[This is a pretty long post, so, sorry about that, and if you don't have time to read it, I'll just tell you now, it involves high school theatricals, borrowed disguises, and an uncomfortably lust-filled hug with a gay boy. A different gay boy. There's probably a bunch of over-used hyphens and self-diagnosis, too.]
Every year, the high school throws a huge four-night concert sometime in May.
It's the only time of the year people actually pay to see band and orchestra perform, though choir still takes up most of the night, and rightly so. There aren't really televised competitions about how well you can play the trombone, or violin. People get bored with it.
I'm a cellist, but most of my friends are in choir. There's a significant and noteworthy difference between the two cultures, that of the instrument being within and without the musician's self. Both are harshly competitive, with a warm family atmosphere. And, during Pops week, both band and choir rooms are full of half-naked teenagers every night.
Pops concerts are purely for entertainment, which means school funding. The performance tries so desperately to sell tickets, it really doesn't even matter what it sounds like at a certain point as long as the costumes are ridiculous enough, the songs popular enough, and the dancing as embarrassing as possible. It is the funnest week of the year.
Because of my being a cellist, I only played in two numbers each night. One of them was a Lord of the Rings medley, and the other was Purple Haze, by Jimi Hendrix. I do not know the plot or theme of Lord of the Rings, but based on my knowledge mainly from tumblr gifs, I pieced together a makeshift hobbit costume without knowing it was a hobbit costume, and a dress from the actual sixties I found in my grandmother's closet for Purple Haze. Neither blended in very well, but I chose to ignore this fact.
During performances, band kids are not allowed out of the band room, and choir kids are not allowed out of the choir room. It slows down transitions in the hall. Typically, the two have zero inclination to intermingle anyway, and this wouldn't be a problem if it weren't for the missing 60's costume.
The floor of the band room during the performances is littered with backpacks and grocery bags full of costumes and cellphones. Because it was my first year, I hadn't quite predicted just how many bags there would be, and how easily a costume could be lost, until the Lord of the Rings number had ended and everyone else was getting into tie-dye and bell-bottoms.
It took me about two minutes of wandering to realize mine would not be found. I approached Pen and Thomas (fellow cellists) and asked them if they had seen my stuff anywhere. It took about two seconds of worried stares to realize we were going on stage soon and help would have to be sought elsewhere.
Because Murderer's Row was made up primarily of choir kids, I knew the numbers that would be sung, and the order of which they would be sung in, and actually knew many of the songs by heart. I spend more time with voices than I do with instrumentals. Age of Aquarius (a 70's number) had just ended when I hurriedly snuck out of the band room (still dressed as an accidental hobbit) and into the choir room.
Roonie (musicals girl), and Lyssa (marine biology girl), had just resurfaced from the stage in peace signs and bandannas when I desperately asked them for the shirts off their backs. (A decade in musical history matters very little when in danger of playing Jimi Hendrix as a hobbit.) Just before they started stripping, Martensen emerged from one of the dressing rooms, fully tuxed for his next number.
"Do you need my hippie costume?" he asked graciously. (Martensen's personality depends heavily upon his clothes, and when he wears his tuxedo, he wears his teaching-children-ballroom-dancing mask, which is one of his best.) And, still attempting to make up for the paper towels incident, as well as other things, he scooped up his entire costume from Aquarius and pushed it into my arms right as Lyssa clapped her bandanna over my forehead and Roonie tucked Martensen's sunglasses into my shirt pocket and I was shoved back into the hallway with a whispered "Thank you!" and a "Make us proud!"
Martensen's clothes smelled like a mixture of boy sweat, boy deodorant, and gay boy. I only realized this after putting them on. We have similar enough body types, but it was still fairly obvious the clothes did not belong to me as I skirted back into the band room unnoticed in tie-dye, bandanna, rolled-up Levis and reflective sunglasses, noisy beads rubbing against each other in a clatter around my neck.
The performance went well enough -- I didn't get stabbed in the foot with an end-pin. I blended in as easily as my mother said I would, and danced as well as a cellist could, which is, you know, not at all, but I was wearing the skin of Martensen Entenman. It was a lot easier to be on a stage while smelling like him than smelling like me.
It was only after the concert I realized Martensen's boyfriend had been in the audience all night. I thought it would be a funny story, having to explain the exact same outfit, the exact same glasses and beads, which Martensen told me to give back the next day. After the concert, we asked how his boyfriend liked the performances, me still dressed as a makeshift hippie, and I waited for him to ask for the inevitable explanation.
