5. Chapter Five

Chapter Five

I SHOULD HAVE DANCED WITH YOU

After a two-hour break from filming, spent mostly in reflective silence, Jordan and I walked across the square, toward the courthouse. Then Brenda/Carole sent Jordan a text instructing us to meet her by the stage. The freshly cut lawn had been pierced and punctured by an endless assortment of festive signs pinpointing where different events would take place. Plastic, globe-sized decorative grapes were hanging from lampposts and the trees lining the town square. As for the square itself, it was busier than I'd seen it since arriving, meaning Jordan and I had to duck and dodge between carnies and volunteers just to make it to the stage.

The camera crew was waiting for us in front of the stage, filming our arrival. On the platform, a man was hanging a Muscadine Madness banner behind the microphone. The closer we got, the more visible the man's affliction of perpetual plumber's crack became. Despite being a loud and proud ass-man, I wasn't ashamed to admit it was not a pretty sight.

"Your face isn't even on the damn banner," Brenda/Carole said as she approached. "For God's sake, you're the main attraction, and they couldn't even give you an honorable mention?"

"It's fine," I said. "I don't need a picture."

"Philly, you're the whole reason we're here. You're putting this hellhole on the map; you'd think they would at least give you a banner."

"It's just a sign."

"Today it's a sign. What about tomorrow? Now, you listen to me, Phil Firework. Do you think any of these viewers are tuning in to see that elderly man's ass crack? Fuck no. Delightful as it may be, they're here for you. You're the moneymaker. The biggest and brightest star this side of Dallas. These people should be on their knees praising your name."

"A star," I said, my voice barely even a whisper. I was trying not to let the words wash over me like sweet apple cider, but it was proving to be a hard-fought battle. A star? Dare I even say… iconic?

"Jesus Christ," Jordan muttered. "He's going to be unbearable when this is over."

"A star," I repeated, a bit surer this time.

"Exactly," she said. "Did you see the tweets I sent you? They loved your performance. One went as far as calling you and Lake 'a modern-day Sonny and Cher.' I'm assuming they meant you were Sonny, judging by your vocal limitations, but still. This is your moment. I promise you, when this is done, you're going to be a household name. Friendzone? They won't hold a candle to you. You're on the cusp of a comeback, the likes of which has never been seen before. It wouldn't surprise me if you got a Las Vegas residency when it's all said and done."

I gripped Jordan's hand and held on for dear life. "A residency? You really think they'd give me a show?"

She shrugged. "Why not? Stranger things have happened. Like I told you when we first got here, I was this close to working with La Toya Jackson. In the nineties, they put her in a Parisian review, and she can't hold a note. Allegedly, they used to layer her vocals with Diana Ross's and have her wander around lip-syncing like there was no tomorrow. If she can pretend to sing French to a bunch of drunken sloths, why can't you? You may not have the vocal abilities, but you've got the looks and the passion, and I've got a camera crew ready to put it on full display. You just have to work with me. Scratch my back, and I'll have every gay man in America wanting to scratch yours."

"Vegas," I whispered, scared to say it too loudly for fear of tempting fate. "A Las Vegas residency?"

"Well, Vegas, Atlantic City…" She cleared her throat and averted her gaze to a particularly interesting blade of grass beneath her feet. "A dive bar in North Dakota. Same thing." She wrapped an arm around my shoulder and guided me toward the stage. "Now," she said, slapping my ass. "I want you to march your pretty little tush on that stage and demand the respect you deserve."

"You want me to do what?"

She pushed me forward again, and I had to brace to stop myself from falling. When I turned around to scowl at her, she was already snapping her fingers, getting the camera crew's attention. I shot Jordan a questioning glance, unsure how I was supposed to remedy this ridiculous round of manufactured drama, but he was no help. Rather than offer assistance, he simply shrugged, extending his arm dramatically as if he was presenting the stage to me.

"By all means," he said. "Give him hell." His footsteps echoed behind me, and it felt good to know that—insubordination aside—Jordy wouldn't leave me to do this on my own.

If I was going to put on a spectacle, I'd need divine intervention. Mustering up every bit of self-confidence I could find, I channeled my inner-Faye Dunaway-channeling her inner-Joan Crawford.

No. Scratch that. Even that ice princess wouldn't be enough for Nostalgia Nation. The production crew didn't need a stoic starlet of yesteryear holding people hostage with wire hangers. They needed a hard-ass. A sociopath who truly believed the sun, the moon, and every single star in the Texas sky were created to orbit his swollen ego. Dwindling divas simply would not do. For this—God help me—Tallulah needed Brian O'Hare.

