Valerie Loves Me
And she could have that anything she ever wanted
But she can't have me . . .
âMaterial Issue
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he only good thing about working at Farmer Jack's on a Sunday is that I get paid time and a half. Eight dollars and fiftysix cents, multiplied by 1.5, means I'm raking in a cool twelve eighty-four an hour. Not bad considering I started out five years ago at three-fifty. Of course that's back when I was a lowly bagger. Being a cashier is the only way to go. Except for at this time of year. Between the complaining customers, lined up from the registers all the way over to frozen foods, and the infernally incessant holiday Muzak being pumped through the PA, it takes about all I got in me not to grab a bread knife from the “Hearth Oven” bakery and slit my wrists. Which is where I am now, hanging out with my best work pal, helping her finish her closing duties so we can get the hell out of here for the night.
“You sure you don't want one?” Before Saran-wrapping a bunch of day-old crullers and marking them down to the bargain price of twenty-nine cents, Val offers me a sample.
From my position wiping down the stainless steel counter with Windex, I proudly resist. “Thanks, but no thanks.”
Val tosses the paper tray of what might as well be a box of fat slathered in lard onto the wire baking rack next to a brick of Italian bread. She moves onto the next batch. “How come?”
“I'm not hungry.” Nanette in the deli saved me some Stouffer's mac'n'cheese for my break, my absolute fave, and I couldn't even eat it all. With only three days until Christmas, all I've been doing is pigging out on cookies, candy, and everything but fruitcake!
Val furrows her brow and purses her lips, regarding me with a glance reminiscent of the one Audrey used to throw my way whenever I said something she didn't approve of. This I often referred to as her “Don't Even” look. As in “Don't even tell me you're on a diet.” Which is what Val says to me next.
“I wouldn't call it that,” I clarify. More like, I'm watching what I eat. And this doesn't include indulging in donuts. Especially if I plan on getting naked with a certain someone sometime soon. Which I do. Now if I could only figure out how to make that happen.
“Suit yourself.” Val pushes the bread rack aside, next to the industrial-sized oven in which all of these lovely goods were baked. “All set,” she tells me, taking off her smock. Wadding it into a ball she groans, “I don't think I'll ever look good in
orange
.” Then she asks, “Would you hand me one of them bags?”
“Paper or plastic?” I say, ever the smart-ass. Seriously, I don't think I've asked a customer this question in all my years of working in a supermarket. Talk about stereotypical!
On our way out, we stop by the beer and wine section to pick up the six-pack Val paid for earlier in the evening. “Let me make sure I got my receipt,” she says, digging into her purse. “God forbid I should get fired.”
Outside, the lot is a blanket of white, the streetlights shining down, the snow sparkling like stars fallen from the sky. Being that we're both parked alongside the building, I offer to give Val a hand with cleaning off her Camaro while it warms up. As my reward, she agrees to share her High Life.
“That's okay,” I say. It's one thing sitting in someone's car after work, drinking beer on a warm summer's evening. But in the middle of December . . .
Val practically pleads. “Come on! It's your first day back. We should celebrate.”
Given the fact that I'm still working at the same place since junior year of high school, I see no reason for revelry. Granted, I'm only ever here during the summer and on Christmas and Easter breaks. Which is how I keep my sanityâand seniority. Which is something I apparently want to maintain according to my father who's been a Farmer Jack's employee since before I was born. I don't know how he's managed to do the same thing day after day after day for the past twenty-two years and not lose his mind. Most of the full-timers are in the exact same boat. Don't get me wrong, they're a nice bunch of people, and I like them all a lot. But I can't see myself ringing up other people's food for the rest of my days.
“It's Sunday night,” I say, struggling for an excuse. “
In Living Color
and
Herman's Head
are on.” These happen to be two of my current favorites, along with
Northern Exposure, Murphy Brown
, and
Dinosaurs
(“Not the mamma!”). Though this isn't the
real
reason I need to rush home. Tonight's my big date with Joey Palladino.
“Thanks a lot!” Val snaps, totally sarcastic. “I haven't seen you since September. You wanna blow me off for some stupid TV shows?”
“Guess I can have one beer,” I decide since Val's a good friend and I only get to see her a couple times a year. We've known each other since high school. She went to Royal Oak, a year ahead of me. I started working at “The Jack” (as Max Wilson tends to call it) in August 1986, and Val followed sometime in either October or November. Besides, how can I resist when I'm being offered free alcohol? “Just let me call my mom and tell her I'll be home late. . . .” And to let Joey know, if he calls, that we're still on.
Fishing into the pocket of my khakis, I find a quarter, drop it into the coin slot of the pay phone in the vestibule. (Jane, our head cashier, calls it the “vesti-view.” I don't have the heart to correct her. Sort of like when my junior high English teacher, Miss Shelton, referred to parentheses as “paren-
fe
-ses.”)
After a few rings, my father answers. “Hey, Dad . . . It's me.” Not sure why I always feel uncomfortable talking to him. Maybe because I've always known that he's always known his son is a homosexual? Don't get me wrong, I love my dad. I just wish we could be closer.
There was the time when I was ten, and I joined Little League. Dad would take me out back, and he'd send me over into our neighbor's yard so we could toss the ball back and forth across the fence. Surprisingly, I had a pretty decent arm. Didn't throw the least bit like a girl as far as I can remember. (My hitting, on the other hand, we won't talk about! Struck out
every
single time at bat. Except for the one occasion during our season opener against Hazel Park Bowl. With bases loaded, I stepped up to the plate.... only to have my future friend-turned-enemy, Tom Fulton, nail me with the ballâright in the back. My first and only RBI.) But for whatever reason, Dad and I would barely say a word to each other the entire time we were playing catch. Maybe because I was afraid if I talked too much, he'd hear the sound of my voice and it would give my gayness away?
