Remembering Christmas (18 page)

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Authors: Drew Ferguson

BOOK: Remembering Christmas
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“Hold that thought. . . .” Val tosses her empty into the mess she calls a back seat and cracks open another. Seriously, if I kept my car in this condition, my father would kill me. From the looks of it, she must've had Arby's for lunch. Or at least at some point in the recent past. That, and Chicken Shack. And Rally's. “Okay, ready,” she reveals. Followed by, “What's her name?”
At this moment, I realize I have two options: Number one is to finally come clean with Val about who I am, as they say, “deep down inside.” Number two is to continue along the same path we've been traveling since the beginning, with her thinking I'm normal (read: not gay). Obviously, my mind is made up when I hear myself declare, “Kir . . . sty.”
I do realize that I just got through lamenting how I've been lying to all my work friends since the day I met them. The second reason as to why I haven't told anyone here in the grocery biz about my (homo)sexuality—least of all Val—is because from day one, I'm pretty certain that Val's had a crush on me. Especially since the weekend before I first moved up to East Lansing for freshman year, Max threw me a party at his dad's house in Roseville, and Val came by with her best friend, Tina, and pretty much told me so.
As parties go when you're eighteen years old, we all got a little wasted. At one point, Val and I ended up alone together in Max's room, making out on his water bed. Val was crying about my leaving, and I was crying because she was crying—and because I was crocked! She kept telling me over and over how much she's always liked me. But how she could never figure out why I didn't like her back. I kept wanting to explain: It wasn't that I didn't like her.... I
couldn't
like her. At least not the way she deserves to be liked by a boy.
“Kirsty?” Val totally makes a face, obviously disapproving of the love of my life's (made-up) moniker. “And what does Kirsty do?”
Hating myself for continuing with the charade, I say, “She goes to Michigan State. She's an actress. . . .”
Val rolls her eyes. “Just what you need, a drama queen . . .”
“She's originally from Center Line,” I say. “Class of '87.”
“I thought you didn't like older women.” Val interrupts with another dig at why I never went out with her, I'm sure.
“And she's got a boyfriend,” I add, downing my beer. “So it's totally beside the point if I like her or not.” Like a manly man, I crush the can with my palm and pitch it over my shoulder.
“Watch it!” Val warns. “You think my back seat's a dumpster?” She grins to let me know she's just joking and offers me another Miller. Then she orders, “Forget Kirsty . . . If she can't see what a great guy you are, she must be blind.”
We clink cans and drink. Having not eaten anything substantial since five o'clock, I'm starting to get a little tipsy. Which is probably why I can't seem to let go of this thing with Kirk—I mean
Kirsty.
“The thing is,” I say, hoping I'm not totally slurring my words. “If she's got a boyfriend. Which she does—Ralph . . .”
Ralph?
Nobody's name is Ralph! Except for Ralph Malph on
Happy Days
. But it was the first
R
name I could come up with. Guess I really must be wasted.
“Then what the hell,” I continue, “is Kirsty doing inviting me over for dinner when Ralph's not home and letting me kiss her under the mistletoe?”
“Sounds like maybe Kirsty likes you after all,” Val surmises, after I conclude my story. “I wouldn't let some guy kiss me if I didn't want him to.” Then she says, “You know what you have to do, don't you?”
Right now, I can barely form a sentence. How could I possibly come to a conclusion of any kind? “No. . . . What?”
“If you really like this girl,” Val replies, “you have to find out how she really feels about
you.
. . . Ralph or no Ralph.”
As much as I understand this advice in my heart, my head feels too fuzzy to wrap my brain around it. On top of the fact that Ralph's name is really
Raquel
. That woman is a force to be reckoned with. She's played Lady Macbeth for Pete's sake! There is no way she's going to give her man up to another guy. Not without a fight.
But I love Kirk Bailey, and I want him to be mine.
That's it!
As soon as he gets back from Toronto tomorrow, I'm calling up Kirk and asking him out. Once and for all, I need to know where he stands. . . .
And if we have a future together.
Wicked Game
What a wicked game you play
To make me feel this way . . .
—Chris Isaak
 
 
 
 
 