"Excuse me," I shouted, marching across the stage. The butt-crack wielding anarchist was still hunched forward, trying to straighten the banner. When I reached him, I tapped his shoulder furiously, fixing a scowl on my face. The man turned around, his smile wide, bright, and full of awe. He pulled an earbud out and blinked rapidly in surprise.

"Jam and Jerusalem, it's Phillip Firecracker." To my surprise, it was the man I saw at the airport on my first day in town. The confused janitor, who stared at me like I was a fool when I waved at non-existent fans in the lobby.

"First of all," I said, pointing at his earbud. "I'm pretty sure working with that in your ear violates at least ten different HIPAA bylaws."

From the edge of the stage, Jordan called, "I think you mean OSHA violations, Phillip. HIPAA is about medical privacy."

"Believe me, when I'm done with him, those records will be so secretive, even his wife won't know what happened to him."

The man was still smiling at me like a damn fool. "I'm not married, son. I've got a daughter though. Macy. She just loves you, Mr. Firecracker. You think you could sign something for her? It'd just about make her whole year if you did."

"The only thing I'll be signing is your death warrant if you don't explain yourself…" I stared at his nametag, trying my best to make sense of the chicken scratch slathered carelessly across the sticker. "Leopold," I said, wagering a guess.

"It's Albert, actually."

I flung my hands in the air. "Albert. Leopold. Call yourself whatever the hell you like. How about instead of focusing on minute details like autographs and given names, we cut down to brass tacks?" I pointed at the offending banner, narrowing my eyes. "Did you create this little doodle?"

He turned toward the sign and pointed at a small watermark at the bottom that said Banners by Bart. "I don't make the signs, son," he insisted. "I just hang 'em where they tell me to. Truth be told, I've been feeling a bit under the weather lately, so it's taken me longer than usual to make sure it's straight enough."

"Straight enough? Is that a homophobic dig? Is that how you roll, Leopold? You just sus out the city queer and shame him in front of the town for a cheap thrill? I bet you get off on this, don't you? Ruining lives for a laugh. Well, not with me, you won't. I've already been shamed at one of these festivals. I'll be damned if I let you green-light a sequel."

"Keep it together, Phillip. You're spiraling," Jordan whispered.

"Why isn't my face on the banner?" I shrieked.

"It's like I said, son; they just give me the signs, and I hang 'em up."

"I ought to hang you up. By the toes. Tie a little twine around your pinkie and let my assistant whack at you like a pi?ata."

The man slowly turned toward Jordan, his hands fisted at his sides. "I ain't as strong as I used to be, but I reckon I could take him." He paused for a beat, letting his eyes travel up and down the length of Jordan Miller, and gave a quick nod. "Come on, kid. Let's dance."

Jordan squealed like a stuck pig, ducking behind my back and peeking over my shoulder. "I don't want to hit you with anything," he pleaded. "I'm the one trying to stop this madness."

I took a step forward, driving a finger into Albert-slash-Leopold's chest before pointing at the banner. "If I ever see anything like this again, I'll end you. Maybe not physically, but I will rip your self-confidence to shreds. Do not test me." I held my hand up, snapping my fingers. "Hand me a headshot."

Jordan sighed, but he obliged, reaching into his messenger bag and pulling out one of the pre-signed photos we'd packed earlier.

"Now, I want this on that banner before you leave this stage. I don't care if you have to staple it on. I've earned my place."

"There's no need to yell, son. I ain't hard of hearing." Albert/Leopold took a step back, and I opened my mouth to give him another dressing down, but before I could get a word out, someone clapped their hand against my back.

"Is there a problem here, gentlemen?" Of course. Because, of-fucking-course, Mayor-turned-piano-playing-legend Rivers Rivera would show up at that precise moment to stick his nose in where it didn't belong.

"We're fine," I said, keeping my eyes locked on Albert in case he decided to make a sudden lunge. "Just settling a little squabble. We don't need you, Rivers. You can go."

Rivers grabbed me by the forearm and pulled me away, leading me down the sidewalk until we were hidden from view by a food truck that stunk of fried turkey legs and body odor.

"What the heck was that? I had three people flag me down saying you were about to come to blows with a volunteer."

"Well," I said, leaning against the food truck and sulking. "He started it."

"They said you barged up on the stage and started unloading on him for no reason. How in the world did he start it? Sheriff Harris told me he was about three seconds away from arresting you for disorderly conduct. I had to beg him to let me handle it."

"I don't need you to handle jack-shit, Rivers."

"Really? Cause from what I saw, you were about to punch that man in the face. Is this about this morning? Are you still mad you had to sing? They told me you'd signed off on it. I had no idea you didn't want to." A gentle smile worked its way across his face. "Besides, I thought your voice sounded beautiful, Firecracker."

