The Boys in the Band Page #7

The punching bag has now

dissolved into Flo Nightingale.

Ladies and gentlemen.

Oh, correction.

Ladies and ladies.

I would like to announce

that you have just eaten

Sebastian Venable.

Uh, just eaten what?

Well, not what,

stupid. Who.

A character in a play.

A fairy who got eaten alive.

I mean the chop, chop variety.

Hm. Jesus.

Emory, how much

did you pay for him?

He was a steal.

He's a ham sandwich.

Fifty cents, any time

of the day or night.

King of the pig people.

Would you like

some more, Donald?

Uh, no thanks, Emory.

It was very good though.

Did you like it?

I'm not a steal.

I cost $20.

The cake?

Well, you go get it.

Isn't anyone going to have seconds?

I'm having seconds,

and thirds,

and maybe even

fifths.

I'm absolutely desperate

to keep the weight up.

You're absolutely paranoid

about absolutely everything.

Oh, yeah?

Well, why don't you

not tell me about it?

You starve yourself

all day,

living on coffee

and cottage cheese,

so that you can gorge

yourself at one meal.

And then you feel guilty,

and moan and piss

about how fat you are,

and how ugly you are.

When the truth is,

you're not fatter

and no thinner

than you ever are.

Polly Paranoia.

Just great, Emory.

Thank you.

Connie Casserole,

no trouble at all.

Oh, Mary, don't ask.

And this

pathological lateness.

It's downright

crazy.

Turning.

Standing in front of a bathroom

mirror for hours and hours

before you can walk out

onto the street?

And then looking

no different.

After Christ knows

how many applications

of Christ knows

how many ointments,

and salves

and creams and masks.

I've got bad skin.

What can I tell you?

Who wouldn't after

they deliberately

take a pair of tweezers

and deliberately

mutilate their pores.

No wonder you've got

holes in your face,

after the hack job

you've done on yourself.

Year in and

year out.

You hateful sow.

Yes, you've got scars

on your face,

but they're not that bad.

And if you'd

leave yourself alone,

you wouldn't have any more than

you've already awarded yourself.

You'd really like me

to compliment you now

for being so honest,

wouldn't you?

For being my best friend,

who will tell me what even

my best friends won't tell me.

Slut.

And the pills.

Harold has been

gathering and storing

and saving up barbiturates

for the past year

like a goddamn squirrel.

Hundreds of Nembutals,

hundreds of Seconals.

All in preparation for

and anticipation of

the long winter

of his death.

Well, I'll tell you

something, Hallie.

When the time comes,

you won't have the guts.

It's not always

like it happens in plays.

Not all faggots bump themselves

off at the end of the story.

What you're saying

may be true.

Time will

undoubtedly tell.

In the meantime,

you've left out one detail.

The cosmetics and astringents

are paid for.

The bathroom is paid for.

The tweezers are paid for.

And the pills are paid for.

Happy birthday to you

Happy birthday to you

Happy birthday, dear Harold

Happy birthday to you

Blow out your candles,

Mary, and make a wish.

Aw, he's 32 years young!

Come over here, Harold.

Surprise!

- Oh, my God, they're beautiful.

- Take one.

All right,

I'll take the red one.

I'll take...

Where's the card?

Oh, what'd you

do with it, Emory?

It's between

my legs. Heh.

"From Larry."

Ohh!

Oh, it's heaven.

I love it, Larry.

What is it?

It's the deed

to Boardwalk.

Gay pop art.

Butchest thing

you've ever seen.

It is super, Larry.

Did you blow it up yourself?

It goes up

the minute I get home.

I don't get it. You cruise

Atlantic City or something?

Will somebody

get him out of here?

Oh.

What a nifty sweater.

Thank you, Hank.

Well, you know, if you

don't like it, I--

You can always

take it back and--

And exchange it

for something else.

No, I think this one's

just nifty.

It's gorgeous.

Who wanted cake?

Everyone for cake?

Quick.

Oh, none for me, please.

No, I'd just like to sleep

on mine, thank you.

Oh, Bernard,

how divine.

Look, everybody.

Bejeweled kneepads.

Monogrammed.

Bernard,

you're a camp.

You all heard of Gloria De Haven

and Billy De Wolfe?

Well, this here is

Rosemary De Camp.

Into the sack.

Thank you, Michael.

What?

Oh. You're welcome.

Well, what is it, Harold?

It's a photograph of him...

in a silver frame.

And there's an inscription

engraved, and the date.

What's it say?

Just something personal.

Say, Bernard, what do you say

we have a little music

to liven things up?

Okay.

Yeah, I feel like dancing.

Uh-oh.

How about something

good and ethnic, Emory.

Uh, one of

your specialties.

Like a military toe-tap

with sparklers.

I don't do that

at birthdays.

Only on the Fourth

of July.

Come on, Michael.

I only lead.

Well, I can follow.

No, thanks. I'll just

sit this one out.

Come on, Tex.

You're on.

Later.

Come on. Let's get this stuff

off the terrace.

Hey.

Come on, Cowboy.

Whoo-hoo.

Wanna dance?

Uh-oh. Ivan

the terrible is back.

Oh, hello, Alan.

Feel better?

This is where you came in,

isn't it?

Don't rush off in

this inclement weather.

You'll never

get a cab.

Revolution complete.

You've missed the cake...

and you've missed

the opening of the gifts...

but you're still

in luck.

You're just in time

for a little party game.

Hey, everybody. Game time.

Why don't you just

let him go, Michael?

Oh, he can go

if he wants to...

but not until we've played

a little game.

movie-star gin?

No. That's too faggy

for Alan to play.

He wouldn't be

any good at it.

What do you

wanna play, Michael?

The Truth Game?

Cute, Hallie.

Or do you wanna play Murder?

You all remember that one,

don't you?

Very, very cute.

As I recall,

they're similar.

The rules are the same

in both. You kill somebody.

Mickey, I'm leaving.

Stay where

you are.

Michael,

let him go.

He doesn't

really want to.

If he did, he'd have

left a long time ago.

Or he wouldn't have come

in the first place.

Mickey, I don't

feel well.

My name is Michael.

I am called Michael.

You must never call anyone

called Michael, Mickey.

Those of us

who are named Michael

get very nervous

about it.

I'm sorry. I can't think.

You can think. What

you can't do is leave.

It's like watching

an accident on the highway.

You can't look at it

and you can't look away.

Well, now...

who's gonna play

with Alan and me?

Everybody?

I have no intention

of playing.

Nor do I.

Well, not everybody's

a participant in life.

There are those who just stand

on the sidelines and watch.

Well, what's

the game?

Simply this.

We all have to call

on the telephone the one person

we truly believed

we have loved.

Oh, well,

I'm not playing then.

Oh, yes, you are.

Oh, you'd like me to,

wouldn't you?

You bet I would.

I'd like to know

who you'd call

after all those fancy speeches

I've been hearing lately.

Who would

you call?

Would you call me?

And who would you call?

Don't think

I think for one minute

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