Band Fags! (6 page)

Maybe it's just me. But I feel kinda weird looking at them. Not weird-weird, but…like I've already said, I don't judge other guys. But some of them are so good-looking, it totally makes me wanna puke! They've all got these totally muscular, totally perfect bodies. I swear they must work out at least five hours per day.

I have no idea why we're doing this. But here we are again, back in Brad's room…

“Open it,” he says, encouraging me. “Go on…”

We're sitting side by side on his bed with the November 1984 issue of
Playgirl
resting between our laps, listening to Cyndi Lauper singing her latest on 96.3 WHYT. I begin turning the pages, passing by columns titled
Intimacy File—Whose Fantasy is it Anyway?
,
Health—Organic Groceries: Super Health or Super Hype?,
and
Arts and Entertainment—Michael Jackson: Sweet and Sexy, He's Pop's Greatest Thriller.
The only thing I don't see are any naked guys.

“Keep going,” Brad tells me when I question this.

I turn another page, only to find a Sex Quiz. Followed by an article on “Sexual Variety.” Followed by a full-page ad for English Leather Musk cologne, in which a good-looking, cheesy-mustached guy with a totally hairy chest to match, wears
nothing
but a Santa Claus hat and a smile.

“‘He Knows If You've Been Good,'” I read. “‘So Be Good for Goodness Sake.'”
Oh, brother!

“Oh, my God…Look at him!” Brad gasps.

Of course, I can't help but notice the guy's got a totally big dick.

“Do you think
we'll
look like that when we grow up?” he asks me. “He's pretty cute, right?”

To which I reply, “I don't judge other guys,” 'cause I don't. Though I admit, “I wouldn't mind
looking
like him.”

“Well,” Brad begins, “if you were a
girl,
would you think he's cute?”

Which is a fair question to ask, I suppose. “If I was a
girl?
” I say. “I guess I might…Would you?”

“Probably,” he answers. “I mean, if I was a girl.” Then he flips the page and
totally
starts freaking out. “Oh, my God…That guy's got a hard-on!”

“Gross!” I say, turning my entire head away from the page. “I can't even believe they can show that kinda stuff.”

“I know…It's
totally
disgusting,” Brad agrees. But when I reach out to turn the page, he places his hand on the magazine to stop me. Then he practically shouts in my ear, “Wait…Lemme see that again!”

So I turn the page back…And we stare at it…For just a few minutes more.

Page after page, we continue flipping through. Naked guy after naked guy after naked guy. Finally, we come to
Playgirl
's Man for November. A blond-haired, blue-eyed Hunk with a small patch of hair sprouting in the center of his chest sports a blue unbuttoned denim shirt with the sleeves rolled up. His name's Jeffrey Erickson. But neither of us has ever seen or heard of him before.

“What would you think of him,” Brad asks, “if you were a girl, I mean?”

“If I was a girl?” I say. “I'd think he was okay, I guess.”

“Just okay?” he asks, suddenly skeptical of my taste in men.

“I think I'd think the other one is cuter,” I confess. By whom I mean the guy on the page before last. The one with the dark hair, dark eyes, and
smooth
chest.

“You would?” says Brad, making a face. “I'd think my guy is
much
cuter than yours.”

After another ten minutes or so I have to ask, “So what about JEH?” I mean, he's the reason we're even looking at this trash in the first place! “Isn't he in here somewhere?”

“Duh!” Brad says. Like I'm a Total Idiot. “He wouldn't be on the cover if he wasn't, would he?” He takes hold of the magazine, flips to page 30, and exclaims, “Tah dah!” Like he's David Copperfield making the Statue of Liberty vanish on TV. Then he presents the magazine to me again. This time with a flourish.

I'm totally unimpressed.

Sure, there's a picture of Jon-Erik Hexum all oiled up, one bulging bicep behind his head, shirt off. On the opposite page he wears a black tuxedo,
cigarette
in hand—don't even tell me he smokes! But in no way is he
naked.

“That's it?”

“What do you mean?” replies Brad. Again, like I'm a Total Idiot.

I skim through the four-page article all about how JEH is the “male answer to Christie Brinkley” and how he turned down roles on
The Dukes of Hazzard
and
CHiPs
before ever doing
Voyagers!
Both of which I had no idea about. Another interesting fact I learn is…He went to Michigan State University. Which is where I've been thinking about applying to college after I graduate from Hillbilly High. Which isn't till June 1988, and seems like a bijillion years from now!

