Time to Make You Mine
I know what it's gonna be
Me and you, you and me . . .
âLisa Stansfield
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o help get my mind off worrying about what exactly Kirk and Raquel are doing together across the border, I'm going shopping . . . which I detest!
Back in junior high school, Brad and Max were forever dragging me to the mall. One of their moms would drive us up to Oakland and drop us off. We'd have lunch at Burger King or maybe Olga's Kitchen. Every once in a while we'd take in a movie. But we spent most of the time walking around from store to storeâfor hours! I couldn't stand it. Especially when I could've been home watching TV. Instead, I was forced to endure a Saturday afternoon of “scoping” cute girls (Max's idea) and dodging pushy sales people. (Merry-Go-Round was always the worst!) Thankfully, Brad and I could count on Max's getting sucked into Kay Bee Toys, allowing us the opportunity to sneak off to Opus II or Spencer's, where we'd browse the greeting card section looking at pictures of half-naked Chippendales. I still can't believe neither one of us considered the other might be a homo until we got to high school.
I always liked the idea of going on a “shopping spree.” Taking my time; trying on a ton of different clothes; standing in front of the full-length mirrors, asking my friends' opinions as to how I fared in each original outfit: “Do these jeans make my butt look good?” But when it comes down to it, the years have taught me that I prefer to know
exactly
what I'm looking for and where I can go to find it. No fuss, no muss. In and out, I'm done.
This same principle applies to Christmas. Tell me
exactly
what you want me to give you, where they sell it, and I'll go out and get it. But I don't want to have to “shop around” and find something on my own accord. I'll never understand these people who get up at the butt-crack of dawn on the day after Thanksgiving and intentionally put themselves out there with all those insane shopaholics. The pushing and the shoving, the fighting and the bickering, just to save a few bucks on a “Betsy-Wetsy.” Or whatever the latest toy craze happens to be this holiday season. Something called a “Game Boy” is what my thirteen-year-old brother Billy wants, I believe.
This is why I've learned to avoid the malls altogether. Especially with only four days until the Big One. I can't even imagine what the parking lots must look like! Of course there's nowhere to park here on Washington in Royal Oak either. Which is where I've decided to come and buy Kirk's present, at Repeat the Beat. Before we left for break, he casually mentioned how he keeps meaning to pick up the new Lisa Stansfield CD. I could've easily gotten it up at Harmony House in Hazel Park. But I always enjoy coming over to the Eleven Mile and Main area with its quaint little storefronts full of vintage clothing and other antiques.
The structure over by the railroad tracks is pretty full itself. I end up parking all the way on the top tier. Thankfully, my Omni fits snugly into a space marked “compact only.” Down the staircase I descend, almost murdering myself when I slip on an unsalted step. The second I appear to be safely on solid ground, it starts snowing. Living in Michigan for over two decades, you'd think I'd be used to it now. But I'm not. And I loathe it. The last thing I want to do right now is put my hood up. Royal Oak is where the hip and trendy hang out. I can't be seen browsing for records with hat hair! God forbid I should run into somebody I know...
The cool thing about Repeat the Beat is that it's not a chain. They have one other location in like Dearborn. It's just this tiny little, unpretentious store filled with more obscure and hard-tofind titles. Don't get me wrong, it's no Trax like in
Pretty in Pink.
There's no Annie Potts behind the register, stapling records to the rafters. But for Detroit, it's decent. Plus, there's this guy who works here, and he always flirts with me whenever I drop in. Andâoccasionally, he gives me a discount.
“Hey!” Sure enough, his eyes light up the second he sees me waltz through the door. “You home for the holidays?”
“Just got here yesterday.”
I can't say I've ever dated an African-American man before. But I certainly wouldn't rule out the idea. I do think he's cute, with a little goatee on his chin and tiny braids wound tight all over. Though at this moment, they're hidden under the Santa Claus hat he's wearing perched atop his head, Ã la Mike the hot bartender from The Gas Station last night.
We exchange hands. His shake is firm, just as I remembered. Only this time, he holds onto my palm a little longer than per usual. “Cold out?” he asks, a twinkle in his eye.
Involuntarily, I shiver. “Freezing.”
“Well, stay for a while and warm up,” he insists. “If there's anything I can help you find, just holler.”
“Will do.”
Considering I don't really know anything about him other than his nameâRogerâhe seems like a nice guy. Honestly, I don't even know if he's gay for sure. But one of the first times I ever came into this store, probably a year ago, I was looking through the Alternative section for something I'd heard on
120 Minutes
. (The Railway Children, if I remember.) Roger came right over and started chatting me up, asking me what kind of music I was into, where I went to school, what I was studying. The kind of questions that no straight guy is going to ask another dude, because why the hell would he care? But still, there's that whole “is he or isn't he?” game that we gay guys play with each other.
Truth be told, this makes it more fun sometimes when you don't know for sure where someone stands with his or her sexuality. Like you're living dangerously or something, waiting around to figure it out. It would be so much easier if we all just came out and got on with it already. . . . But these are the times we live in. So much for the “Gay '90s!”
Making my way over to the
S
's, I find Lisa Stansfield's
Real Love
right away. Picking it up, I flip the CD over, checking out the tracks: “Change,” “Symptoms of Loneliness and Heartache,” “Soul Deep” . . . None of these titles do I recognize. But then again, I'd never even heard of her until I met Kirk Bailey. Guess she had a hit a couple years ago called “All Around the World” that I remembered hearing once Kirk played it for me. She also appeared on a special collection to benefit AIDS research called
Red Hot + Blue,
featuring the songs of Cole Porter sung by popular artists. Apparently, she's from the UK and is like twenty-five.
