The first problem is just the mere fact that I’m driving, which always leads to trouble. My brain isn’t wired to process information while traveling at high speeds. I was meant to experience the world on foot. But here I am, driving Preppy’s car, completely lost in Buckhead on a Sunday morning. My parents have one of those GPS thingys that tells you where your next turn is and how close you are to a Piccadilly, which they refer to as “The Woman”. Driving with them is really entertaining since “The Woman” entered their relationship, as my mother views her as an ally, and my father believes the disembodied vaguely British voice is in cahoots with his wife to undermine his authority.
“Cleve, take the next exit,” Mama will say. “The Woman said there’s road construction on I-55.”
“Will you just let me drive? I know what I’m doing. (long pause) Well, damn.”
“We told you, Cleve. Why won’t you listen to The Woman?”
“Hush up, both of you.”
I could sure use The Woman right now. Barring that, I go with my next best option and call my pal Slutty Mandy.
“For God’s sake,” she says. “Do you have any idea what time it is?”
“It’s almost noon.”
“Topher, there’s a little something single people enjoy called Saturday nights. Think back and you’ll remember.”
“I’m lost in Buckhead, and I’m gonna be late for a birthday party. Can you MapQuest an address for me?”
“If you must know, I’m not even at my house. Just follow Peachtree ‘til it turns into something else, I’m sure you’ll be fine.”
“I can’t be late. It’s an eleven year-old girl I used to babysit, and a bunch of girls from Morningside Elementary got bumped from the guest list so I could be there. And if I don’t find it soon, all the Jesus People are gonna clog up the road and I’m screwed.”
Slutty Mandy heaves a great sigh.
“Preppy really shouldn’t let you drive alone. Tell me the next intersection you see.”
With Slutty Mandy’s reluctant assistance, I make my way to Atlanta Rocks, an indoor rock-climbing facility nestled in the back of an office park. I enter to the strains of a dozen squealing preteen girls rappelling from the ceiling, which is really quite startling if you haven’t braced yourself for it.
“Mister Topher!” says the guest of honor. “You’re gonna climb, aren’t you?”
I’m fitted for my harness, and take my place in line, looking quite conspicuous amongst my fellow party guests. The pecking order within the bunch is quickly obvious- all the girls are following edicts issued by a red-headed girl named Brantley. She keeps casting me furtive looks as she whispers to the other girls. I think she’s wearing lip gloss. I instantly dislike her.
One of her minions runs over to me.
“IS YOUR NAME GOPHER?”
“No. It’s Topher. Mister Topher.”
“Brantley said your name is GOPHER.”
“Sweetie. Don’t listen to Brantley. In fact, just make that a rule for living.”
She goes back to report this encounter to her queen. I knew a Brantley when I was eleven- the girl who always had the latest clothes and was French kissing boys in Junior High before she hit her teens. Theirs is a much more indirect form of bullying- a quiet, calculated delight in other people’s misery combined with an unerring sense of stylish superiority. What the Brantleys of the schoolyard fail to realize is that the sissies they make fun of are carefully studying their behavior, in order to emulate it in gay bars a decade later.
I couldn’t stand those little girls when I was a kid, and I don’t much care for the bar bitches they inspired. I guess I shouldn’t be surprised that I’m always dubious of the leader of the pack, seeing as I’m the son of a man who doubts the wisdom of his GPS navigator. But there’s a lot to be said for breaking rank and following your own path.
“You’re only supposed to climb on the red ones!” Brantley shouts at the birthday girl as she scales the wall.
“Shut up, Brantley, I like the yellow ones!” she hollers back, and continues climbing.
“Cleve, take the next exit,” Mama will say. “The Woman said there’s road construction on I-55.”
“Will you just let me drive? I know what I’m doing. (long pause) Well, damn.”
“We told you, Cleve. Why won’t you listen to The Woman?”
“Hush up, both of you.”
I could sure use The Woman right now. Barring that, I go with my next best option and call my pal Slutty Mandy.
“For God’s sake,” she says. “Do you have any idea what time it is?”
“It’s almost noon.”
“Topher, there’s a little something single people enjoy called Saturday nights. Think back and you’ll remember.”
“I’m lost in Buckhead, and I’m gonna be late for a birthday party. Can you MapQuest an address for me?”
“If you must know, I’m not even at my house. Just follow Peachtree ‘til it turns into something else, I’m sure you’ll be fine.”
“I can’t be late. It’s an eleven year-old girl I used to babysit, and a bunch of girls from Morningside Elementary got bumped from the guest list so I could be there. And if I don’t find it soon, all the Jesus People are gonna clog up the road and I’m screwed.”
Slutty Mandy heaves a great sigh.
“Preppy really shouldn’t let you drive alone. Tell me the next intersection you see.”
With Slutty Mandy’s reluctant assistance, I make my way to Atlanta Rocks, an indoor rock-climbing facility nestled in the back of an office park. I enter to the strains of a dozen squealing preteen girls rappelling from the ceiling, which is really quite startling if you haven’t braced yourself for it.
“Mister Topher!” says the guest of honor. “You’re gonna climb, aren’t you?”
I’m fitted for my harness, and take my place in line, looking quite conspicuous amongst my fellow party guests. The pecking order within the bunch is quickly obvious- all the girls are following edicts issued by a red-headed girl named Brantley. She keeps casting me furtive looks as she whispers to the other girls. I think she’s wearing lip gloss. I instantly dislike her.
One of her minions runs over to me.
“IS YOUR NAME GOPHER?”
“No. It’s Topher. Mister Topher.”
“Brantley said your name is GOPHER.”
“Sweetie. Don’t listen to Brantley. In fact, just make that a rule for living.”
She goes back to report this encounter to her queen. I knew a Brantley when I was eleven- the girl who always had the latest clothes and was French kissing boys in Junior High before she hit her teens. Theirs is a much more indirect form of bullying- a quiet, calculated delight in other people’s misery combined with an unerring sense of stylish superiority. What the Brantleys of the schoolyard fail to realize is that the sissies they make fun of are carefully studying their behavior, in order to emulate it in gay bars a decade later.
I couldn’t stand those little girls when I was a kid, and I don’t much care for the bar bitches they inspired. I guess I shouldn’t be surprised that I’m always dubious of the leader of the pack, seeing as I’m the son of a man who doubts the wisdom of his GPS navigator. But there’s a lot to be said for breaking rank and following your own path.
“You’re only supposed to climb on the red ones!” Brantley shouts at the birthday girl as she scales the wall.
“Shut up, Brantley, I like the yellow ones!” she hollers back, and continues climbing.
I beam with pride.
Smart girl. I’ve taught her well.
