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Authors: Steve Almond
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offensive after a while as sad, imbued with the deep lonely rage of the Geek Player.
All Brisby and I can say in the elevator is: Wow.
I work up a few
chut-chut
s over lunch, but Brisby wants to talk about his fiancée, whom Iâve met twice and who seems cool, kind of pretty in a J. Crew way, maybe a little on the uptight side. She wants Brisby to take these classes before they get married, is the latest issue, with her priest. (She has a
priest
!) This will bring them closer together, she figures, which Iâm not so sure about, because Brisbyâs not a churchy kind of guy. Even after his mom had a stroke and he had to move back from Dallas, you didnât hear him talking about Godâs Great Plan or any of that crapola. He just said: What am I supposed to do, let her drown in drool?
But now heâs looking at me, the poor guy, like what do I think he should do. Suddenly I feel flustered. What are the priestâs stats? I say.
Brisby goes into his Morley Safer face, the one he uses when heâs got some bigwig on the phone, and for a sec Iâm afraid Iâve pissed him off.
Heâs not currently bacterial, Brisby says. I know that.
Is his penis chillin? Do you know if his penis is chillin?
Shit. Brisby smacks his forehead. I forgot to ask.
And just sitting there, munching on our tacos, with sour cream painting our lips and hot sauce burning our throats, Iâm so relieved Brisby is around, that heâs a friend of mine. That we heard Computer Boy together so that he can provide, if not moral guidance, at least a foretaste of the devout shame I would experience post-bop.
* * *
Then itâs Halloween, which means the paper throws one of these mandatory costume parties intended to lube up the advertisers. I figure, what the hell, itâs a Saturday night, Iâm not getting any younger, so I go as Lolita: kneesocks, pleated skirt, twin braids, and the dogs of this world howl and howl; thereâs something about the prospect of boffing a twelve-year-old that sends the sperm count into orbit.
Plenty of booze and some decent grilled shrimp appetizers and a DJ who somehow manages to not suck. The little club theyâve rented out, Sub Rosa, has this tiny sunken dance floor, and all the chicks, me included, do their thing once management clears out, screaming along to âGot to Be Realâ and âI Will Survive,â shaking gynapalooza style, while the dweebs from business circle around fanning the flames, and the place actually starts to get a little sexy, a little sweaty, which is when Computer Boy makes his entrance. Heâs wearing this Zorro-meets-Liberace getup, raccoon mask, pinkie rings, a spangled cape that whips around as he vogues, and this big whoop goes up and us chickees tear off the cape and all heâs wearing is a white leather vest and a matching
codpiece
and there it is, Der Weinerschnitzel, sitting up like a pleased little puppy. It all comes together now: heâs a queen. A big flaming murder-âem-with-my-abs queen. Perfect.
Then his date appears, Marcie the Production Ho, trussed up in a tit-spiller, buried under blue eye shadow, and throwing sass. The pair of them, what a freak show, like Rocky Horror without the singalong.
But what the hell! The musicâs good and the ginâs cast a certain forgiving silliness onto everything and Iâm enjoying flailing around in the belief of my sexiness, which is being reinforced by the menfolk,who ask me if Iâm a naughty girl and do I want detention and paw my skirt and gaze upon my hair like itâs a divine accomplishment. I mean, how many of these nights does one get, anyway?
I can feel Brisby checking me out from the edge of the room, where he and fiancée are poking at the remains of the appetizers. Theyâre both dressed in prison stripes and dopey little hats, with a little plastic ball and chain between them (get it?) and itâs obvious Elle Elle Bean is in one of
All Brisby and I can say in the elevator is: Wow.
I work up a few
chut-chut
s over lunch, but Brisby wants to talk about his fiancée, whom Iâve met twice and who seems cool, kind of pretty in a J. Crew way, maybe a little on the uptight side. She wants Brisby to take these classes before they get married, is the latest issue, with her priest. (She has a
priest
!) This will bring them closer together, she figures, which Iâm not so sure about, because Brisbyâs not a churchy kind of guy. Even after his mom had a stroke and he had to move back from Dallas, you didnât hear him talking about Godâs Great Plan or any of that crapola. He just said: What am I supposed to do, let her drown in drool?
But now heâs looking at me, the poor guy, like what do I think he should do. Suddenly I feel flustered. What are the priestâs stats? I say.
Brisby goes into his Morley Safer face, the one he uses when heâs got some bigwig on the phone, and for a sec Iâm afraid Iâve pissed him off.
Heâs not currently bacterial, Brisby says. I know that.
Is his penis chillin? Do you know if his penis is chillin?
Shit. Brisby smacks his forehead. I forgot to ask.
And just sitting there, munching on our tacos, with sour cream painting our lips and hot sauce burning our throats, Iâm so relieved Brisby is around, that heâs a friend of mine. That we heard Computer Boy together so that he can provide, if not moral guidance, at least a foretaste of the devout shame I would experience post-bop.
* * *
Then itâs Halloween, which means the paper throws one of these mandatory costume parties intended to lube up the advertisers. I figure, what the hell, itâs a Saturday night, Iâm not getting any younger, so I go as Lolita: kneesocks, pleated skirt, twin braids, and the dogs of this world howl and howl; thereâs something about the prospect of boffing a twelve-year-old that sends the sperm count into orbit.
Plenty of booze and some decent grilled shrimp appetizers and a DJ who somehow manages to not suck. The little club theyâve rented out, Sub Rosa, has this tiny sunken dance floor, and all the chicks, me included, do their thing once management clears out, screaming along to âGot to Be Realâ and âI Will Survive,â shaking gynapalooza style, while the dweebs from business circle around fanning the flames, and the place actually starts to get a little sexy, a little sweaty, which is when Computer Boy makes his entrance. Heâs wearing this Zorro-meets-Liberace getup, raccoon mask, pinkie rings, a spangled cape that whips around as he vogues, and this big whoop goes up and us chickees tear off the cape and all heâs wearing is a white leather vest and a matching
codpiece
and there it is, Der Weinerschnitzel, sitting up like a pleased little puppy. It all comes together now: heâs a queen. A big flaming murder-âem-with-my-abs queen. Perfect.
Then his date appears, Marcie the Production Ho, trussed up in a tit-spiller, buried under blue eye shadow, and throwing sass. The pair of them, what a freak show, like Rocky Horror without the singalong.
But what the hell! The musicâs good and the ginâs cast a certain forgiving silliness onto everything and Iâm enjoying flailing around in the belief of my sexiness, which is being reinforced by the menfolk,who ask me if Iâm a naughty girl and do I want detention and paw my skirt and gaze upon my hair like itâs a divine accomplishment. I mean, how many of these nights does one get, anyway?
I can feel Brisby checking me out from the edge of the room, where he and fiancée are poking at the remains of the appetizers. Theyâre both dressed in prison stripes and dopey little hats, with a little plastic ball and chain between them (get it?) and itâs obvious Elle Elle Bean is in one of
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