Finally
Meeting Mr. Right, the man of my dreams
The one and only true love or at least it seems . . .
âCeCe Peniston
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W
e arrive at The Gas Station with not a moment to spare. My little Dodge Omni snatches up the last available space in the snowy parking lot. Which is really more like an alley behind the building. Not that I come down to Seven Mile and Woodward all that often, but whenever I do, I can't help but think back to that first night in 1986, when at the tender age of fifteen, I set foot in this exact same bar, courtesy of Brad and our lesbian friend, Luanne “Lou” Kowalski. Hopefully it won't be too awkward if we run into her here tonight. Lou and I went through a rough patch after I went out with her best friend, Alyssa, who apparently she was madly in love with at the time. Then the following year, I supposedly “stole” sophomore Diane Thompson away from her. To tell the truth, I sort of did. I still can't believe what a jerk I was to Luanne, all in the name of keeping my sexual identity a secret.
“Lock it!”
Brad whips his parka off and wedges it down on the floor of my backseat. I hate the fact that we have to walk from the car in the cold without jackets on. But better to freeze for a brief moment than pay a dollar for coat check. Thankfully, we've arrived early enough to avoid the impending snowstorm, and better yet, the crowd. There are all of three people ahead of us waiting to pay Jabba the Hut (and her horse teeth) their cover.
“Hi, Nancy . . .”
The woman working the door reaches for Brad's driver's license. The way she scrutinizes it, holding it up close to her Sally Jesse Raphael frames, one would think she's never set eyes on my best friend before. Considering Brad knows her by name, and he comes here
every
week, I don't see why she's being so particular. “Next!”
I fork over my ID along with my five bucks. Once we're safely inside, surrounded by the sounds of C+C Music Factory and the stale scent of cigarette smoke, I ponder, “What's
her
problem?”
“Don't mind Nancy,” Brad says, bellying up to the bar. “She just found out her boyfriend Steven is a total closet case.” He pulls out a few bills, holding them in plain view to try and attract the bartender's attention. “What's a boy gotta do to get some service in this dump?!”
At first I think Brad's just being a brat and that we won't get served with that attitude. Until the totally hot, totally shirtless guy in the Santa Claus hat turns around and is all ear-to-ear grin beneath his snowy white strap-on whiskers. “Ho, ho, ho . . .”
Brad bellows, “Who you calling a âho'?” sounding insulted. Though I can tell by the hint of sarcasm in his tone that he's just playing around. (I hope.)
“Well, if it isn't Chicken Little . . .”
Brad leans across the bar and gives the babe a kiss on the cheek. He tells him, “This is my best friend, Jack.” Then to me he says, “This is Mike.”
How the hell could I forget?
Mike is the older brother of our dearly departed friend from high school, Audrey Wojczek. Sadly, Audrey was killed in a car accident during our senior year. We had gone to kindergarten together at Longfellow. But then Audrey moved away to Minnesota, and when she came back to HP, she ended up at St. Mary's. In ninth grade, we reconnected at Webb and became super close. Up until I decided I'd prefer being popular, as opposed to spending time with my
true
friends. Unfortunately, when Audrey died, we were estranged. I still haven't gotten over losing her. Neither has Brad, who became like her best friend once they bonded in Drama Club, playing opposite each other as Will Parker and Ado Annie in what we liked to call
Okla-
homo
!
“Nice to meet you,” Mike says, offering me a firm and callused hand.
Obviously, he doesn't remember that we've already been introduced. Why should he? It's been five years. The first time I ever came to The Gas Station, Mike was positioned in the exact same place. I'll never forget the way he filled out his army fatigues or the way he looked sans shirt with his dyed-blue mohawk. Or the way he flirted, calling me a “cutie” and teasing me about being a (bar) virgin. I was a
real
virgin, too, at the time. Still am when it comes to actual
intercourse.
But I'm not ashamed to admit that I'm saving myself for Mr. Right. Though Mr. Right Now is starting to look awfully good! Mike's hair has grown back, and he's put on a few extra pounds. But for a guy who has got to be at least
thirty,
he's still hot.