It did not come.
Martensen is dating a very kind and good-natured boy, Brady, who talks a little like a cross between Winnie-the-Pooh and Lumpy Space Princess. He dresses like a sailor and shakes hands like a soldier and I can imagine him looking and acting like Santa Claus when he gets old. He is either really oblivious, or was too busy noticing the person to notice the clothes, which is understandable. But either way, he never noticed the cross-dressing.
After Martensen went home, I stood there and continued talking with Brady.
It was the most confusing unspoken interaction I have ever had.
The longer we stood there talking, the more apparent the smell of Martensen became. I watched it slowly register in Brady's subconscious long before he realized what was happening. I hadn't had time to notice it all night, but by now it was seeping into my skin. It arose into the air around us like a terribly embarrassing secret (which Brady doesn't know), bittersweet and horrifically uncomfortable to still be wearing. As I waited for him to click and say, "Hey, you smell like my boyfriend!" or, "Hey, you're wearing my boyfriend's clothes!" he instead just gradually softened his shoulders and turned his head to one side, slowly and shamelessly dripping with lust, comfortably conflicted at the person in front of him, without cognitively processing the correlation. I couldn't say anything at this point, he just smiled dopey-eyed and furrowed his brow carefully and said, "I think I'd like a hug."
And I just stood there, like, "This is not the first time this has happened to me. Oh my god. There's no way this is happening again."
If you remember reading about my problem with touching, you'll remember I have a condition which was later diagnosed to me as being "overly empathetic" when it comes to physical contact. Too much of the other person's honest feeling is internalized through their touch. Which means when a kid with pent-up anger taps my shoulder, it hurts, and when someone happens to feel very attracted when they hug me, I totally know and can feel every inclination and motive.
This is a very dangerous and uncomfortable condition.
This means that I felt every feeling meant for Martensen while drenched in the smell of him as his boyfriend hugged me goodbye.
I cannot describe the discomfort.
Puzzled and happy, he waved goodbye at the entrance and I shuddered and walked back to the band room to find my original costume, deciding if I didn't get out of the godforsaken tie-dye soon I was going to have to tear it from my body whether or not I made it home in time.
Every year, the high school throws a huge four-night concert sometime in May.
It's the only time of the year people actually pay to see band and orchestra perform, though choir still takes up most of the night, and rightly so. There aren't really televised competitions about how well you can play the trombone, or violin. People get bored with it.
I'm a cellist, but most of my friends are in choir. There's a significant and noteworthy difference between the two cultures, that of the instrument being within and without the musician's self. Both are harshly competitive, with a warm family atmosphere. And, during Pops week, both band and choir rooms are full of half-naked teenagers every night.
Pops concerts are purely for entertainment, which means school funding. The performance tries so desperately to sell tickets, it really doesn't even matter what it sounds like at a certain point as long as the costumes are ridiculous enough, the songs popular enough, and the dancing as embarrassing as possible. It is the funnest week of the year.
Because of my being a cellist, I only played in two numbers each night. One of them was a Lord of the Rings medley, and the other was Purple Haze, by Jimi Hendrix. I do not know the plot or theme of Lord of the Rings, but based on my knowledge mainly from tumblr gifs, I pieced together a makeshift hobbit costume without knowing it was a hobbit costume, and a dress from the actual sixties I found in my grandmother's closet for Purple Haze. Neither blended in very well, but I chose to ignore this fact.
During performances, band kids are not allowed out of the band room, and choir kids are not allowed out of the choir room. It slows down transitions in the hall. Typically, the two have zero inclination to intermingle anyway, and this wouldn't be a problem if it weren't for the missing 60's costume.
The floor of the band room during the performances is littered with backpacks and grocery bags full of costumes and cellphones. Because it was my first year, I hadn't quite predicted just how many bags there would be, and how easily a costume could be lost, until the Lord of the Rings number had ended and everyone else was getting into tie-dye and bell-bottoms.
It took me about two minutes of wandering to realize mine would not be found. I approached Pen and Thomas (fellow cellists) and asked them if they had seen my stuff anywhere. It took about two seconds of worried stares to realize we were going on stage soon and help would have to be sought elsewhere.
