Band Fags! (7 page)

At which point, Laura sticks her head out the window. “Officer?” she says demurely, all the while trying to maintain control of the steering wheel
and
keep the screaming kids in her car under control. “Can you pretty please help us?”

Now here's the thing about Laura Dayton…The woman is a Total Looker! I can't even tell you how many guys at school have commented on how hot she is.

One time, I went shopping at Oakland Mall with her and Brad and we ran into this guy from school, Rob Berger. Who's actually pretty cool, for a Jock. The next day in Mr. Davidson's 4
^th
hour Biology, Rob was all like, “Who was the Total Babe you and Brad Dayton were at the Mall with yesterday?”

And I was like, “Um…She's his
Mom.
”

“Get the fuck out!” Rob Berger said. Like he couldn't even believe it.

Which is why all Laura has to do now is bat her eyes at Mr. Traffic Cop and she'll have us out of here in a jiffy…

“I need to get my children and their friends home to bed,” she explains when he leans in the window. Trying to get a closer look at the Hot Momma, I'm sure. “It's a School Night, you know?”

To which Mr. Traffic Cop replies, “Of course, Ma'am.” With a wink and a smile. Then he throws in, “Would you mind my asking where the children's father is this evening?”

“I have no idea,” Laura smiles. “We're no longer married.”

Ding-ding-ding!

Mr. Traffic Cop pulls back the blue and white “Do Not Cross” barrier, allowing divorcée Laura Victor-Dayton-Victor, her four children, and their two friends to pass in her tan little K-Car.

“He sure was handsome,” Brad's Mom sighs. In the rearview mirror, I see her smiling to herself, knowing she's still got “It.”

“Didn't he look just like Ponch from
CHiPs?
” adds Brad.

I take a peek out the back window, deciding the cop wasn't
that
great. I mean, I used to be a big
CHiPs
fan back in like 3
^rd
grade, and he was no Erik Estrada! In fact, my Best Friend at the time, Joey Palladino, and I used to watch the show every Saturday night and talk about it on Monday in Mrs. Fox's class. We were always arguing over who was cooler, Ponch or John. I always picked Ponch, of course.

Too bad Joey's family moved away the Summer after 6
^th
grade 'cause his parents didn't want him going to school in Hazeltucky anymore. Now he lives in Clarkston—way out past 30 Mile—and I've only seen him a couple times since he left. At first, we kept in touch all the time, running up our parents' phone bills talking once or twice a week. But after we both got to junior high and made new friends, we pretty much stopped. Which is a Total Bummer because up till Brad came along, Joey was like my Best Friend ever.

“That cop totally wanted you,” Bobby says to Laura, trying to smooth-talk her.

To which she gives him another look. I've got a feeling Laura really doesn't care for Bobby Russell at all. And I don't blame her…He's a Total Loser!

So how come he doesn't wanna be
my
friend?

“Oh, my God…Did you see the News?”

Four days later, I'm home in my bedroom talking to Brad on my brand new telephone. Which is just an extension, but still…Finally, I've got some privacy!

“I did,” I say in Total Shock. “I can't even believe it.”

We both just got the official word from Channel 7's Bill Bonds…“TV star Jon-Erik Hexum has died.”

Apparently, JEH got bored while on the set of
Cover Up
. So between takes, he started fooling around, putting a .44 Magnum prop gun up to his head. “Let's see if I've got one for me,” he joked. Which became his Famous Last Words as he pulled the trigger.

The impact from the blank fractured his skull, sending a quarter-inch thick fragment into his brain. After being rushed to a nearby hospital where he underwent emergency surgery, he slipped into a coma. With his mother's permission, Jon-Erik was flown to Las Vega$ today—October 18, 1984—where he was taken off life support and died peacefully. His organs are being donated at his request. He was three weeks shy of his 27
^th
birthday.

“I can't even imagine living for only twelve more years,” Brad sighs, holding back tears.

“I know…I've got a bijillion things I wanna do with my life still.”

We observe a Moment of Silence. Then Brad says, “You know…I been thinking…” Then he trails off.

“About?”

“About how JEH died.”

Knowing we both already know all about it, I say, “'member? It was an accident.”

“Yeah…But maybe it wasn't,” Brad speculates. “Maybe he did it on
purpose.
”

Which is the dumbest thing I've ever heard. “What reason could JEH possibly have for wanting to kill himself?”

“Well,” says Brad hesitantly. “Maybe he was a Big Fag and he couldn't take it anymore…You know what I mean?”

