Eric Poole - Excuse Me While I Slip into Someone More Comfortable

also by eric poole

Wheres My Wand?: One Boys Magical Triumph

over Alienation and Shag Carpeting

Excuse Me While I Slip into Someone More Comfortable
Copyright 2018 by Eric Poole

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher. For information, please contact RosettaBooks at production@rosettabooks.com, or by mail at 125 Park Ave., 25th Floor, New York, NY 10017.

First edition published 2018 by RosettaBooks

Cover design by Christian Fuenfhausen
Interior design by Christian Fuenfhausen
Author photo by Chris Burbach

Library of Congress Control Number: 2017951388
ISBN-13 (print): 978-1-9481-2204-7
ISBN-13 (epub): 978-1-9481-2203-0

www.RosettaBooks.com
Printed in the United States of America

For my mother, father, and sister, who watched me
make mistake after mistake, and loved me enough
to keep their mouths shut.

For my friends, who were in on the mistakes.

And for Sandy, who has been at my side for sixteen years
and still doesnt think it was a mistake.

Many names and identifying characteristics have been changed to keep me from getting sued or yelled at in public. A few minor characters are composites to save having to introduce you to the countless number of people who flow in and out of ones life. And some sequences and details of events will doubtless be recalled differently by others who were (imagine this) comfortable in their own skin at the time and thus, perhaps, better able to assess the situations. What has not and could not be changed is my awkward, ridiculous journey of self-delusion and self-discovery. That parts exactly, 100 percent correct.

Chapter 1

Manilow of the Hour

The marching band of Hazelwood Central Senior High in St. Louis, Missouri, of which I was a member, was planning a hush-hush, invitation-only party hosted by Laurie Klingon, a popular flute player whose last name assured a lifetime of hilarious jokes at the hands of strangers.

And I had not been invited.

An out-of-town friend of Lauries parents had thoughtfully died, thus creating a vacuum of parental supervision for the weekend. Word of the secret party naturally swept through the band, since it would have been pointless to exclude people if they didnt know about it.

People are gonna talk about this party, Laurie announced to the select group as they stood in a corner of the football field casting faux-sympathetic looks at the rest of us, who were currently wishing them dead, for years to come.

I had never been to a party that was not church related, a venue where the attendees had to be nice to one another or God would cast everyone into hell. And that dearth of outside social experience gave this band party even more allure, filled as it was with people I admired. People I desperately wanted to befriend. People who were, in many cases, much better than me.

True, I was a minor celebrity in the Stage Band, known for my improvisational jazz trumpet solos (a mysterious ability, frankly, since no one else in our family had any musical aptitude whatsoever, and one that led me to frequently question whether I had been switched at birth, which would explain a lot of things). Dozens of students across the school were now vaguely aware of me. But the respect accorded my trumpet abilities had not led to new friendships or any real elevation in my status, inside or outside band.

And to further complicate matters, I was approaching six feet, two inches tall. I weighed in at a Dachau-fabulous 138 pounds. My wavy helmet hair made me look like a flapper whod lost her cocaine. And of the two ears positioned astride my skull, only one operated, making it sometimes difficult to overhear the snide opinions being proffered by my schoolmates, which would have been a blessing had my imagination not constructed ones far worse.

Thus, I saw no reason why any party thrower would choose to invite me over any number of more handsome, feathered-haired, two-eared guys in band.

And as was obvious from the group standing in the corner of the football field, only the supercool members had been includedwith the exception of my friend Mitch McKirby, a beak-nosed boy who was so blithely unaware of what other people thought that he played the clarinet. But Mitchs parents were good friends with Lauries, and including him was obviously considered the price tag for silence.

Mitch was my ace in the hole. I began campaigning to be his plus-one.

Think how much fun it would be to have me along, I said as we walked home from school that afternoon. We could be like Starsky and Hutch, taking down the bad girls. I aimed my trumpet case like a gun, although in execution I appeared to be slightly more Police Woman than Starsky and Hutch .

That doesnt make any sense, Mitch replied. We both have brown hair. He switched his clarinet case to his other hand. And whys it such a big deal, anyway? Its just a party.

Just a party , I thought. Just another nail in the coffin of my insignificance.

Suddenly, I was struck by a thought. Everyone knew that Mitch was, to put it mildly, the thrifty type.

Tell you what, I proposed. Ill buy your sloe gin. Thats a savings of three dollars .

Word on the street was that, at this exclusive event, booze was being servedyet another reason the invitations were so coveted. Naturally, at age sixteen, I had never had a drink. My exposure to alcohol had been limited to the gasoline-flavored wines my parents drank as a celebration of the blood of Jesus, whose blood was now being shed most Saturday nights. And since Mother and Dad kept the liquor cabinet under lock and key, its allure had increased exponentially.

That did the trick.

Okay, Mitch relented, but dont embarrass me.

I was initially elated. But as the day of the party crept closer, and I contemplated the very real fact that I had not been considered cool enough to be invited on my own, I realized that I would somehow need to re-create myself in the eyes of the bands elite. To become new and different. To sparkle.

And then, as if by divine inspiration, it came to me.

In 1977, Barry Manilow was pops reigning king. He was, I decided, the perfect image in which to remake myself. After all, I had musical talent, just like Barry. And Barry had songs that made the girls swoonsongs I could play by ear to induce such swoons for myself. What girl wouldnt want to hear Its a Miracle on the trumpet?

Step, step, hip swivel, finger-gun cock.

I repeated this move over and over, alone in the family room of our suburban tract home, as I attempted to create a viable, supersexy strut that would emphasize my new pop star charisma while Manilows Jump Shout Boogie shook the rafters.

Step, step, hip swivel, pause, and wink.

I held my trumpet casually in my right hand as the crowd of invisible adoring girls swooned.

Step, step, hip swivel, finger-gun

Oh, my God, WHAT are you doing?