M
y so-called date with Joey begins with him picking me up at my parents'. Though he doesn't come to the door. He waits outside in his car—thanks to our scan-ju-lous past, I'm sure. I think Joey's afraid to see my mom after what went down with him and me and her and that letter all those years ago. I doubt she'd say anything about it to Joey if she saw him. My mom's not that kind of woman. She would never blatantly embarrass somebody to their face. Truth be told, she's probably as uncomfortable about the whole incident as me and Joey. Though she's never brought it up again, I can tell she hasn't totally forgotten about it.
“Tell Joey I said Merry Christmas,” Mom says, as I'm heading back out the front door. Luckily, he was running a little late. I barely had time to get home from my beer drinking with Val, take a quick shower, and rinse the booze taste out of my mouth.
“I will.”
According to Channel 2
Eyewitness News,
it's like twenty degrees outside. Funny how in summer, the thought of forty seems like freezing. What I wouldn't give right now for it to be that warm. Thankfully, Joey's got the heat on high. The inside of his car is all hot and toasty as I settle into my seat.
“Jackie P!” he exclaims. “What's shakin'?”
Watching him tap his leather-gloved hands to the beat of Heavy D's “Now That We Found Love,” I can't believe we ever got along back in the day. Me, I was totally into bands like Depeche Mode and New Order. Joey was all about Run-DMC and the Beastie Boys. I'll never forget after Joey and I “broke up,” we had this all-school variety show. Joey got up and performed this rap routine, wearing a jogging suit and these tacky gold chains around his neck. And he break-danced! As much as it tortured me to watch him onstage in the HPHS auditorium “busting on the mic,” I couldn't help but think he looked totally hot.
“What happened to the Fiero?” Realizing Joey's gotten himself a new car since I saw him last, I have to wonder. This one, believe it or not, is a Probe. Whoever came up with that name needs to be neutered.
“I got that thing for my sixteenth birthday,” he reminds me. “My dad decided it was time for a trade in.”
Must be nice having a rich father with a guilt complex over divorcing your mom and abandoning you. Of course I don't say this out loud. Going to school at Michigan State, I've come to make friends with a lot of kids from the wealthier suburbs. At this point, I've gotten used to being a poor boy from Hazeltucky. Maybe someday when I'm a rich and famous writer, I'll look back and wonder how I ever managed to resign myself to this fact.
“Where did you want to go?” We never really did decide what we'd be doing this evening other than “hanging out.”
“Have you been to see Santa yet?”
I give him a look to see if he's being serious or not. With Joey Palladino, it's always hard to tell. “Um . . . No.”
“Then that's what we're doing first.”
“You really wanna brave the mall?” I ask, imagining it must be jam-packed during this extended-hour shopping season.
“How you gonna get anything for Christmas,” Joey says, “if you don't tell the big guy what you want?”
I can't even remember the last time I paid a visit to old Kriss Kringle; back in high school, probably, when I was friends with Ava Reese and Carrie Johnson, and Audrey was still alive. Junior year, they dragged me, Max, and Brad with them out to Lakeside, and the six of us all piled onto poor St. Nick's knee. Let's just say he wasn't feeling particularly jolly at that point. Like trick-or-treating on Halloween, it's one thing when you're still a kid to participate in this pastime. I can't imagine the old man playing Mr. Claus is going to appreciate bouncing two college-aged boys upon his lap. . . . Though who knows? Maybe he will!
We hop onto I-75 and head north to Fourteen Mile. On the way, Joey and I play a quick game of “What Have You Been Doing Since We Graduated High School?” I start. Went to Michigan State in the fall of '88 where I'm majoring in English with an emphasis on Creative Writing. During the summers and on breaks (like the one we're on now), I come home to Hazeltucky and stay with my parents so I can work at Farmer Jack's and save money. In the spring, I'm either moving to New York City to pursue a career in playwriting or to Los Angeles to try and break into TV. Worse case scenario: I'll publish a novel.
“And that's all she wrote,” I conclude, “when it comes to my exciting life.”
“Do you have a boyfriend?”
Even though Joey knows I'm gay, based on what went down with us, the fact that he has the balls to come right out and ask me this question sort of takes me by surprise. Sure, it's been the elephant in the room since we ran into each other the other day. But I kind of hoped we wouldn't have to address it. Now that he's put it out there, looks like I have no other choice.
“At the moment,” I say, “I do
not
.”
Joey nods and smiles. “Well that's good.”
What's that supposed to mean?
Shifting the focus onto Mr. Palladino and away from yours truly, I inquire, “How about you?”
“Do I have a boyfriend?” he says. “Not anymore.”
While that's not what I was asking, I'll take the tidbit as Joey's confession that he, too, plays for the pink team. I kind of figured that would be the case. Though I still can't figure out why he dated my ex-girlfriend, Diane Thompson, all through junior and senior years if he wasn't straight. Brad claims Joey did it to get back at me for not returning his affections. Even if that were true, why would Joey waste two years of his life going with a girl if he wasn't into her?
“Where did you end up going to college?” I ask, switching to a less touchy subject.
“I'm up at Central,” Joey says. He puts on his blinker and moves over into the right lane, preparing to make our exit. “Getting my degree in Business Administration. My dad says he'll get me a job at Kmart's—if I ever finish.” World headquarters. Not one of the regular old stores.