“What's up?”
“Is Mom there?” Not sure why I feel the need to tell my mother what I'm doing. I could just as easily let my father know the reason I've called. But Mom's always been the go-to gal for permission getting. Not that I need to
ask
if I can stay out. I'm officially an adult, after all.
“Just a second,” my dad tells me. “She's getting ready to watch
Life Goes On
.”
Can't say I've ever seen it. But everybody tells me that my sister Jodi looks like the sister on the show. I hear it's a good program. Not sure why I never watch it. Maybe I'll check it out over the break. Who am I kidding? All I'm going to be doing is working in order to save up money to make up for the fact that I don't work when I'm up at Michigan State. No time for any more distractions in my lifeâincluding Kirk Bailey. Bad enough, I've been thinking about him the entire day. Earlier when I was ringing up some old lady's order, I almost took off her double coupons
twice!
“Don't bug her,” I decide. “Let her know I'll be home in a little while. I'm hanging out with Val.”
Taking me by surprise, my dad wants to know, “Who's Val?” Rarely does he make any inquiries into my personal life. Normally, he allows me to go about my business, turning a blind eye. One time during my senior year of high school, I went to this “popular” party and came home totally wasted. Literally, I fell through the front door. There's my dad, sitting on the couch watching
Matlock
. Didn't bat an eye. Now he's grilling me about my girl friends? And by that I mean friends who are
girls
.
“She's just someone I work with,” I say, hoping he won't ask any more.
He doesn't, stating, “Don't stay out too late.”
Considering it's only six forty-five, I assure him, “I won't.” And then I almost forget the main reason I phoned, I'm so flummoxed. “If Joey Palladino calls, tell him I'll be ready to go by eight o'clock.”
“Will do,” says Dad, again thankfully minding his own beeswax.
Back at the “Bitchin' Camaro” . . .
The motor's running when I return. Val's got the heat cranked. When I climb inside, before I can unzip my coat, she's offering me a cold one. “Everything all set? Your mommy said you can stay out and play?”
Like I've said, I've known Val for years, and we've become pretty close. Which is why I don't take offense to her teasing. This is how Val's always treated me. If she
wasn't
being a bitch, that's when I'd start to worry.
“So what's new?” I say, settling back in my seat and sipping my less-than-stellar-tasting beverage. Maybe college has spoiled me. Rarely do I drink anything other than Corona with lime anymore.
“Same shit, different day,” drones Val. We sit for a moment, staring ahead at the cars passing by on Campbell Road. Across the way, there's a house all done up with holiday decorations. Which reminds me: I want to go looking at Christmas lights sometime this week. Then she asks, “How's Michigan State?”
“Another five months and I'm out of there,” I answer.
“Then what?”
“Good question.”
To that, we toast.
What the hell
am
I going to do after I graduate? Part of me really does want to go to New York and pursue a career as a playwright. It's the whole reason I wound up in Theatre Lab this past semester. Ever since I decided I want to be a writer, I always imagined I'd end up working for a newspaper. Or maybe a magazine. But then I thought about what I really enjoy, and the answer was: watching TV. If I can get my career going as a playwright, maybe some day I can make the switch to writing for television.
Though moving to New York means I'll have to leave my family. But being away at Michigan State for the past three and a half years, it's like I already have. And given the fact that they
really
don't know me (read: that I'm gay), I think it would be much easier to live my life the way that I want to (read: being gay) without having them lurking around. Not that I think they'd care if they ever found out. Back in high school, when I fell head over heels for Joey and my mom found his VD card, she wrote me a letter telling me she knew I was gay and that, growing up, so was her uncle. At the time, I was only fifteen years old, so she didn't exactly condone my behaviorânot that me and Joey were actually
involved
or anything. (I wish!) For whatever reason, I get the feeling that if I sat my mom down and told her all about Kirk and how much he means to me, she'd totally accept it one hundred percent. One of these days, when I finally have a reason, I know I'll do it.
“So are you seeing someone special?” Out of the blue, Val asks me this. Can't say I saw that one coming!
Unlike with Bobbie, who I just up and spilled the beans to about being gay, I'm still reluctant about making it known to my good friend Val, who I've known a heck of a lot longer. (Why is that?) Part of the reason has to do with the fact that we work together. Again, don't get me wrong, they're a nice bunch of folks here at Farmer Jack's. But they're also
heterosexual
. They're not college-educated individuals, and I'm not sure how openminded they'd be about having a gay guy in their midst. The women, maybe . . . But the men?
One time back in the summer of '87 when we went on strike, I remember this guy from Produce making fun of me when we were out walking the picket line. And he's this weaselly little dude. Imagine what the burly Night Crew workers would say! Plus, they've all known me since I was sixteen years old. How awkward would it be now for me to come right out and come out? (“By the way, I know we've been working together forever.... but I never told you, I'm a fag.”) Better to just keep quiet. Come the end of next summer, I'll be moving onward and upward. No one needs to know the ugly truth about my being a blatant liar. What good is it going to do?
But since Val asked, I confess, “There is someone I sort of like.” All day I've been dying to tell somebody what's been going on with me and Kirk. But like I've said, I doubt if anybody I work with would appreciate my love for another boy, let alone approve of it.