Carsick: John Waters Hitchhikes Across America by John Waters

Author:John Waters [Waters, John]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9780374709303
Publisher: Farrar, Straus and Giroux
Published: 2014-06-03T00:00:00+00:00

BAD RIDE NUMBER EIGHT

BLOSSOM

“Gay to my hole, Miss Thing,” he whispers out of the corner of his mouth as he drives right by my jailer and poor Veneer without their even noticing I’m gone yet. “I beg your pardon?” I answer, for once perplexed at the meaning of his gay slang. “I’m Blossom,” this big galoot of a queen answers, not bothering to translate, “and don’t you forget it, girl!”

Oh God. Is it wrong to be gay but still have “gay shame,” as it’s humorously called by hip fags in the U.K.? Embarrassed at the old-school poofs who exaggerate the stereotype and give the new queer generation a gayly incorrect name? It’s a tough call. I remember when Divine first saw Richard Simmons and confessed that he felt homophobic. I can identify here. Suddenly Blossom reaches into the backseat and grabs a bakery box, which he hands over to me. “Have some pie, butt plug,” he offers with a deranged look in his eyes. “Okay,” I mutter, once again hungry after days of irregular meals. My tattoo is hurting. Every time I move I can feel the scabs stretch and break, and you can see pus leaking through my shirt in the front. “You pop your cork?” Blossom asks me with sudden lechery when he notices. “No,” I explain in horror, “I have an infection.” “Well, let’s stop and get some medicine,” Blossom clucks like a hovering mother, suddenly pulling off Route 70 and heading south on Route 281, wherever that may lead. “Hey, I need to stay on Route 70,” I cry, but he doesn’t slow down.

“I gotta be careful,” Blossom whispers even though it’s only me in the car to hear. “Why?” I ask, almost afraid he’ll confide the truth. “Can I tell you a secret, girlfriend?” he asks, and ignoring his gay familiarity, I answer warily, “Maybe you better not.” “I’m on a mission, Mary,” he continues, disregarding my advice. “These straight fuckers need a payback.” “Who?” I ask, having no idea of what he’s talking about. “Breeders!” he snorts back. “Oh, come on, some straight people are fine. These days, you can’t tell a person’s character by his or her sexuality,” I argue, not caring if he agrees or not. “Oh, yes, you fucking can!” Blossom suddenly snarls with unassimilated gay fanaticism. “Somebody’s gotta pay!” he threatens as he swerves off the road to enter a Rexall drugstore parking lot.

Blossom pulls into a handicapped parking space and slams on the brakes in a decidedly ungirlish way. “I’m mentally handicapped because of heteros,” he shouts for the world to hear, even though it’s only me in the car. He opens the back door, gets out a can of spray paint, and writes SPAGHETTI IS STRAIGHT UNTIL YOU GET IT HEATED UP! on the next car. At first I don’t understand, but when he takes a hammer out from under the front seat and smashes the windshield of another car and snarls, “Make heterosexual divorce illegal,” I begin to understand the severity of his twisted militancy.

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