The way Joey says this leads me to believe he's not enjoying his studies. I can't imagine the pressure he must be under to follow in his father's footsteps. Thankfully, my parents have always been supportive of me and my dreams. As long as I'm paying for my own education, I'm allowed to study exactly what I want.
As expected, the Oakland Mall parking lot is full to the max. Row after row we drive up and down, eventually finding an empty spot all the way in back, out near the movie theatre marquee.
“Have you seen
For the Boys
?” Joey asks, as we bundle up in preparation for the trek across the frozen tundra.
“Is that with Bette Midler?” I say, tying my faux-cashmere scarf tight about my neck. “Not yet.”
“You're kidding me?” he says. “I've seen it five times.... Maybe when we're done with Santa, we can go and check it out?”
“Sure,” I say, surprised at Joey's adoration for the Divine Miss M. Sure, I enjoyed her in
Big Business
. But that one I went to see mainly because of Lily Tomlin. After all these years, I've still not seen
The Rose.
Or
Beaches.
Brad keeps threatening to stop being my best friend until I do.
Despite the hustle and the bustle, I do enjoy the mall when it's all decorated for the holiday season. Ever since I've gotten older, I never seem to sense that “Christmas feeling” anymore. When you're a kid, there's this magic in the air that starts round about the day after Thanksgiving and goes on for the next month or so. I remember being in kindergarten and making these chains out of red and green construction paper. There'd be like twenty-five of them all looped together with a white one on the very end. Every morning when you woke up, you'd tear one off, counting down the days until Santa's arrival. By the time you got to December twenty-fourth, you felt like you were going to die from anticipation. Forget about getting any sleep that night!
When my brother and I still shared a room, we'd lie together in bed—me on the top bunk, Billy on the bottom—and we'd listen to this Alvin and the Chipmunks Christmas tape (“It's caroling, Clyde”) on our dual-cassette player. Even though I was like fourteen years old and my belief in Santa Claus had been dashed a long time before, the fact that Billy was super excited about him
finally
coming to town got me totally geeked too.
The line to see Santa is a mile long. Not even exaggerating. It starts all the way up at his castle and extends down and around past The Sharper Image and Suncoast Video.
“Are you sure you wanna wait?” I ask Joey. The longer we stand here, the more embarrassed I feel about being surrounded by all these little kiddies and their parents. Don't they realize it's a Sunday night? They should all be home getting ready to watch
Married With Children
.
“Come on!” Joey says. “I wanna get our picture taken together.”
Forty-five minutes later, we arrive at the front of the line....
Santa's all “Ho ho ho . . . Have you been a good boy?” to both me and Joey. I can't even believe the old dude is going along with it. (I do a double take, just to make sure the guy doesn't got a hard-on.) He's like, “And what would
you
like for Christmas?”
I answer. “Um . . . I could use some new socks. Maybe some underwear. Hanes or Fruit of the Loom.” Had I known I'd be under this pressure, I would've made a list. “Contact lens solution . . . Clearasil soap . . . Some Dep.” All the basic beauty necessities that I hate wasting money on for myself.
Santa chuckles warmly, turning his attention to my comrade in arms. “And what about
you
, young man?”
“Me?” Joey replies. “I want a new boyfriend.”
Say cheese!
The pop of a Polaroid flashes in our faces, and I just about shit a brick. Not only can't I believe Joey Palladino had the audacity to go there with Santa Claus . . . He stole my bit.
Next we go to the movies.
As we get in line at the ticket booth, Joey's brown eyes fill with light. “
Beauty and the Beast!
”
“Would you rather see that one instead?” I say, wondering if he really wants to pay five dollars to see a kiddie flick. Me, I've always been a fan of animated movies, my all-time faves being
Charlotte's Web
and
The Fox and the Hound
.
“Can we, please?” Joey asks, sounding like a six-year-old. Funny, I don't remember him ever being quite this (dare I say?)
gay
back when I knew him before.
We buy our
billets,
along with an industrial-sized bucket of popcorn and a pop. Taking our seats in theatre three, I'm surprised to see the number of childless adults in the auditorium with us. Of course Joey and I are the only two guys sitting together. Thankfully, we're just in time for the previews, which include
JFK, Prince of Tides
with Barbra Streisand, and something that looks sort of cool called
Until the End of the World.
Finally, the show begins. But not before Joey and I have almost completely finished our snacks. “Save some for me,” he says, reaching a hand into the bucket.
Is it just my imagination . . . or did Joey's fingers just brush up against mine—and linger?
“What should we do now?”
Around eleven thirty, the movie lets out. I have to say, I truly enjoyed it. But I've been an Ashman/Menken fan since their earliest collaboration,
Little Shop of Horrors
. How tragic is it that Howard passed away this past March from AIDS-related complications? And to think, he was only forty years old.... I hear that before he died, he and Alan put together an
Aladdin
musical for Disney that comes out next Thanksgiving starring fellow Michigander, Robin Williams. That should be fun.
For me, the best part of
B & B
—other than Gaston's being a total babe—has to be the waltzing “Tale as old as time . . .” scene. Gotta love old Angela
Murder, She Wrote
Lansbury as Mrs. Potts! Not only does Belle look fabulous in that gold chiffon number . . . The animation itself—incredible! The marble pillars, the floor, the chandelier—it all appears so three-dimensional. Sitting beside Joey in the darkened auditorium, the entire sequence took my breath away. Though I can't help but think,
We'll condone bestiality . . . but
not
the love between two men?
On our way back to Joey's car, I figure the evening has just about ended. Seems like he's not ready to say good night . . .

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