There are also pictures of JEH from
Cover Up,
wearing army fatigues and holding a machine gun. And another with Joan Collins in
Making of a Male Model
. But again, in no way is he naked in
any
of them!

“I thought the whole point of
Playgirl
is naked guys,” I reiterate.

“All the
other
guys are naked,” Brad affirms.

“Yeah…But who cares about them? They're Total Nobodies.”

To which Brad informs me, “My sister Janelle says they
never
show full frontal of the celebrities…It's bad for their careers.”

To which I reply, “That is sooo lame…They could at least show his butt!” Then I toss the magazine aside. “What a Total Rip-off!”

After all of about five seconds, Brad gets up from the bed. “Be right back.”

“Where are you going?” I inquire.

“To the bathroom.” He starts out of the room. Then he crosses back to where
Playgirl
has landed in the corner. “I might be a while,” he tells me, picking the trashy magazine up off the floor. “I better take something with me to read.”

And away he goes!

It appears that Christmas has come early to the Motor City.

For the first time in 16 years—on October 14, 1984—Detroiters can finally say, “We're #1!” At least when it comes to Major League Baseball.

“Jackie, get in here!” my Dad calls out from our living room. He and my Mom have gathered in front of the TV with my Aunt Sonia and Uncle Mark, cheering the Home Team on to V-I-C-T-O-R-Y. “The Tigers just won the World Series!”

A chorus of hoots and hollers erupts from the Peanut Gallery. Outside, a dozen car horns blare blissfully. Followed by my Aunt Sonia's enthusiastic words, “Bless—You—Boys!”

I only hope she doesn't start singing that stupid song! Ever since the Tigers found themselves on a winning streak this season, it's been
all
over the radio. From WHYT to WRIF, you can't escape it.

Just then our telephone rings…

“Hello?” I answer.

“Put your clothes on…
Now.
” I instantly recognize Brad's bellow. “I mean it, Jack…Get dressed,” he orders. “We'll be over in fifteen minutes to pick you up.”

“Where are we going?” I ask.

“Cruising Woodward.” By which Brad means Woodward Avenue. The main thoroughfare from the city of Detroit leading out to the suburbs. Also known as M-1.

“But I'm watching TV with my brother,” I inform him. We had just sat down to watch the conclusion of the NBC epic miniseries
V: The Final Battle.
Starring Marc Singer and Faye Grant. Who just so happens to be a graduate of Lake Shore High School in St. Clair Shores, another suburb of Detroit.

“Who cares? They're throwing a
huge
parade for the Tigers and my Mom's taking us.”

“Downtown?” I question, knowing Detroit's reputation as the “Murder Capital of the World.”

“Don't be such a Pussy,” Brad teases. Which is the first time I've ever heard him use the P-word in all the time I've known him.

“Who's all going?” I ask. Not that it matters. It still isn't safe.

“Me, my Mom, and my sisters.”

“What about Max?”

“Fuck Max,” says Brad. “He's too busy hanging out with Dickhead.” By whom he means Tom Fulton, this Jock who used to be one of Max's Best Friends back in elementary school at Webster. Ever since he started wearing contacts and got a decent haircut, Tom's been a Total Jerk to me and Brad both.

I remember one time back in 7
^th
grade, me and Max and Brad were over Tom's house hanging out one Saturday afternoon. We had a Total Blast, playing Atari and calling the Party Line and stuff. We even got Tom to pretend his name was Tammy and talk to one of the guys. And boy was he good at it…He came up with some totally wild things to say, which I won't even repeat. Too bad when we got back to school on Monday, I tried talking to him during Ms. Lemieux's 6
^th
& 7
^th
hour Enriched English & Social Studies, and he totally blew me off!

I can't even believe Tom's going with Marie Sperling now. She used to be all Little Miss Innocent, back in 7
^th
grade. I swear, you could tell her a joke in 1st hour and she wouldn't start laughing till 5
^th
. Even though she's always been a Total Sweetheart, none of the Popular Guys wanted anything to do with her. Then last Summer, puberty kicked in and BAM!

Now that I think of it…Marie kinda reminds me of Kristian Alfonso. Whom I'm still totally in love with. She's gotta be the most beautiful girl I've ever seen in my entire life. Every night before I go to bed, I pray that one day I'll find a girlfriend who's as beautiful as Kristian Alfonso. If only that could happen, I know I'd be set. Then I could prove to all those Jock Jerks out there—like Fuck Face Craig Gershrowski—that I'm not…
You know.

