were getting darker and lasting longer. She was often angry, confused, paranoid. Given to fits of froth and frenzy. WATCH OUT!
But that shouldn’t have affected US. We still needed each other. I wasn’t jumping ship. I was used to her behavior. Besides, I enjoyed her company too much. I’m not like those kids who hate their mothers and need to rebel. That’s not me. I loved my muv. I secretly found her madness exhilarating. A LOT OF WORK, and not always appreciated, but exhilarating. So I was perfectly fine with US. Apparently, she was not.
Because.
One day.
THAT day.
She turned on me.
CHOKE.
But that.
That.
That I don’t remember.
That I can’t see.
It’s covered in darkness.
Just darkness.
The memory is gone. Mother is, too.
Once again, it’s just me and the inky black silence of the void.
A little boy lonely as God.
FADE OUT.
Part Two
THE BLOOMING OF FLIP KELLY
I
BACK TO LIFE
My eyes fluttered open.
Tick, lick, lightning quick.
Here’s what I saw: Flip asleep on a chair next to my bed.
Here’s what I thought: Well, that’s it. I’m dead, then. And I made it to heaven. I’ll be damned. Who’d have thought? And look! There’s my angel. Flip. Why, that God thinks of everything!
Then—
DING! DING! DING!—my quarter was up.
My eyelids rolled back down. The thought was gone. I was gone. Even the memory was gone. I was back in the Billyverse, tumbling and twirling into the Great Whatever.
La la la.
Then . . .
(A minute or maybe ten years later.)
“He’s waking up!”
The shades came back up. My eyes focused, and THWAP! mind and body were merged again. This was not a good thing. Seems there was a slight problem upon reentry.
Pain. Ow.
Bone-crushing agony.
I felt like Anakin Skywalker in the lava fields of Mustafar.
Had I just been in an atom smasher? Had I been attacked by a herd of wild steamrollers? If this is heaven, give me hell.
But there was Flip again. In his football uniform. Awww. And hey, look—it’s Flossie in HERS. And . . . um . . . wow, there’s Dad. Yes, Dad! And he’s SMILING AT ME.
Note to God: Not exactly the afterlife scenario I had been hoping for.
Then it hit me. Like a dozen fists.
This wasn’t heaven. Or hell. I WAS ALIVE!
ALIVE!
“He’s alive!” Flossie shouted, and gave Flip a hug.
(Flossie smiling? Happy? Happy to see ME?)
I tried to speak, but my tongue felt like a hairy soft taco. There was continuous gag, like I had swallowed a ball of yarn in my sleep.
“Aaaarrrggk . . .” I made a strangled little rasp and crackle, and everybody smiled encouragingly and leaned forward to hear my first words.
YES? YES? WHAT IS IT? IS ANYTHING WRONG?
They strained closer, closer still . . .
Then, FINALLY, I managed to speak!
“Just . . . a little . . . lip gloss . . . please.”
Flossie rolled her eyes. Father’s thin smile looked stretched to the limit. But Flip, God bless Flip, let out a whoop. “That’s Billy!” he screamed.
Well, I had a million questions, of course, that I was dying to ask. What happened? What day is it? What YEAR is it? Are there flying cars yet? Have the Morlocks taken over? What is Flip doing here? Why are he and Flossie talking together like old drinking buddies? And what’s up with the new Smilin’, Chill-out Dad? What’s he doing here in the flesh?
All of it. Too fascinating.
But my biggest concern: “Muv?” I whispered.
She must be so worried.
There was a crack in Dad’s big, toothy smile when I mentioned her name, but it was so quick, so subtle, that it might just have been a bit of coma-lag.
He patted the cast on my leg. “She couldn’t be here, son, but she sends her love.”
The doctor came bustling in. “How many fingers am I holding up?” he asked, holding up one.
“Un,” I grunted, and passed the first test.
He shined a light in my eyes. “Any blurred vision, headache, or nausea?”
“Aul off the abuvvvv.”
He scribbled furiously on my charts for a moment, then gave me a thorough, if slightly rushed, exam.
“Open!
“Close!
“Look up!
“Turn left!
“Lift up!”
He poked and prodded. He peeked under blankets and bandages, then reached RIGHT UP MY HOSPITAL GOWN and gave me the old “cup and cough.”
Really! How indelicate! In front of Flossie! And giving Flip an eyeful, I’m sure!
He continued to lift and squeeze and mutter and make notes.
It was all very thorough. I’m sure he was just doing his job. But. Oh my GOD, man, ENOUGH! CUT TO THE CHASE!
“Su . . . pleazzzze . . . , what’s wrrrrong . . . with me?”
