THE WAY SHE DID this TV show of hers was, she’d get us sitting around in her living room, set out a plate of Oreos and maybe some Coke, and then she’d ask us to talk about a particular topic. One time it might be dating—like we really know a lot about that—or maybe parents. Sometimes she’d bring up some big idea she had, like Who Are Your Heroes? or What Do You Do If You’re at a Party and Someone’s Drunk and They Say They’re Going to Drive Home? You get my drift.
The whole thing was a total crock, mind you. I mean, last time I was invited to a party was back when I was seven or eight and my old man was doing time at the county farm for assault. They had this Christmas party for all the families. Santa Claus and the whole bit. I still remember the present he gave me out of his sack. A bottle of bubble solution.
Same thing applies to dating as parties. You ball chicks, but you don’t exactly buy them no corsage, you know? It was like that with all her questions. They weren’t really about my life at all. She should’ve called her show “Nerd Life” or “Secrets of the Dorks.” It sure wasn’t about me.
And the truth is, I never planned on being part of this shit. I only signed Jimmy up to piss him off. But then the guidance counselor over at school got wind of it and said, “Listen, you cooperate with this, we’ll forget about that two months of detention for defacing the boys’ locker room.” Just because I write the principal’s a fag on the outside of the trophy case, they want to keep me after school scrubbing toilets or something all fall. So I figure, OK, she’ll never use what I say anyways. I’ll just be sure I’ve got my hand on my dick the whole time I’m talking, so they can’t put it on TV.
That was Jimmy’s plan too. But then I don’t know what got into the boy. Come to think of it, it was what he got into that screwed up his head. Pussy. The fucker got hold of her tail and lost his head.
So there he is, sitting on that couch of hers, while she’s sticking the camera in his face, and he’s answering her questions like this was a goddam congressional investigation. “Well,” he says. “Like I always said, if you got a friend that’s drunk and they say they’re going to drive someplace, it’s your responsibility as their friend to stop them, whatever it takes. I’m not saying I never get loaded myself. But if I do, at least I got the sense to stay off the highway.” Yeah. Right.
This one time she gets us over there. You knew it was going to be major on account of instead of Oreo cookies she’s got pizza waiting for us. “This time, I thought we’d tackle adolescent attitudes to sexually transmitted disease,” she says. Maybe I got my attitudes, maybe I don’t, I want to say to her. One thing’s for sure, you’ll never hear about it.
“All right, let’s put our cards on the table,” she says. Like you know she’s been studying tapes of “60 Minutes” or some shit like that. “What do you think of when I say the word AIDS?”
“Homos,” I say. “Queers. Perverts. Ass fuckers.” You knew they weren’t going to use that. Keep those four-letter words coming, is my motto.
“How about you, Lydia?” she says. “Supposing you were in a sexual relationship with a fellow student”—we’ve clearly entered the world of fantasy here—“Would you expect that person to wear a condom?”
She is a little on the dim side, that one. “It would depend,” says Lydia, “on how well I knew them. And what kind of a person they were. I don’t think I’d get involved with someone that was untrustworthy.” Mrs. Maretto there always shoots old Lydia from the side, so her cross eyes won’t show so bad.
“How about you, Jimmy?” says Mrs. Maretto. “Are you concerned about AIDS? Personally, I mean.”
I love this part. He gives her a look like you know he’s thinking about what she looks like bare-ass naked. “In my present situation, in the relationship I got going, I don’t think I need to worry,” he says. “She’s not that type of person, if you know what I mean. She’s real clean.”
Right around there Mrs. Maretto says maybe we want to take a break for some pizza. When we get back to it, she’s on to a new subject. Should they put warning labels on rock music. You knew she wasn’t going to touch the sex part again. Not on camera, anyways.