Because Murderer's Row was made up primarily of choir kids, I knew the numbers that would be sung, and the order of which they would be sung in, and actually knew many of the songs by heart. I spend more time with voices than I do with instrumentals. Age of Aquarius (a 70's number) had just ended when I hurriedly snuck out of the band room (still dressed as an accidental hobbit) and into the choir room.
Roonie (musicals girl), and Lyssa (marine biology girl), had just resurfaced from the stage in peace signs and bandannas when I desperately asked them for the shirts off their backs. (A decade in musical history matters very little when in danger of playing Jimi Hendrix as a hobbit.) Just before they started stripping, Martensen emerged from one of the dressing rooms, fully tuxed for his next number.
"Do you need my hippie costume?" he asked graciously. (Martensen's personality depends heavily upon his clothes, and when he wears his tuxedo, he wears his teaching-children-ballroom-dancing mask, which is one of his best.) And, still attempting to make up for the paper towels incident, as well as other things, he scooped up his entire costume from Aquarius and pushed it into my arms right as Lyssa clapped her bandanna over my forehead and Roonie tucked Martensen's sunglasses into my shirt pocket and I was shoved back into the hallway with a whispered "Thank you!" and a "Make us proud!"
Martensen's clothes smelled like a mixture of boy sweat, boy deodorant, and gay boy. I only realized this after putting them on. We have similar enough body types, but it was still fairly obvious the clothes did not belong to me as I skirted back into the band room unnoticed in tie-dye, bandanna, rolled-up Levis and reflective sunglasses, noisy beads rubbing against each other in a clatter around my neck.
The performance went well enough -- I didn't get stabbed in the foot with an end-pin. I blended in as easily as my mother said I would, and danced as well as a cellist could, which is, you know, not at all, but I was wearing the skin of Martensen Entenman. It was a lot easier to be on a stage while smelling like him than smelling like me.
It was only after the concert I realized Martensen's boyfriend had been in the audience all night. I thought it would be a funny story, having to explain the exact same outfit, the exact same glasses and beads, which Martensen told me to give back the next day. After the concert, we asked how his boyfriend liked the performances, me still dressed as a makeshift hippie, and I waited for him to ask for the inevitable explanation.
It did not come.
Martensen is dating a very kind and good-natured boy, Brady, who talks a little like a cross between Winnie-the-Pooh and Lumpy Space Princess. He dresses like a sailor and shakes hands like a soldier and I can imagine him looking and acting like Santa Claus when he gets old. He is either really oblivious, or was too busy noticing the person to notice the clothes, which is understandable. But either way, he never noticed the cross-dressing.
After Martensen went home, I stood there and continued talking with Brady.
It was the most confusing unspoken interaction I have ever had.
The longer we stood there talking, the more apparent the smell of Martensen became. I watched it slowly register in Brady's subconscious long before he realized what was happening. I hadn't had time to notice it all night, but by now it was seeping into my skin. It arose into the air around us like a terribly embarrassing secret (which Brady doesn't know), bittersweet and horrifically uncomfortable to still be wearing. As I waited for him to click and say, "Hey, you smell like my boyfriend!" or, "Hey, you're wearing my boyfriend's clothes!" he instead just gradually softened his shoulders and turned his head to one side, slowly and shamelessly dripping with lust, comfortably conflicted at the person in front of him, without cognitively processing the correlation. I couldn't say anything at this point, he just smiled dopey-eyed and furrowed his brow carefully and said, "I think I'd like a hug."
[I was going to draw a picture, but he might read this one day.]
And I just stood there, like, "This is not the first time this has happened to me. Oh my god. There's no way this is happening again."
If you remember reading about my problem with touching, you'll remember I have a condition which was later diagnosed to me as being "overly empathetic" when it comes to physical contact. Too much of the other person's honest feeling is internalized through their touch. Which means when a kid with pent-up anger taps my shoulder, it hurts, and when someone happens to feel very attracted when they hug me, I totally know and can feel every inclination and motive.
This is a very dangerous and uncomfortable condition.
This means that I felt every feeling meant for Martensen while drenched in the smell of him as his boyfriend hugged me goodbye.
I cannot describe the discomfort.
Puzzled and happy, he waved goodbye at the entrance and I shuddered and walked back to the band room to find my original costume, deciding if I didn't get out of the godforsaken tie-dye soon I was going to have to tear it from my body whether or not I made it home in time.
[TO BE CONTINUED]
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