With regards to the Tigers' Parade, I start to tell Brad, “I don't know…”

It's not that I don't care about the World Series, don't get me wrong. Even though I'm not technically a Sports Fan, I have a fond affinity for the Detroit Tigers. Back in 4
^th
grade, my Dad used to take me to Tiger Stadium all the time. I'd sit there in the bleachers with my program on my lap, memorizing all the players' names
and
their numbers: #1—Lou Whitaker, #3—Alan Trammell, #4—Aurelio Rodriguez, who was always my Aunt Sonia's favorite 'cause he wore patent leather shoes. Not to mention #8—Ron LeFlore, #10—Rusty Staub, #13—Lance Parrish, #19—Dave Rozema, #33—Steve Kemp.

But partying with a bunch of strangers in Downtown Detroit of all places is the last thing I wanna be doing…

“Come on!” Brad practically begs. “The Tigers haven't won the World Series since like 1965.”

“1968,” I correct, only knowing this fact because my Dad's been stressing it this entire season.

“It could be the Year 2000 before they ever make it to the World Series again,” he tells me. “And by that time, we'll be too old to even care.”

“Okay…” God forbid I should miss out. Which is why I have no other choice but to give in and agree to go along.

“Awesome!” Brad cheers. “We'll be right over.” Then he throws in, “We gotta pick Bobby up first.” By whom he could only mean Bobby Russell. As in
Dear Bobby…
from the letter Mr. Grant read aloud to us in the cafeteria at the beginning of 7
^th
grade.

In case I haven't mentioned it…Bobby happens to live just four blocks away from me on the other side of John R, over on Moorhouse. Across I-75 from where he went to elementary school at Roosevelt with Symphonic Band 2
^nd
chair clarinet Carrie Johnson. Though I couldn't figure out why he'd be coming along with us. I mean, he's been in Band with me and Brad for the past two years. But it's not like either of us is friends with him.

Which is why I have to ask, “Why's Bobby Russell coming?”

To which Brad replies, “I don't know…What's the big deal?”

“No big deal.” Though Brad knows how much I can't stand Bobby Russell. I mean, he sits right next to me in Band. But whenever I see him outside of class, he acts like he doesn't even know who I am. Probably because every time he's challenged me for 1st chair, he's always lost.

But because I'm the bigger person I say, “Hey, Bobby,” as I crawl into the backseat of Brad's Mom's tan little K-Car fifteen minutes later…

“'s up, Jackie?” says Bobby, chomping a huge wad of grape Bubble Yum, barely looking at me. He's too preoccupied acting ever so cool in his sea green hospital scrubs, left arm draped over the back of the front seat where he sits with Janelle—and her boobs—on his lap.

“Where's Ted?” I ask nobody in particular. Just to remind Bobby of the presence of Ted Baniszewski in Janelle Dayton's life.

“Work,” Janelle answers matter-of-factly.

Like her brother, Janelle Dayton's got reddish-brown hair. Though hers is a lot bigger and curlier. According to Brad, she's got way more freckles than he does. But she wears so much makeup, you can hardly tell. Don't get me wrong, she is kinda hot. Though maybe it's just her boobs.

We drive west on 8 Mile towards Woodward listening to Ernie “The Voice of the Tigers” Harwell recapping tonight's World Series victory: “After a disappointing loss in San Diego on Wednesday night, the Tigers were back in Motown where they defeated the Padres in games three and four at Tiger Stadium.

“Hopes ran high for the Home Team tonight as right fielder, Kirk Gibson, dropped two bombs into the upper decks in the 1st and 8
^th
innings, in addition to stealing home in the 5
^th
on a shallow fly ball to right field.

“Catcher Lance Parrish also sent one bouncing into the bleachers and relievers Aurelio Lopez and Willie Hernandez held the Padres at bay for the 8–4 victory. Manager Sparky Anderson has become the first skipper to guide two separate franchises to World Series victories after winning with the National League's Cincinnati Reds in both '75 and '76. Congratulations also go out to series MVP, shortstop Alan Trammell.”

“Hey J,” I hear Bobby say to Janelle, “wha's up with Ted and the job?”

“He said, ‘No problem,'” Janelle replies.

