The Boys in the Band Page #8

it would be me

or that one call would do it.

You'd have to make several,

wouldn't you?

About three long-distance...

and God only knows

how many locals.

I-I-I'm glad I don't

have to pay the bill.

Quiet.

Oh, don't worry.

Michael won't

pay it either.

Now, here's

how it works.

If you make the call,

you get one point.

If the person you're calling

answers, you get two points.

If somebody else answers,

you only get one point.

And if nobody answers

at all, you're screwed.

You're screwed if

you make the call.

You're a fool

if you screw yourself.

And when you get the person

you've called on the line,

if you tell them who you are,

you get two more points.

And then if you tell them

that you love them,

you get a bonus

of five more points.

Hateful.

Therefore, you can get as many

as ten points and as few as one.

You can get

as few as none

if you know how

to work it.

Hank, leave with me.

You don't understand,

Alan. I can't.

Well, if he doesn't

understand it,

why don't you

explain it to him?

I'll explain it

to him.

I had a feeling

you might.

Although I doubt that

it'll make any difference.

That type refuses

to understand

that which they do not

wish to accept.

They reject

certain facts.

Alan...

Hank and Larry

are lovers.

Not just roommates,

bedmates.

Lovers.

Michael--

No man has a roommate

after he's 30 years old.

If they're not lovers,

they're sisters.

Hank's the one

who's over 30.

You're pushing it.

Hank?

Yes, Alan. Larry is my lover.

But you're married.

I think you said

the wrong thing.

Don't you just love

that quaint little idea?

If a man is married, he's

automatically heterosexual.

Alan, Hank swings

both ways...

but with a decided

preference.

Well, now...

who's gonna make

the first call?

Emory.

You go, Bernard.

I don't want to.

I don't want to either.

I don't want to at all.

There are no accidents.

Then may I say,

that on your way home,

I hope you will yourself

over an embankment.

Go on. Call up

Peter Dahlbeck.

That's who you'd like

to call, isn't it?

Who is Peter Dahlbeck?

Boy in Detroit whose family

Bernard's mother

has been a laundress for

since he was a pickaninny.

I worked for them, too...

after school and every summer.

I think I've loved him

all my life.

Hmm.

But he never knew I was alive.

Besides, he's straight.

Oh, so nothing ever

happened between you?

Oh, they finally

made it...

in the pool house

one night

after a drunken

swimming party.

With the right wine

and the right music,

there are damn few

that aren't curious.

And afterwards, we went

swimming in the nude.

How romantic.

And the next morning you took

his coffee and Alka-Seltzer

up to him on a tray.

It was in

the afternoon.

I remember that I was

worried sick all morning

about having to face him.

He pretended like nothing

at all had happened.

Christ, he must have

been so drunk,

he didn't remember

a thing.

Yeah. Heh.

I was sure relieved.

Odd how that works.

Now, for ten points,

get that liar on the phone.

You know

the number?

Sure. He's back in

Grosse Pointe, living at home.

He just got separated

from his third wife.

D.A. or B.Y.?

He didn't even

give it time to find out.

Come on, Bernard.

Pick up the phone and dial.

You'll think

of something.

You know you

want to call him.

You know that,

don't you?

Well, go ahead.

Your curiosity has

got the best of you now,

so go on. Call him.

Hateful.

Oh, what's "D.A. or B.Y."?

Operator lingo for

"doesn't answer" or "busy."

Hello.

One point.

Who's speaking?

Oh, Mrs. Dahlbeck,

um--

One point.

It's Bernard.

Francine's boy.

Son, not boy.

How are you?

Good.

Oh, just fine,

thank you.

Um...Mrs. Dahlbeck,

is...

Peter at home?

Oh. Oh, I-- I see.

Bullshit.

No, no, it's

nothing important. I--

I just wanted to tell him

that I, um...

That I love him.

I've always loved him.

I just wanted to tell him

that I was sorry to hear

about him and his wife.

No points.

My-- My mother wrote me, yes.

Yes, it is.

It really is.

Well...would you just

tell him that I called

and said I was very,

very sorry to hear,

and I hope they can

get it straightened out.

Yes.

Yes.

Goodbye.

Two points total.

Terrible.

Next?

Are you all right,

Bernard?

Why did I call?

Why did I do that?

Where

was he?

Out on a date.

Come on, Emory.

Punch in.

Can I have the number

in the Bronx

for a Delbert Botts,

please?

A Delbert Botts.

How many can there be?

I wish I hadn't called now.

No, the residence number, please.

Tha-- Thank you.

I wish information would

stop calling me "ma'am."

By all means,

scribble all over

my telephone.

Comes off with a little spit.

Like a lot of things.

Who in the hell

is Delbert Botts?

He's the one person

I've always loved.

That's who you said

to call, isn't it?

That's right,

Emory Board.

Look, how could you love anybody

with a name like that?

Yes, Emory. You couldn't

love anybody

with a name

like that.

It wouldn't look good

on a place card.

Isn't that right, Alan?

I admit his name

is not so good,

but he's absolutely

beautiful.

At least he was

when I was in school.

Of course, I haven't

seen him since,

and he was about seven years

older than I, even then.

Christ, you'd better call him

quick before he dies.

I've loved him

ever since the first day

I laid eyes on him...

which was when

I was in the fifth grade

and he was a senior.

And then he went away

to college,

and by the time

he got out,

I was in high school,

and he had become a dentist.

A dentist?

Yes. Delbert Botts, D.D.S.

He opened his office

in a bank building.

So you went and had every tooth

in your head pulled out, right?

No, I just had my teeth

cleaned, that's all.

I shouldn't have called.

Bernard, will you

shut up and go take

your boring, sleep-making icks

somewhere else?

I remember I looked

right into his eyes

the whole time.

Kept wanting to bite

his fingers.

Well, it's absolutely

mind-boggling.

Phyllis

Phallic.

It absolutely

boggles the mind.

Alan.

Thank you,

Donald.

Sara Samaritan.

I told him I was having my teeth cleaned

for the junior-senior

prom,

for which I was in charge

of decorations.

I told him it was

a celestial theme,

and I was cutting stars

out of tinfoil,

and making clouds

from angel's hair

and chicken wire.

Mary, it takes a fairy

to make something pretty.

He was engaged to this

stupid-ass girl named Loraine,

whose mother was

truly Supercunt.

Don't

digress.

Anyway,

I was a wreck.

I mean, I was

a total mess.

Finally, I called him

on the telephone

and asked him if I could

see him alone.

Clearly not

the coolest of moves.

He said okay and told me

to come by his house.

I was so nervous this time,

my voice was shaking

and my hands

were unsteady.

I couldn't even

look at him.

I just stared straight

ahead in space

and blurted out

why I'd come.

And I asked him to be my friend.

Poor bastard.

Shh!

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