The doctor rattled off a list of all the various injuries I’d sustained. He explained, in great detail, each and every break and crack and compound fracture . . . the various fissures and abrasions and contusions and concussions . . . the bruising and swelling and bloody discharges . . . all the various soft tissue damage and organ trauma . . . BLAH BLAH BLAH . . . hematoma THIS and big hemorrhaging THAT. . . .
After a while I stopped listening.
YEAH, YEAH, YEAH—I GET THE POINT: THEY DIDN’T LIKE THE DRESS!
On the bright side, though, I was going to mend, sure enough, with the help of at least a month of bed rest, twenty-six kinds of pills to be taken at random intervals, and a little physical therapy as the weeks went on.
After twenty more minutes of small talk—HEY! YEAH! YOU’RE OKAY!—Dad and Flossie excused themselves. “Flip wanted to be the one to explain what happened, so we’re going to leave you two alone.” They said good night, and before I knew it, I was alone with Flip.
ALONE?
WITH FLIP?
And oh, how I’ve dreamed of JUST SUCH a moment.
Well. You know.
It was slightly different in my head. Replace “hospital bed” with “rolling fields of heather,” and “coma” with “champagne picnic,” and we’re almost there.
(Slightly awkward.)
“Your dad’s a great guy,” he said. “He’s been so worried.”
Yeah, right.
“I’VE been so worried,” he said, and that was even harder to believe.
But there it was.
Since the day he carried my limp and lifeless body into the emergency room here at Plantation General Hospital, he’s been by my side. It’s true! The nurses will back him up. He’s been coming here every day, straight from football practice, and sitting with me, willing me, by God, back to health. He’s been talking to me nonstop, he says, telling me stories, details about his life and his plans, anything at all, hoping that maybe the sound of his voice would guide me back.
And now his prayers have been answered.
Well! How about THAT?
Of course, I’m WILDLY jealous of myself for spending SO MUCH TIME with him and hearing his stories and GETTING TO KNOW HIM like that. I wish I’D been there. I wish he would tell ME stories. It’s not fair!
COMA BILLY HAS ALL THE LUCK!
But he suddenly got very quiet and serious.
“Okay . . . um . . . ,” Flip started. “Do you remember what happened in biology?”
“Sort of . . . It’s all a little muzzy. I couldn’t really see, remember? Or move. Damn eyelashes. And I was wrapped in those vines; oh my God, what was I thinking? I just remember Bernie giving the order. Then . . . nothing . . . until . . . here. Today. You.”
He took a deep breath. I think he had been rehearsing this for a while.
“Here’s what happened . . . ,” he said.
And then told me the whole story.
TIME-OUT: NOTES ON TEXT
Of course, I can’t even begin to capture the fizz and crackle of Flip’s speech. I’ll try to print the actual words when I can, but even then, that’s just half the show. There’s a whole lyrical package with Flip that could never be translated onto the page. For instance: he has this supersexy “Sucking-of-the-Excess-Saliva” sound that punctuates the end of certain trains of thought. Basically, whenever there is a beat to be emphasized in his delivery, he sucks in the corners of his mouth and makes an inhaling sort of slurp. A THHFFSH sound.
I think it’s a hip-hop thing, but how would I know? It could be Elvish. Or emphysema. Whatever. It’s still impossible to duplicate on the page.
Oh, and his voice, for the record, isn’t that deep. It’s surprisingly soft, with a slight rasp. There’s a little Surfer Dude in the delivery, mixed with a crackling kiss-my-grits Southern twang. And of course, that maddening, homeboy patois (straight outta Pompano, yo).
And that’s Flip.
So. Back to the takeaway points of Flip’s explanation. . . .
FLIP’S VERSION:
“Yo, honest to God, Billy, it was just a prank. No one was supposed to get hurt. They were just going to scare you. ‘Scare the faggot’—that’s what they said. It was just going to be a little pushing. A few taps on the arm. Some tough talk. That’s all.”
So apparently, it had all been very carefully planned. For weeks. Down to the fake emergency phone call to Mr. Reamer. Everyone knew. The whole school.
Flip was against it from the beginning. “Swear to God! You gotta believe me, Billy. I was looking out for you. Fer real.” (And he gave a mighty saliva suck to show his sincerity.)
He tried to talk his teammates out of it. Even threatened to tell me. And almost did that day by the lockers. Finally, he dropped it, stayed quiet, and decided to just be there, you know: to step in if things got out of hand. Act as a referee, of sorts.
So it was all planned out. Real quick, right? One, two. BAM! BAM! Done. There shouldn’t have been any problems. BUT . . .
But then: “MY GOD! BILLY! Who knew you’d choose THAT day OF ALL DAYS to show up looking like a big gay monster? In that DRESS! I mean, what were you thinking? I’m not saying it’s your fault or nothing. But you gotta know, that threw everything off.”