To which Bobby says, “Cool.”

“What job?” I ask, being nosy.

“Ted's getting me and Bobby jobs at Country Boy's,” Brad announces. Which is this Total Dive diner on the corner of 9 Mile and Vassar. Though in all the years I've lived in Hazeltucky, I don't think I've ever once set foot inside.

So I ask, “What kinda jobs?”

“Busboys…$2.92 an hour to start, plus tips.”

Then I say, “How come you didn't ask me if I wanted a job?” Not because I want or need one. But because this is the first I've heard about it and I wanna know why my Best Friend is keeping secrets from me.

“Please!” Brad groans. “I can just see you working as a busboy, Jack.”

Even though he's right—I could
never
do such menial labor—I tell him, “You still could've asked.”

The drive down Woodward ends up more of a traffic jam than an actual “parade.” In fact, the ones doing all the parading are us fans. Not a Detroit Tiger is anywhere in sight. But what I fear might turn into a re-creation of the '67 Cass Corridor Riots amounts to a huge par-tay in the streets.

I can't even explain how totally cool it is to see so many people celebrating together. Black, white, Caldean, you name it…All thanks to the “Roar of '84!”

Of course, Brad's Mom—Laura Victor-Dayton-Victor, having gone back to using her maiden name since divorcing Brad's Deadbeat Dad—is a nervous wreck the entire time she's behind the wheel. Hands at 10 and 2. Staring straight ahead.

“Br-a-a-d,” she drawls in her Alabama accent. “You boys be careful, you hear me?” To which she's referring to the fact that Brad and Bobby are now totally hanging out the passenger window. Meanwhile, I'm crammed in the backseat with little sisters Nina and Brittany.

We're just about in the heart of Motown at this point. Down on Woodward near I-75. All four lanes are
jammed
with people. Shouting, cheering, rejoicing. It's hard to even tell there's a road ahead of us to drive on, it's so packed.

An older black man clad in the official Kirk Gibson #23 pinstriped jersey shouts, “We did it!” As if his sitting at home watching on TV had anything to do with the Tigers' victory. Then he High-Fives both Bobby and Brad before launching them into a chant of “Bless—You—Boys!”

I only hope they don't start singing that stupid song!

To our right, I see a glow of red. Which must be the Fox Theatre marquis. On the left, searchlights from the parking lot crisscross the cloudy sky. Woodward Avenue is a Sea of People and our tan little K-Car is Moses, parting it.

I've gotta admit, despite all the excitement surrounding me, I'm a little p.o.'d. Brad's barely talked to me this entire time. From the minute I got in the car back at my house, he and Bobby have been like proverbial peas in a pod…What's up with that?

Personally, I don't see what's so hot about Bobby Russell: #1—he's got braces; #2—he's got bleached blond hair, spiked on top, à la Billy Idol. Which wouldn't be so bad except for #3—he's also got a totally stupid six-inch dyed black tail hanging down from the back.

I mean, maybe he
used
to be kinda cute when he was younger. I saw a yearbook picture Carrie Johnson had of him from back when they went to Roosevelt together and he didn't look so bad. But that was before he broke out with acne. And started smoking!

“Now what?” Laura says to nobody in particular.

Looks like we've come to the end of the line. Woodward and Elizabeth. Next to a totally cool old-fashioned diner, complete with neon sign, called the Elwood Bar & Grill.

“Why can't we take Jefferson back?” Brad asks.

“That's what I was
planning
to do,” his Mom replies, totally frustrated. “They won't let us through.” Ahead, we can see the cops blocking off the rest of the avenue.

“Fucking pigs!” Bobby Russell shouts out his window at the Men in Blue.

I see Laura give him a look. Though she doesn't say anything. I've got a feeling she doesn't care for Bobby Russell either.

“What are we gonna do, Mom?” Brad asks.

“I don't know, Bradley!” she snaps. The tension in the car is starting to rival that of the throng outside.

“How are we gonna get home, Mommy?” Brittany cries out.

“Mommy, I'm scared!” Nina chimes in.

“Please sit and be quiet…Everybody!”

Poor Laura…All of a sudden the whistle from a traffic cop is blown, totally freaking her out. We can see the officer giving us the “Turn Your Vehicle Around” hand signal. Which means we have no other choice but to head back up Woodward, through the traffic jam towards Ferndale/Hazel Park.