Speaking of...
“Try to talk without moving your lips,” I say to Brad out the side of my mouth, Ã la our favorite
Laverne & Shirley
episode. “That guy over there is totally checking us out.” We've moved down into the area known as “The Pit” to look for Miss Peter, who is supposed to be waiting for us somewhere, and yet, she's nowhere to be found. Instead, there's this totally cute guy standing solo on the upper level who keeps focusing his attention in my and Brad's direction.
Brad turns to catch a glimpse of said stud. Then he squeals like a total girl. “Oh, my God . . . It's you!” Like long lost lovers reuniting on the sands of some beach, Brad and this guy begin running toward each other.
“Brad-licious!” the guy cries, literally picking up my best friend and twirling him around. They remind me of a sailor on shore leave and his girl. “I was hoping I'd see you here.”
“When did you get in?” Brad asks, beaming.
“Plane landed at Metro around eight,” informs the stranger. “Got to my parents in Fraser around nine. I was on my way down here by nine-thirty. . . . What's new with you?”
“Same shit, different day,” Brad drones. “Still working at Big Boy's. Saving money for school. One of these days I'll get my degree.”
“Where you gonna go?”
“I'm thinking about Central,” says Brad, sounding unsure. “To study Elementary Education.” Much like the existence of Brad's long lost pal, this is news to me.
“Good luck!” The guy grins. “The thought of you and all those kids . . .”
“I know, right?”
Watching Brad carry on like this with someone I've never seen before, I must admit, makes me a tad bit jealous. It's obvious that he and this dude are well acquainted. I'm assuming he's some bar friend. Though from their witty rapport, I'm wondering if there's more to this relationship to which I've not been made privy.
“I want you to meet my best friend. . . .” Brad draws me into their duet and makes the proper introductions. “Sean, this is Jack. . . . Jack, this is Sean.”
Sean and I exchange pleasantries. As I'm shaking his hand, I take a moment to properly size him up. About twenty-five or six, I'd say, he's a few inches taller than me (who isn't?) with blondish brown hair, cut in a similar style to mine, complete with
Beverly Hills, 90210
sideburns. His left ear is pierced, also like mine. He's wearing a denim shirt and jeans, same as me. When it comes to taste in style, we could be twins. Though I've got on a vintage wool blazer I picked up at Value Village last time I was home. This guy Sean sports a pair of silver-tipped cowboy boots, while I'm wearing my Sears DieHard steel-toes.
Sean says, “So you're Jack? I've heard so much about you.”
I reply, “All good, I hope,” when I'm thinking,
Why haven't I heard a word about
you?
“We're supposed to be meeting Miss Peter,” Brad interjects. “You know how she gets when she's kept waiting.”
“Isn't she out past her bedtime?” Sean jokes. Then he adds, “Actually, I haven't seen her. And I've been here for a good hour.”
“You're kidding?” Brad furrows his brow. “I'm gonna go call her house. Maybe she got pissed and left. It wouldn't be the first time.” He leaves Sean and I alone to get better acquainted over cocktails.
“So where are you in town from?” I ask, after a momentary lull in the action. The new Cathy Dennis (“Touch Me”) just began, and we both seem to be enjoying the beat.
“I live in LA,” Sean informs me.
“Never been,” I'm ashamed to admit. There once was a time when I saw myself attending UCLA. Then I woke up to reality and realized I could barely afford a state school in my own state. “How do you like it?”
“It's awesome.” Sean sips his Seabreeze. “I moved out there almost four years ago.”
“Any particular reason?”
I can't imagine packing up my things and moving across the country, far, far away from my family and friends. Though I am thinking about heading to New York City after graduation. Maybe because Manhattan is an island, it doesn't seem nearly as daunting. And it's only a five hundredâmile flight back to the Motor City.
“I couldn't stand the cold,” Sean confesses. “And spending another day in
Detroit
would've totally depressed me.”