“No…”

“Think about it, Jack,” he advises me. “I mean, here he was, this totally gorgeous guy…Rich and famous…And he doesn't have a
girlfriend?
”

“What about Emma Samms from
Dynasty?
” I point out. “They were together a lot.”

“I know…” Brad replies, hesitating again. “But maybe that was just a cover up…You know what I mean?” Then he gasps at the realization he's come to. “Just like the name of the TV show JEH was on when he died!”

To which I'm like, “I never thought about it that way.”

And Brad's like, “Maybe that's why he did it.” Totally hypothesizing. “Maybe he couldn't keep it a secret anymore…Maybe it was eating away at him inside…And instead of dealing with it, he decided to kill himself and make it
look
like an accident.”

“Yeah…” I start to say. “But do you really think JEH could have been…?” Now I have to hesitate a moment. Brad and I
hate
to use that word. By which I mean the G-word, don't ask me why!

Maybe it's because of the way it looks when you write it out. With the downward tail of the “g” and the downward tail of the “y” and the teeny-tiny “a” stuck there all alone in the middle. Or maybe it's because Brad and I both know it's not a Nice Word and neither of our Moms would approve of us using it. Or maybe it's because we've both had it directed at us more times over the past two years than we care to remember.

So instead, I use our favorite euphemism…
“Like that?”

“It's possible,” Brad answers. “You know what I mean?”

So I think about it…JEH was this totally rugged and masculine guy. How could he possibly be
like that?

“Please!” Brad snorts when I question his thinking. “Haven't you ever seen the Village People? My sister Janelle says they're
all
Big Fags and look at them.”

I can't even believe that mustached guy I saw on Dick Clark's
Rockin' New Year's Eve
back in like 1979-going-into-1980 with the hard hat and tool belt is G-A-Y. Which is exactly what I tell Brad next.

“Yep,” he confirms. “Total Fag.”

To which I have nothing left to say.

“You know what else I been thinking?” says Brad again. “Maybe I could come over and we can hold a séance on Devil's Night.”

In case you don't know…This is October 30
^th
in Detroit. When people go out soaping car windows and TP-ing houses before burning them down. All in the name of good Night-Before-Halloween fun.

“That way,” Brad continues, “we can communicate with JEH and ask him the
real
reason he did it.” By which he means shot himself in the head.

“Do you even know
how
to do a séance?” I have to ask.

“Sure,” he informs me. Like it's no big deal. “I saw Ginger do one on
Gilligan's Island
before…All you need are some candles and some photos…” Both of which he promises to bring along with him. “And then you just do a chant.”

I can just imagine Brad burning my parents' house down. Still, I guess I
would
like to know. Especially if it's because JEH was
like that
. Not that I'd care or anything, 'cause I wouldn't.

Which explains why I've let Brad talk me into coming over my house twelve days later, to conduct his so-called séance…

Though he's late.

He was
supposed
to meet me in front of Hardee's up on John R across from Farmer Jack's at 8:30 PM. Which is where we always meet each other, halfway between both our houses. But looking at my watch now, it's almost 8:40 PM.

Ten minutes later he pulls up on his 24" lime green Schwinn 10-speed, a look of terror on his face. “You afraid Jason's gonna get you or something?” I ask. “Or maybe Michael Meyers?” Considering tomorrow's Halloween, it seems more fitting.

“Shut up, Mr. Still-Sleeps-With-a-Night-Light-On!” Brad retaliates. Like a Total Baby. Then he whines, “I totally got egged on my way over here.” He shows me the yellow splatter on the back of his green and gold Warrior Marching Band windbreaker.

“You're the one who wanted to leave your house on Devil's Night,” I remind him.

“Today!”
Brad indicates for me to hop on the back of the hand-me-down he recently got from his sister Janelle's boyfriend, Ted. The frame's a bit rusty and the brakes kinda squeak. The tires are also a little wobbly. But at least Brad's got a way to get to his job at Country Boy's and to my house whenever he wants.

I climb on back of the torn leather seat, taking care not to get egg yolk all over my navy blue hooded sweatshirt I got at Blue Lake Fine Arts Camp the Summer before last. Suddenly Brad snaps, “Watch it!” Totally scaring the crap out of me.

“What the Hell is your problem?” I wonder.

“You wanna get stabbed?” He shows me the Ginsu steak knife he's got tucked into his back jeans pocket. Which I can't even believe he's actually wearing in public.