Indeed. I knocked everybody for a loop, all right. I decided to push the envelope, cause a sensation, and see just how far I could push my enemies, on the absolute worst possible day. I decided to TRY and piss them off the very same day they were planning to let out their hostility on me.
“But that shouldn’t have mattered,” he said.
Here, his eyes started filling with tears.
No, he explained, things still shouldn’t have gotten so out of control. And the reason they did? Because he wasn’t there.
“I wasn’t there!” he said, so obviously distressed. “I’m so sorry!”
I then watched as Flip fought back those tears. I watched as his eyes filled up with water, getting higher and higher until it was a solid wall of water, until you couldn’t believe an eye could hold that much. And yet the tears kept rising! Defying gravity! Higher still! Then PLOP, one gigantic tear zipped down his face, leaving the sexiest streak you ever did see.
Flip Kelly was crying? Curiouser and curiouser! His reactions were more fascinating than the story.
He was certainly turning out to be very different from what I originally thought.
Anyway.
And WHY wasn’t he there to protect me?
“My godamned car wouldn’t start!” he rasped.
“Stupid, goddamned car! Stupid, goddamned car!” he repeated angrily, and pounded his thigh—a flawed response, I thought, as he seemed to be missing the entire point of “Stupid, goddamned Bernie! Stupid, goddamned Bernie!” or even: “Stupid, goddamned homophobia! Stupid, goddamned homophobia.”
But whatever.
Don’t let me interrupt his story.
“I mean HOLY SHIT! What could I do?”
Well, what COULD he do, poor thing? IT WOULDN’T START. . . . WOULDN’T START . . . WOULDN’T START. . . . All of a sudden it was nine o’clock. He was late for school. Late for class. Nine ten, and without him anything could happen. Anything was possible.
After finally getting a jump start from his neighbor, he hauled ass to make it to class in time to save me.
“I drove one hundred miles per hour—swear to God—all the way here. Running red lights. Running stop signs. And when I got to you . . . well, you know . . . things were just about over . . . and, well, I’m so . . . sorry. . . . See, it’s all my fault! Yo, I understand if you never want to speak to me again. But I TRIED . . . I TRIED, BILLY. . . .”
He was an absolute puddle now, full-on blubbering, so even though I was the one who just came out of a coma, I felt like HE was the one who needed comforting. Poor little thing. All he went through.
WAY TO MAKE THE STORY ABOUT YOU, DUDE.
“Flip, stop,” I rasped. “You saved my life. I’m grateful you did all that for me, my God. I’m not mad.”
And there you have it.
A FEW LOOSE ENDS:
Oh, and maybe you’re wondering, like I did, what the rest of the class was doing during the zombie beatdown? Where were they when I was bleeding on the floor, gasping for air and crying for help? Well, apparently, the other students were SO APPALLED that they couldn’t even watch. They had to look away. LOOK AWAY! It upset them THAT MUCH! The cheerleaders turned their backs altogether on the carnage and practiced a new cheer TO THE WALL. How’s THAT for a statement? A handful of students left the room in protest. They went to McDonald’s and had some McGriddles and hash browns. MMMM. I’m sure they were delicious. The Bible Belles all claimed they prayed for me, but they must have been lying because I did not feel His protection AT ALL.
Even more disappointing: No action was taken by the school. Nobody was disciplined. Not one suspension. The prime suspects were all Manatees, you see. And no one saw a thing. In that crowded room. They were all studying very hard. Well, of course they were. The final game of the season was
coming up. Of course they got off scot-free. Did you doubt it for a minute?
AND FINALLY:
What does Flip think of his fellow classmates now? That they’re essentially good kids, you know, just a little misguided, Oh, yeah, he’s totally Anne Frank that way. I learned that about him later. In Flip’s world people are good, evil will be punished, and hope springs eternal. BLAH BLAH BLAH. Also, gumdrops grow on trees, elves live in his TiVo, and the Pattycake Princess watches over the children of the world from her castle in the clouds.
I respectfully felt like spitting on his optimism. I had just seen something really rank in human nature, had my face shoved in it, actually, and I wasn’t in the mood to be generous or forgiving. I wanted to grab him by his shirt and scream: Listen to me! The school is a snake pit and the students, YOUR FRIENDS, are bloodless, heartless, baby-eating, grandmother-raping, puppy-killing, bottom-feeding vermin who are utterly repulsive and totally devoid of any redemptive qualities! But I kept my mouth shut, for the time being.
Anyway, that’s as far as we got. I was tired. So very tired. Confronting such soul-sucking malevolence isn’t easy. Flip said good night and promised he’d be back first thing in the morning, “as usual.”
Freak Show Page 9