We pass what feels like the next hour getting to know each other. Turns out, Sean and I have a lot more in common than just our fashion sense. When I ask him, “What's your favorite band?” I'm totally riveted by his response.
“I used to be a big New Waver. . . . You know, Depeche Mode, The Cure, Echo and the Bunnymen. Now I'm more into Alternative: Nine Inch Nails, Front 242, Nitzer Ebb.”
My eyes light up as if the man's uttered the magic words. “You like Nitzer Ebb?”
“I
love
Nitzer Ebb!”
Noticing Sean pronounces it
Knit
-zer, I ask, “Is it Nitzer or Nitzer?” as in
Night-
zer.
“Who cares?” he answers casually. “They fucking rock.” He drains the last drop of his drink. “I'm dry.”
“What can I get you?” I offer, about to go for another round.
Sean seizes me by the arm. “Stay here.... Make the
girl
come to us.”
I can't help but notice he's still got a hold of me by the time our waiter returns with our beverages.
“Don't you two make quite the couple!” compliments the prissy little British boy in biker shorts with the fakest blue eyes I've ever seen, a hand firmly planted against his spandex-covered hip. Though I can't tell if he's being facetious or not. “That'll be two-fifty for the Molson Ice, love, and three dollars for the cocktail.”
I reach for my wallet.
Sean stops me with a firm hand held against mine. “I got this.”
“Are you sure?” Never have I been one to overlook the kindness of strangers. Especially since I'm only working part-time, and I've still got one final semester of tuition to shell out.
“Please,” Sean insists. “These same drinks in West Hollywood would cost triple.” He slips the waiter a ten spot and coos, “Keep the change.”
“Big spender!” our server cries, adjusting the strap of his offthe-shoulder tank. “You boys enjoy yourselves.” And with that, he winks at us and sashays along on his Merry Christmas way.
“Get a load of
her,
” I say, appalled at such blatant behavior coming from a homo.
How dare Miss Thing imply that my and Sean's sitting here over pleasant conversation should be construed as anything other than innocent?
“Pay no mind to Aryc,” Sean advises me. “She's harmless.” He raises his glass and clinks it against my beer bottle. “That's one good thing about Michigan . . . cheap alcohol.” Then he adds, “Now if only I could find me a cheap
boy
.” He smiles at me a moment, before taking another sip. “Cheers.”
Is it just my imagination . . . or is this Sean guy totally flirting?
I think so!
Maybe I will be getting lucky tonight after all.
In Like with You
Another pack of cigarettes
Twenty grade A filtered regrets . . .
âThe Judybats
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L
ast night was a total bust. As suspected, it seemed Miss Peter had gotten her panties in a twist upon being kept waiting and had fled home to seek comfort in a bottle of Captain Morgan. Of course Brad felt guilty, despite blaming
me
for our tardinessâsome best friend! I wasn't the one who insisted we stop by three different party stores to pick up a pack of Marlboro Lights. Don't smoke the most popular brand of cigarettes and wonder why you can't find them anywhere. That's all I'm saying! But that feeling quickly dissipated when Brad ran into his high school flame, home for the holidays from Ann Arbor, where he's majoring in medicine at U of M, and took off.
“You guys wish me luck,” he begged, before up and abandoning us. “I've always wanted to marry a doctor.”
Sean remarked, “I know that guy,” as we watched Brad being whisked away by the blond babe.
“You do?” I asked, more out of polite conversation than because I actually cared.
“Before I moved to LA,” Sean explained, “Brad took me to a New Year's Eve party at some girl's house in Ferndale. . . .”
“Shelly Findlay?” I remembered being at the exact same soirée back in 1987-going-on-88 with my then-friend, Tom Fulton. But I couldn't recall running into either Brad or Sean there. Perhaps they had arrived after we headed back to my house, where I proceeded to “throw myself” at Tom, causing him to fleeâand later call me a
fag
âbefore he stopped speaking to me altogether....
Ah, memories!
