Read Online Tough Baby (Martin Fender Novel) by Jesse Sublett - Free Book Online
Authors: Jesse Sublett
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ache and every sting
there’s a lump in my throat
and it’s got a name
I’d call her up but I’m ashamed
guess you know that girl put my heart in a sling
Who put the I in satisfy Who put the oooh in the foo-ooo-ool
Who put the flame in the three-alarm fire
Who put the boo in the boo hoo hoo
Who’d put a hex on a guy like me
Who put the sting on the honey bee . . .
And just beyond the too bright lights, Lasko walked in. I recognized his dark silhouette—the gimme cap, curly hair, beard, beer gut. Gun sticking out under a Hawaiian shirt, rocking back and forth on his cowboy boots. Then his hand came up, giving the OK sign. The rocking back on his boots, I knew, was for the music. The OK sign was from the lab.
I nearly blew the tempo as I sighed with relief, but jumped back on track before it was noticeable, and we climbed up to the high note, chugged it, then clanged the last chord, letting it die out until all you could hear was the buzzing of the tube amplifiers under the lights.
“All right, all right, all right,” said the producer. “That’s it. That’s a wrap.”
CHAPTER FIVE
Given all the questions in the world that begged for answers now, even after getting a few of the most pertinent ones answered, why did I have to decide how I really felt about Michael Jackson?
Michael DiMascio wanted to know. And he didn’t know about any of the other questions, only his own.
We sat together on Ladonna’s soft sofa. She relaxed in the recliner. She’d had a hard day at work, and her time with me this evening had been no picnic. Michael had his mother’s dark eyes and fair skin but his late father’s dark hair, cut in a Beatle cut. On an inquisitive eight-year-old, it looked just right.
“Ronnie Gilroy says Michael Jackson is a fag,” said Michael.
That was a tough one, too. I looked at Ladonna. She nodded at me, meaning that she wasn’t going to offer any help. “Well, Michael, I doubt that Ronnie Gilroy knows that. Is Ronnie one of your school chums?” Michael nodded. “Well, like I said, I doubt if Ronnie would know that. Michael Jackson is very secretive about his private life.”
He just sat there for a bit, knocking his Converse All Stars together. He looked from one side of the room to the other without moving his head. Then he said, “What’s a fag?”
I looked at Ladonna. She thought I was doing fine. I said, “It’s a guy who likes other guys. You know, instead of girls. They, uh, like to sleep together, but . . .
“You mean they have sex together? They do it? Guys and guys? I thought only guys and girls could.”
This was tough. “You already know about this stuff?” Ladonna was nodding.
So was Michael. “Ronnie Gilroy told me at school last year. He wrote f-u-c-k on the bathroom wall and I asked him what it meant. Then I came home and told Mom because I didn’t know if she knew about it or not, because I never heard her talk about it. But she already knew.”
Ladonna was stifling a laugh, in spite of herself. Too bad. It would have been the first time in at least a day.
Michael went on. “At first Mom was mad. Then she went and bought some books about it and told me all about that stuff. But I never heard about fags before today.”
“Well,” I said, “you probably shouldn’t use that word, anyway, Michael.”
“Why not?”
“Because, because it’s a word that gets misused. You know how they say ‘Sticks and stones can break my bones, but words can never hurt me’?” He nodded. “Well, that’s only partially true, because sometimes people use words to hurt people. And a rock doesn’t hurt anything, if it’s just lying there, and a word doesn’t hurt anybody if it doesn’t get used in a bad way. But when people are, you know, sensitive, and they yell things at each other . . .”
“OK, I get it.” He was nodding, leaning back on the couch with his hands locked behind his head. “You mean like how you and Mom were
there’s a lump in my throat
and it’s got a name
I’d call her up but I’m ashamed
guess you know that girl put my heart in a sling
Who put the I in satisfy Who put the oooh in the foo-ooo-ool
Who put the flame in the three-alarm fire
Who put the boo in the boo hoo hoo
Who’d put a hex on a guy like me
Who put the sting on the honey bee . . .
And just beyond the too bright lights, Lasko walked in. I recognized his dark silhouette—the gimme cap, curly hair, beard, beer gut. Gun sticking out under a Hawaiian shirt, rocking back and forth on his cowboy boots. Then his hand came up, giving the OK sign. The rocking back on his boots, I knew, was for the music. The OK sign was from the lab.
I nearly blew the tempo as I sighed with relief, but jumped back on track before it was noticeable, and we climbed up to the high note, chugged it, then clanged the last chord, letting it die out until all you could hear was the buzzing of the tube amplifiers under the lights.
“All right, all right, all right,” said the producer. “That’s it. That’s a wrap.”
CHAPTER FIVE
Given all the questions in the world that begged for answers now, even after getting a few of the most pertinent ones answered, why did I have to decide how I really felt about Michael Jackson?
Michael DiMascio wanted to know. And he didn’t know about any of the other questions, only his own.
We sat together on Ladonna’s soft sofa. She relaxed in the recliner. She’d had a hard day at work, and her time with me this evening had been no picnic. Michael had his mother’s dark eyes and fair skin but his late father’s dark hair, cut in a Beatle cut. On an inquisitive eight-year-old, it looked just right.
“Ronnie Gilroy says Michael Jackson is a fag,” said Michael.
That was a tough one, too. I looked at Ladonna. She nodded at me, meaning that she wasn’t going to offer any help. “Well, Michael, I doubt that Ronnie Gilroy knows that. Is Ronnie one of your school chums?” Michael nodded. “Well, like I said, I doubt if Ronnie would know that. Michael Jackson is very secretive about his private life.”
He just sat there for a bit, knocking his Converse All Stars together. He looked from one side of the room to the other without moving his head. Then he said, “What’s a fag?”
I looked at Ladonna. She thought I was doing fine. I said, “It’s a guy who likes other guys. You know, instead of girls. They, uh, like to sleep together, but . . .
“You mean they have sex together? They do it? Guys and guys? I thought only guys and girls could.”
This was tough. “You already know about this stuff?” Ladonna was nodding.
So was Michael. “Ronnie Gilroy told me at school last year. He wrote f-u-c-k on the bathroom wall and I asked him what it meant. Then I came home and told Mom because I didn’t know if she knew about it or not, because I never heard her talk about it. But she already knew.”
Ladonna was stifling a laugh, in spite of herself. Too bad. It would have been the first time in at least a day.
Michael went on. “At first Mom was mad. Then she went and bought some books about it and told me all about that stuff. But I never heard about fags before today.”
“Well,” I said, “you probably shouldn’t use that word, anyway, Michael.”
“Why not?”
“Because, because it’s a word that gets misused. You know how they say ‘Sticks and stones can break my bones, but words can never hurt me’?” He nodded. “Well, that’s only partially true, because sometimes people use words to hurt people. And a rock doesn’t hurt anything, if it’s just lying there, and a word doesn’t hurt anybody if it doesn’t get used in a bad way. But when people are, you know, sensitive, and they yell things at each other . . .”
“OK, I get it.” He was nodding, leaning back on the couch with his hands locked behind his head. “You mean like how you and Mom were
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