About a week ago, Brad had a little accident while doing his laundry. After spilling an entire cup of Clorox on the left knee of his new black jeans, instead of pitching them in the trash or giving them to Goodwill or the Salvation Army like any normal person would, he decided to get creative. By dipping the
entire
left pant leg in a bucket of bleach, thus turning them white! Then when he came waltzing into Old Lady McKenzie's Civics class the next day feeling all fashionable, she took one look down her nose at him and groaned, “What is
that?
”

Which is what I ask Brad now, with regards to the Ginsu…Though I can only imagine why he's brought it along.

“For Protection.”

“Oh, Brad…You are sooo dramatic,” I sigh. Then I grab hold of his waist for dear life and we begin pedaling down the block.

Back at my house…

We start the so-called séance by placing the cut out non-naked photos of JEH—compliments of Big Boobs Janelle and
Teen Beat
magazine—around a makeshift shrine of candles we've set up on the floor in front of my TV. Then we put a very special record on my turntable…Bonnie Tyler's “Holding out for a Hero.” Which happens to be the theme song from the JEH/Jennifer O'Neill
Cover Up
TV show, in case you're not aware.

“God, he was a Total Babe!” Brad gushes. Like a Total Girl. “Wasn't he, Jack?”

Looking at all the photos spread out on display in front of me, there's no denying that Jon-Erik Hexum was an attractive man. With his dark curly hair, chiseled jaw, and sculpted muscular body…But I say nothing.

“If you were a
girl,
would you think he was a babe?” asks Brad.

“If I was a
girl?
” I reply. “Sure, I would.”

I watch as Brad pulls out a purple Bic lighter from his denim duffle bag—the one he made himself in Mrs. Wood's 7
^th
grade Sewing. One by one, he begins lighting the candles. Making the room even more ooky-spooky as they reflect off my TV screen.

“God, I loved his voice!” Brad gushes again. “It was so deep and sexy.”

Watching the candle flames flicker in the darkness, I say nothing.

“I wish
my
voice sounded like that.”

Again, I say nothing.

“I still can't believe he shot himself,” Brad sighs. “I mean, what was he
thinking
putting a gun up to his head? What a waste!” Then he reaches into his duffle bag once more. This time, he removes a raggedy pink bath towel.

“What are you doing?” I ask, having no idea what Brad's got planned next.

He stands up, bends over at the waist, wraps the towel around his head. The
exact
same way my Mom does after she washes her hair in the kitchen sink in the morning. Then he stands upright, flings his head back, and announces, “Okay…I'm ready.” But he's quick to add, “Are you
sure
your parents went to bed?” For the bijillionth time.

“Their bedroom door was shut,” I answer. For the bijillionth time.

“Maybe they're just having sex?”

“I doubt it.” I know for a fact that can't be the case. “My parents only have sex on Saturdays,” I tell Brad. Like clockwork. Which is something I don't even wanna think about. (Gross!)

“Did you put your ear up to the door?”

I give Brad a look—head tilted, forehead crinkled, nostrils flared. “Are we gonna do this, or what?”

“Okay, okay,” he snarls. “Jeez!” He sits back down beside me. Then he says, “Gimme your hand.”

To which I immediately respond, “I don't wanna hold your hand!”

Brad gives me the exact same look I just gave him. “It's how you gotta do it,” he says, informing me of the strict rules to performing a séance. “We gotta channel all our energy into making JEH appear to us.” He reaches his hand out. I reluctantly take it, noting how rough and callous-y it feels. In all the time I've known Brad Dayton, I don't think I've ever held his hand. I also notice the yellowish stain on his right middle finger…from all the nicotine in his cigarettes!

But I say nothing about his filthy, filthy habit.

“Now close your eyes,” he instructs, all mysterious-like, “and concentrate.”

I sit quietly in the ensuing silence, doing my best to think Happy JEH Thoughts…Till I hear what can only be described as the sound of a dying cow.

“Ohm…Ohm…”

I peek open my right eye, only to find Brad—eyes closed/pink towel around his head looking like a Total Dweeb—
chanting.
Like a Buddhist monk. Or whoever it is that chants.

“J…E…H,” he says, drawing out each individual letter in his best Ginger-Grant-from-
Gilligan's-Island
voice. “Can you hear me?”

Nothing happens…

“Hello?”

“This is never gonna work,” I tell him adamantly. “Why are we even doing this? Why should we care about resurrecting the spirit of some dead actor-guy, anyways?”

Totally calm, Brad does his best to explain his reasoning to me—still as Tina Louise. “JEH won't show himself,” he coos, “if he thinks you don't believe.” Then he continues with the “ohms” while I continue to sit, eyes closed. “Jon-Erik Hexum,” Brad says, this time employing the full moniker. “If you're out there, give us a sign.”

Nothing happens…

“Knock three times to let us know you're there,” he continues.

Nothing happens…