as she slapped me on the back, and everyone in the room started laughing and clapping.
They were applauding me. I was famous. And I knew then what I would do for the rest of my life: caricatures of the deaf, for acclaim and standing ovations. I would win grants and go to charity events. I would be feted. Maybe I would date Marlee Matlin. I would create the United Deaf Negro College Fund in memory of a hearing-impaired black man that I had never met. PBS would do a feature on me and I would help them with their telethons. I would also try to help Jerry Lewis, but he would refuse. He was very quirky.
I raised my arms above my head and pumped my fists, giddy and triumphant and drunk. Marlene pointed at the picture, then pointed at me and the room erupted. It was fucking cacophony, claps and wailing deaf people and laughter. I was almost embarrassed by all the attention, and by all the fucked up noises they were making, but what could I do? These were my people now.
They ushered me out of the room and the crowd pushed me into the backyard where the rest of the party was, and as we spilled through the door they all looked at us, wondering why we were in hysterics. And because I know things about show business I spun around and pointed at Marlene, then swung my arm over my head and brought it down to pinch my nose so theatrically I could have been a very skinny professional wrestler. YOU… STINK!!!
Deaf people were falling all over each other. I was the funniest man in the world. Marlene was bent over laughing, her face so red I thought it would pop like a grape. The atonal swell was an uproar. Garbage bags of kittens were screeching in the cold, cold water.
I went to the YOU… STINK! well again, which I never would have done if I’d been sober. It was amateur, but I couldn’t help myself. There were tears on all their faces. They were laughing themselves to death, all of them holding on to each other to keep from rolling in the grass. Marlene was struggling to stand upright and point at me, but she couldn’t straighten up long enough to do it. This was exactly what I needed. This was my Academy Award.
And so what if it was all novelty. I knew that even as it was going on. It was a one-joke act and probably wouldn’t last through the party without going stale, but I didn’t care. For that moment I was the guy dancing in the middle of the circle that everyone wanted to watch. I was Kevin Bacon in Footloose , except funny and not in high school yet, and never, ever on the gymnastics team. I was popular, and that’s what middle school is all about.
“Shane?” It was Doug, tapping me on the shoulder, wanting to be popular for once too.
“Yeah?”
“Everyone is laughing at you,” he said.
“Yeah.” I was hilarious.
Then Doug put his hand to my back and pulled off a piece of paper. I saw the Scotch tape curling off the top. There was a sign on my back. The words, in big, bold print: I’M STINK.
The already deafening laughter collapsed into full-blown hysteria. I looked over at Marlene. She’d fallen to the ground holding her stomach, saying “OW! OW!” it hurt from so much laughing. Everyone’s mouth was open, gaping, coughing, hacking, sick from laughing so hard. All at me. One woman had lipstick on her teeth, bright red, which I sometimes dream about. To this day I wake up drenched and screaming.
It had to be a noise violation. Why hadn’t the neighbors called anyone? Where were the fucking police? It had gone beyond laughter at that point. It was one massive blast of atonal sound, like a fucked up symphony of 3,000 car alarms going off at the same time all around me. And there was no one to press that fucking keychain button to make them stop.
* * *
So I’d lied to him. So what. This wasn’t Sunday school. This was America. You can lie to anybody you want goddamnit. Even if they’re a detective. Even if you’re in some interrogation room under a goddamn spotlight. Even if a woman’s
They were applauding me. I was famous. And I knew then what I would do for the rest of my life: caricatures of the deaf, for acclaim and standing ovations. I would win grants and go to charity events. I would be feted. Maybe I would date Marlee Matlin. I would create the United Deaf Negro College Fund in memory of a hearing-impaired black man that I had never met. PBS would do a feature on me and I would help them with their telethons. I would also try to help Jerry Lewis, but he would refuse. He was very quirky.
I raised my arms above my head and pumped my fists, giddy and triumphant and drunk. Marlene pointed at the picture, then pointed at me and the room erupted. It was fucking cacophony, claps and wailing deaf people and laughter. I was almost embarrassed by all the attention, and by all the fucked up noises they were making, but what could I do? These were my people now.
They ushered me out of the room and the crowd pushed me into the backyard where the rest of the party was, and as we spilled through the door they all looked at us, wondering why we were in hysterics. And because I know things about show business I spun around and pointed at Marlene, then swung my arm over my head and brought it down to pinch my nose so theatrically I could have been a very skinny professional wrestler. YOU… STINK!!!
Deaf people were falling all over each other. I was the funniest man in the world. Marlene was bent over laughing, her face so red I thought it would pop like a grape. The atonal swell was an uproar. Garbage bags of kittens were screeching in the cold, cold water.
I went to the YOU… STINK! well again, which I never would have done if I’d been sober. It was amateur, but I couldn’t help myself. There were tears on all their faces. They were laughing themselves to death, all of them holding on to each other to keep from rolling in the grass. Marlene was struggling to stand upright and point at me, but she couldn’t straighten up long enough to do it. This was exactly what I needed. This was my Academy Award.
And so what if it was all novelty. I knew that even as it was going on. It was a one-joke act and probably wouldn’t last through the party without going stale, but I didn’t care. For that moment I was the guy dancing in the middle of the circle that everyone wanted to watch. I was Kevin Bacon in Footloose , except funny and not in high school yet, and never, ever on the gymnastics team. I was popular, and that’s what middle school is all about.
“Shane?” It was Doug, tapping me on the shoulder, wanting to be popular for once too.
“Yeah?”
“Everyone is laughing at you,” he said.
“Yeah.” I was hilarious.
Then Doug put his hand to my back and pulled off a piece of paper. I saw the Scotch tape curling off the top. There was a sign on my back. The words, in big, bold print: I’M STINK.
The already deafening laughter collapsed into full-blown hysteria. I looked over at Marlene. She’d fallen to the ground holding her stomach, saying “OW! OW!” it hurt from so much laughing. Everyone’s mouth was open, gaping, coughing, hacking, sick from laughing so hard. All at me. One woman had lipstick on her teeth, bright red, which I sometimes dream about. To this day I wake up drenched and screaming.
It had to be a noise violation. Why hadn’t the neighbors called anyone? Where were the fucking police? It had gone beyond laughter at that point. It was one massive blast of atonal sound, like a fucked up symphony of 3,000 car alarms going off at the same time all around me. And there was no one to press that fucking keychain button to make them stop.
* * *
So I’d lied to him. So what. This wasn’t Sunday school. This was America. You can lie to anybody you want goddamnit. Even if they’re a detective. Even if you’re in some interrogation room under a goddamn spotlight. Even if a woman’s
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