I rolled my eyes because he was clearly patronizing me. "This isn't about a damn performance. I'm trying to make this show a success. I can't do that by walking around like Pollyanna, all sunshine and rainbows and love and light shooting out of my ass. Sacrifices must be made." I paused, eyeing him up and down. Perhaps I'd been directing my anger at the wrong man that morning. "Maybe I ought to sacrifice you instead."

Rivers swallowed, his Adam's apple bobbing up and down like a fishing lure in open water. "What do you mean?"

"Maybe I should go out there and tell the world about what happened that night. See if they buy into this newfound Godlike persona you've taken on since I've been gone. Do you know what it feels like to be publicly canceled, Riv? I do. All it would take is one little admission on my part, and…" I puckered my lips and kissed the air in front of me. "You can kiss your career goodbye."

"I'm sorry. You might not believe it, but I am. I know I shouldn't have run out on you like that, but you're making it sound like I went out of my way to hurt you." His eyes were pleading with me. "I was just a scared kid."

"You stuffed the damn ballot box. You rigged the whole damn thing to humiliate me."

"I did not!" He took a step back, his eyes wide as saucers, staring at me as if I'd just slapped him. "I never would have done that to you."

"We were the only two at the polls. I saw the ballot in your hand. You had my name scrawled across the top with a red marker, the same as all the other votes." I flung my hands in the air, my annoyance rising. "You were a prick, Rivers, and I didn't deserve it. What the hell did I ever do to you? I mean, I know you caught me staring at you a time or two, but was that really enough to make you want to humiliate me? Was the idea of a guy thinking you were cute really that terrible?"

"You… you thought I was cute?"

"Of course, that's what you took away from that statement. Of-fucking-course." I leaned back, banging the back of my head against the food truck.

"I voted for you," he said, squeezing my shoulder. "But I voted for you for Muscadine King, not Queen."

"No, I saw—"

"You saw a ballot with your name on it. I voted for you because I thought you deserved it. I just figured you deserved a win after putting up with everything you had to in school. Watching you living your life openly, not giving a damn what anyone thought, it took guts. More guts than me."

"It’s not like I had much of a choice," I said, looking away when our eyes met. "I couldn't hide my sexuality like some guys can."

"You shouldn't ever have to hide who you are," he said, his voice sounding something similar to… regret? "I really am sorry, Firecracker. For running off and leaving you up there by yourself. I should have danced with you. I'm sorry."

"Stop saying it," I grumbled. "Just stop." I closed my eyes, needing a moment to collect myself. Thankfully, he didn't press. He just stood there, soaking in the silence. "You really didn't stuff the box?"

"I wouldn't. I promise." His fingers gripped tighter around my wrist, and he let out a soft chuckle. "You really thought I was cute?"

"I also thought you were a prick," I said, finally opening my eyes.

"Thought about my prick, too," he teased, risking a smile. "Any other little admissions you'd like to make?"

"Just that I hope you meet an early end."

He laughed, and it was a deep, guttural belly laugh that made my stomach feel like it was floating. "And I hope you're able to win the war you're waging with male-pattern baldness." He reached for my face, tapping my widow's peak. "Don't worry. It suits you." He threw an arm around me, and because I knew fighting him off would be pointless, I allowed it. "So, are you going to tell me what that producer was talking about? About the favor she said you needed, I mean."

"I'd rather chew glass. Trust me, you would too." As we turned to make our way back toward the stage, I caught sight of the cameraman hiding behind an oak tree, capturing the moment.

Fuck.

Brenda- freaking -Carole was standing just around the corner, beaming ear to ear. "Boys," she said with a knowing grin. She pulled a small piece of paper out of her pocket and snapped her fingers, tapping her foot impatiently, waiting for her traumatized personal assistant to arrive. It took the poor girl less than five seconds to rush over, and when she did, Brenda/Carole already had her hand held out. The assistant pulled out the large bottle of pills and shook four into her palm, but Brenda/Carole rolled her eyes.

"I was asking for a pen, pet," she said, swallowing the pills anyway. The girl handed her a pen, and Brenda/Carole scribbled something down, then handed it to Rivers. He stared at it, the left corner of his mouth curling up into a smirk.

"Yeah," he said. "That's fine. Midnight it is." A strange sensation passed through me when he let go of my wrist. It was similar to sadness, though I couldn't think of a single reason why I ought to be sad at the thought of him letting go. "Guess I'll be seeing you tonight, Firecracker." As he walked away, Brenda-Carol patted me on the shoulder.

"What?" I said. "What's happening tonight?"

She pulled the vape out of her pocket and took a hit. "We're going to have a nice, long chat."