I still can't believe that jerk. After I took Tom with me to Ann Arbor to see the “Giver Goddess, Fashion Plate, Saint, Earth Mother, Hostess, and Geisha Girl,” otherwise known as Judy Tenuta. The only reason I ever befriended him in the first place was because he was dating my best female friend, Betsy Sheffield, all during senior year. Okay, so Tom also happened to be hot, if you're into light brown hair that's kind of long and flippy in front, short around the sides, and wedged in the back. And bright blue eyes, totally perfect smile, square jawâand dimples!
Clearly I was.
“Shelly, spelled S-H-E-L-L-E-E?” Sean asked. “She was a cheerleader, and she smoked Capri cigarettes. Yep, that's her! I met that guyâwhat's his name?âon my way in.”
“Richie.”
Sean scoffed. “You mean
Rich.
... Now I remember. He made a point of making sure I knew just how butch he was.”
I rolled my eyes. “Whatever . . .”
As far as I'm concerned,
Richie
Tyler will always be “the faggy little seventh grader from Prep Band who plays flute and carries his books like a girl.” Let's just say, he and I didn't exactly get along when we were in school together. Which is why I didn't rush right over to say hello. Truth be told, neither did he and Brad. In fact, Brad's the one who coined the aforementioned descriptive phrase. I still don't understand how they ever ended up together.
“Brad introduced
Rich
to me at the front door,” Sean continued with his story. “But he never said anything about them being . . .” He paused to add obligatory air quotes. “Romantically involved.”
“Don't worry,” I told him. “I had no idea either.” But that's because, like with Audrey, Brad and I weren't the best of buds during our senior year. Again, all because I preferred trying to become popularâand straightâover spending time with my
true
friends.
“Good for him!” Sean gushed. “That guy is a total hunk.”
As much as I agreed, I wasn't about to admit that Richie, two years my junior, had gone from ugly duckling to gorgeous swan. Personally, I thought he and Brad were through a long time ago. Guess when you're drunk and horny, a familiar face is better than some random one night stand.
With that in mind . . .
Sean and I ended up chatting and drinking, and drinking and chatting (and drinking some more), until Mike the hot bartender finally bellowed, “Last call for alcohol!”
A bit bleary-eyed, Sean said, “One more for the road?” Then he shouted out to our British bitch of a waiter, “
Aryc . . .
Get your ass over here!”
Putting up a hand, I shook my head, the room starting to spin. “No more for me, thanks. I'm driving.” My mind was fuzzy as I mentally calculated just how many beers I'd imbibed over the past 180 minutes. Usually, I average one per hour. Something told me I'd surpassed my limit on this particularly entertaining outing.
“So sit with me while I have another,” said Sean, taking ahold of my arm and keeping me glued to my stool.
Ever the voice of reason, I replied, “You sure that's a good idea?” My new friend had consumed enough vodka, grapefruit, and cranberry to call to mind my grandmother and her booze breath. “How are you getting back to your parents'?”
Sean's smile stretched into a dopey grin. “You're taking me.”
Guess that was decided.
What else could I do? Leave the guy responsible for getting himself home all on his own? Never mind the fact that he might kill himself. What about all the other drunk drivers out there on the roads at two o'clock in the morning? So long as I didn't have to be the one to bring him back down to Detroit the next day to pick up his car . . .
Unfortunately, this was only the beginning of my troubles.
As we drove east on 696, just beneath the bridge before Groesbeck, Sean came up with a brilliant idea: “Let's stop at National's!” Overhead, the castors of the Grand Trunk railway cars clickety-clacked their way northwestward.
“Coney Island?” I questioned, sounding like somebody's skeptical mother. Personally, I never understood what's so special about a hot dog smothered in chili sauce.
“Doesn't a Hani special sound delish right about now?” Sean allowed his body to fall across the space between my bucket seats, leaning his head against my shoulder. Thankfully, I don't drive a stick, or I wouldn't have been able to shift.
“Where is there a National's?” I wondered, watching the scenery go by.