“That's a really great record. . . .”
Over my shoulder, Roger's bass booms in my ear. If he got any closer, we could be slow dancing. Not that I mind his body's close proximity to mine. It's just that whole personal space issue that no straight guy would dare violate sort of thing coming into play.
“You've heard it?” I ask, not sure why I'm surprised. The man works in a record store. It's his job to be familiar with the merchandise.
“Oh, yeah. . . . Stansfield's one of my
faves.
” (What straight dude would say this?)
Handing it over for Roger to hold at the register, I reply, “I'll take it.” I don't bother going into the whole “It's for a friend” spiel. Wouldn't want to make the guy think I've got a boyfriendâwhich I
don't
âout of fear of jeopardizing my potential discount. Sometimes in these situations, the less said, the better.
I spend maybe another half hour just browsing. My mom wants the new Reba McEntire and / or Garth Brooks. Something tells me they won't have either here at RTB. And even if they did, I'd be too embarrassed to buy them.
“Think I'm all set,” I tell Roger, making my way up to pay for my purchase.
“You're outta here already?” he asks, sounding disappointed to see me go. “How long you around for?”
“Till after New Year's,” I answer.
“A nice long visit.” He punches in the price at twenty percent less than originally marked. (
Yes!
) “You gonna be going out any while you're in town?”
Handing over my credit card, I answer, “I actually went out last night.”
“Oh, yeah?” Roger places one of those carbon paper slips onto the machine, runs it back and forth, reminding me of being a kid and going shopping with my mom at JCPenney's on Thirteen Mile and Woodward. “Where do you like to hang?”
This is the moment we've both been waiting for.
“Usually we'll go to Menjo's or Backstreet. . . . How about you?”
Roger replies with a grin, “Menjo's, Backstreet, Nectarine Ballroom in Ann Arbor.” Which is not-so-subtle code for “all the fag bars.”
Finally, we're on the same page!
“Awesome,” I say. “Maybe I'll see you around?”
“Yeah,” he tells me. Then he takes a flyer from next to the cash register, jots something down on the back. “Gimme a call.”
Damn that Kirk Bailey!
If I wasn't too busy being hung up on him, I could probably have myself some fun while I'm home. How come when you're totally available, nobody wants you? The minute you commit your heart to someone, that's when everybody else takes an interest. First Sean, now Roger . . . Who next?
“Jackie Paterno!” As I'm making my way out into the cold, I literally bump into the last person I expected to see this afternoon. “Twice in two days, huh?”
“Hey, Joey . . .” I explain how I'm doing some last minute Christmas shopping. Like with Roger, I leave out the part about who I'm purchasing a present for. Though with Joey, I should probably make it known that I've got my sights set on someone so he doesn't think I've held a torch for him these past three-plus years.
As I've mentioned, Joey Palladino was the very first love of my life. We met way back in Mrs. Fox's third grade at Longfellow. Hitting it off right away, we became best of friends, despite being super competitive. When we bowled on a league together, we'd try to outdo each other's score. On Track and Field Day, we'd battle it out to see who could run faster or jump higher. Both straight-A students, our classmates would wager bets between us when it came time for the annual Spelling Bee. Finally it got so bad, our fourth grade teacher, Mrs. Landers, decided to split us up. The following semester, Joey got sent to Mrs. Arnaud's class, and I went to Mr. Smith's. The year after that, Joey's family moved all the way out to Clarkston near Pine Knob. We kept in contact over the course of sixth grade, talking on the phone, and spending the weekends at each other's houses whenever we could.
By the time junior high rolled along, Joey and I had lost touch, and me and Brad soon became best friends after we first met in Varsity Band. (Actually, we met at lunch. Some girls were going through a Slam-Book, discussing which designer jeans they liked best: Calvins or Jordache? Brad walked right up, plopped his tray down on our table, and stated,
“Fuck them!
I like Sergio Valentes better 'cause they make your ass look hot.”)
It wasn't until the fall of seventh grade when his grandpa died that I saw Joey again. I remember feeling awful seeing him sitting in the front row of the Ashley-Scott Funeral Home crying his eyes out. I remember wishing I could reach out and wrap my arms around him and make everything better.... But I couldn't. Because back then, I didn't understand exactly what I was feeling.
Then second semester of sophomore year, Joey walked through the door of Mrs. Carey's French class.
That's when I realized how much he meant to me.
At the time, I was dating Alyssa Resnick. Once she and I broke up, me and Joey started hanging out on a regular basis. On Valentine's Day, he made me a heart-shaped card out of colored construction paper that read
Joseph et Jacques . . . Meilleurs Amis Toujours.
(“Best Friends Forever.”) Joey claimed he gave it to me since he didn't have anybody else to be his Valentine. That afternoon, when we were working out in his grandma's garage, out of the blue I heard myself ask him, “What would you do if I kissed you right now?” To which Joey replied, “I don't know. . . . Probably kiss you back.” But then
nothing
happened! I didn't kiss him, and he didn't kiss me. We just stood there like a couple of jerks. Then we did some bicep curls.
This sort of thing went on for a few more weeks. Joey would spend the night at my house on the weekends. We'd be lying in bed together on the foldout couch down in my parents' basement, and before we'd say good night I'd ask the exact same question: “What would you do if I kissed you right now?” “I don't know. . . . Probably kiss you back.”
But again,
nothing
happened!
Until my mother found Joey's Valentine's Day card and assumed he and I were having a scan-ju-lous affair. He sure was quick to put the brakes on. Before I knew it, our friendship was
fini
. If Joey really had cared about me the way I hoped he did, why didn't he stick around?