Image courtesy 20th Century Fox
The last thing I want to do is talk about Guy God-Damn Patterson. But my mom always told me, “Everything that blooms comes from dirt, shit, death, and/or decay,” so I'm betting it could be a worthwhile exercise.
Anyway. When he started drumming for The Wonders, I was happy for him. And the first time he quoted Ben-Hur? Honestly, it was sort of cute. But the second and third time, to wannabe groupies who ate it up like butter off a hot corn cob? I decided the person he used to be was slipping.
Last week, when I helped his dad at the appliance store, Guy called to say he couldn't make it. He didn't ask to talk to me; just told his dad he was meeting up with someone. He didn't even remember he was standing me up.
So there I was, staging vacuum cleaners with an ancient crow in an even older sweater, thinking aggressively of how much Guy sucked. It brought to mind the talent show, when I caught him flashing the universal symbol for cunnilingus from between a salacious and achingly wide-open "X" he'd made with his drumsticks.
He was wearing shades indoors at the time, but still. I could feel the heat off his lashes as he winked at some unspecified idiot in the crowd. I talked to him later. He said he was just having a goof with the audience.
This Guy, right?
Everything changed when “That Thing You Do” became this big hit. First off, I broke my tooth. I have no doubts that grinding them in a blind fury contributed to this. Dr. Schlesinger was recommended to me by a friend, who kept insinuating it would "cure my ills", whatever the hell that meant.
I had no clue what she was blathering about, until he stepped into the waiting room. Reader, I am not exaggerating when I say this: the moment I set eyes on Dr. Schlesinger, the laces of my tennis shoes untied themselves and slumped heavily onto the floor. “Tina?” he said. I tried to return his hello, but I couldn't even get out his last name. He said to call him Adam.
Fast forward to that thing he kept sticking in my mouth. It was like a vacuum, but for spit. Saliva ejector, he called it. He took away all the unwanted stuff and shot it somewhere else. Along with all my bad feelings, just swished it off into a gross sewer far, far away.
And whaddya know, Skitch Patterson himself called me that night. I turned on my hair curler and worked on my hair. He told me about his stupid pizza parlor show. Told me he was Spartacus, and I was like, “Ok buddy. You're Spartacus. Yep,” as I wondered if my hair curler had a higher, louder setting. I can't remember what I said exactly, but he knew it was over.
I hope he writes a song about me.
I hope I never hear it.