I hadn't been out this way since the last time I hung out with Max at his dad's house in Roseville. Which reminded me, I needed to give Max a call and let him know that I was home for a visit so we could get together.
“On the corner of Gratiot and the service drive.” Sean started giggling as he repeated the street's name slowly: “Graaa-shit.”
Whoever came up with that pronunciation anyway? Why is G-R-A-T-I-O-T, “Gra-shit,” and S-C-H-O-E-N-H-E-R-R, “Shaner”? And what about L-A-H-S-E-R? “Lasher.” Only in Detroit!
“I thought you lived at Fifteen and Garfield.”
“It's a few extra miles out of our way, so what?”
The clock on my dashboard glared back in cold, blue digital: 2:45.
“I'm sorry. . . . I told my mom I'd be home by two-thirty.”
I know, I know!
Twenty-one years old and I'm still aiming to please my parents. But what can you do when you're sleeping under their roof? Another reason I hate coming home for a Hazeltucky Christmas.
Stopping in front of Sean's parents' house, momentarily I put the car in park. Two stories high with attached two-car garage, aluminum siding on top and brick on bottom, it totally reminded me of Betsy Sheffield's house over in The Courts. Who knew Fraser was this fancy?
I don't think I'd set foot in this particular suburb since senior year when we held our Prom at someplace called Vintage House. But that whole night has become a blur. I ended up going with Betsy, after Tom told her I “hit on” him and she dumped his sorry ass. (Wonder how she'd feel if she knew I'm really a homo and Tom was totally telling the truth?) Afterward, we went with Pam Klimaszewski and her boyfriend at the time, Stan Blume, to some hotel party on Van Dyke, then for late-night fried food fare at Vern Haney's. Which happens to be located on the corner of the exact same street where Kirk Bailey grew up in Center Line . . . How's that for
quelle coincidence?
“Thanks again for the ride.”
“No problem,” I told Sean, adding, “How long are you in town for?”
“Too long.” He heaved a heavy sigh. “I head back on the twenty-sixth.” Then he cooed, casually, “We'll have to get together again.”
“Sure,” I said, not knowing what else to say.
Suddenly, the moment felt awkward. I really just wanted to kick him out of my car and “drive away, Daddy, drive away.” (What movie is that from?
Poltergeist
, maybe. Near the end where they're trying to split before the house implodes.) Not because I didn't think he was a nice guy. Or I didn't enjoy spending the evening with him. But the second Sean reached out to give me a hug, I could tell what was coming next....
Open mouth, insert tongue.
“I'm sorry,” said Sean, when all was done. “I'm a little drunk.”
“It's okay,” I assured him. “I'm just . . .”
Actually, he's a very good kisser. His lips are nice and soft, and he does this awesome thing where he half bites/half sucks. Which under other circumstances would've totally got me going.
“You're not into me.” Sean hung his head in shame, pouting like a puppy. “Too old, huh?”
“No!” I insisted. All my life I've only been attracted to older guys. That wasn't the problem. “I'm just kinda”âbefore I could stop to consider, the words spilled forth from my mouth, surprising even myselfâ“in love with someone else right now.”
Sean nodded and smiled sincerely. “That's great. I hope everything works out for you. You're a really terrific guy, Jack.”
Now if only I could get Kirk Bailey to believe that.
At this precise moment, he and Raquel are off in Toronto. While I was heading home to Hazel Park from East Lansing yesterday morning, the lovebirds hopped the train in Windsor for their long-planned pre-Christmas getaway. (Who goes to Canada in December? They don't call it the Great White North for nothing!) In my heart of hearts, I had secretly hoped that once Raquel discovered her boyfriend dining with me à la
Lady and the Tramp
style, she'd start to question Kirk's and my relationship, concluding that her honey's a big homo, thereby calling off the entire trip. Of course I'd offer to go along in her place, not wanting my pal Kirk to waste his money. Or the
Phantom of the Opera
tickets he's purchased.
No such luck!