The Principal

He was a teacher. An educator. A sculptor of youthful minds. And as such, he had developed a voice technique of repeating the main point of every statement, the main point--the point he was making--a minimum of three times. It made for awkward cocktail conversation. But this high school principal’s stunning beauty--the depth of his Mediterranean blue eyes, the chiseled, da Vincian nature of his jaw line, the floppiness of his flowing dark Italian hair--appeared to make up for this one annoyance.

It was our second date. An impromptu date, motivated by Bin 36’s $5 burger night, combined with $10 wine bottle night. A dangerous combination of excellent flavors and low price point.

We had already established that he worked in the city, where he had a condo, but preferred to live in the suburbs, the country. I asked The Principal about his house. He explained its layout and that it’s a four bedroom, 2,700 square feet.

“I like space,” he said. “I like my space. Space is important to me. I have a big yard, and a deck. I built my deck. Myself. Well, me and a friend. We built my deck.”

“Really? That’s pretty butch.”

“You’d be surprised how butch I can be.” His shoulder leaned into his statement.

“I bet.”

“So I like to sit in my jacuzzi. I sit and soak. In my jacuzzi. When it’s winter. Cold. Like thirty degrees, the water is like one hundred, you know, and I take the lid off, and the steam just rises up.”

His arms motion toward the ceiling, doing wrist circles.

“The steam rises up. Twirls. Into the air. Like a gigantic volcano or something.”

“Like a plume?”

“Yes, a plume. A gigantic, twirling, plume of steam. And I’ll just soak. Soak and sip a cocktail. I like cocktails. A good cocktail. Seven and seven. In the gigantic plume of steam.”

“That must be a boy magnet, then.”

He rolled his eyes.

“Please, there are not boys in the suburbs. All straight.”

“So you have this big boy palace, and no circle of boys?”

“I’ve got my friends. All straight, but. Can you imagine? I’m still close with about seven of my friends from high school. High school. Some thirty years later, I’m still close to my high school friends.”

“I’m in touch with a few of mine.”

“We get together twice a year. Once in the summer. It’s a big picnic. Big, big picnic. And then we get together in the fall. Like October. I hate Halloween. Hate it. But we have this party in October. At my house. Just before Halloween. And it’s a theme party.”

“So you dress up?”

“Well, yes. But not for Halloween. For the theme. We’ll dress up for the theme. This one year, the theme was the ‘Roaring ’20s’ and I made my house, whole house, into a giant speakeasy. With the gambling and all. And we did a murder mystery. I had roles for everyone. Everyone had roles. And they had to act out their roles. Act them out.”

The waiter brought a bottle of wine, opened it, and poured a taste for The Principal. He grabbed the glass, his pinky extended out to the universe, and took a sip.

“Mmmm. That is good! Good! Very, very good.” He stared at the glass, then stared at me. “That is a very good bottle of wine.”

The waiter filled our glasses and left.

“So you had a murder mystery?”

“Yes. It was fun. Very fun. We had a lot of fun, actually. Of course, after a few cocktails, everything is fun. A whole lot of fun. You know, cocktails do that.”




“Do you like the theatre?” The Principal asked.

“Sure.”

“Wicked was written for me. It spoke to me. Wicked. Like it was just written for me.”

“So the show changed your life?”

“Well, I wouldn’t go that far. But I grew up on the Wizard of Oz. I mean, who knew they used to be friends? And she was having an affair with the scarecrow?”

“So it changed your life.”

His eyes scanned the ceiling as if the answer was in the vapors.

“It was, interesting. Just interesting.”

“Yes. I thought it was a very interesting show. Enjoyable.”

“And RENT, I just love. Love, love, love RENT. The music is so good.”

“So you’re a Renthead?”

“A Renthead?”

“Someone who follows the show religiously.”

“I wouldn’t say religiously, but I find the show very moving. The music, that is. Moving. Have you seen it?”

“Yes.”

“Did you like it?”

“It was okay. I mean, the music, yes, the music is good. But it’s an uninspired show about a group of slacker artists trying to get out of paying their rent for the sake of making art and sitting around having sex and doing drugs.”

The Principal cocked his head, his eyes intense.

“But that’s just my opinion. But you’re right, the music is good. Very good, even.”





The waiter asked if we wanted another bottle of wine. “At ten dollars a bottle, the answer is, yes,” I said. I looked over the menu, looking for the bottle described as “adult pleasure with a finish like a leather whip.”

“We’ll have that bottle that has the finish like a weather lip.”

The Principal buried his head in his hands. I giggled.

“Weather lip? I just said weather lip.”

“Yes, you did.”

“I meant the bottle with the finish like a leather whip.”

The Principal shook his head.





The Principal teaches creative writing, yet he’s never had anything published.

“Have you had anything published?” he asked.

“Oh yes. Several short stories. I’ve got two in a Lammy-award winning anthology. The Muff Walk was published just last year.”

“The Muff Walk?”

“Yes, it’s a story about gay family.”

“Gay family?”

“Yes, and how we as gay people build a sense of family. And then Weenie Scallopini was published last fall.”

“What?”

“Weenie Scallopini.”

“I thought that’s what you said.”

“It’s the story of a couple who moves from Des Moines to West Hollywood, and they have trouble meeting people so they host a dinner party and serve Weenie Scallopini. It’s a casserole.”

“Funny. That’s funny. Very funny.”

“So you don’t have anything published?”

“No. No I don’t. I don’t have anything published. Yet. But I’ve got a couple of novellas. I like novellas. Novellas are about the right length to hold my attention.”

“So what are you working on now?”

“Another novella. I’ve got about five chapters written, and a strong ending.”

“How long is it?”

“Thirteen chapters. Well, thirteen chapters when it’s done.”

“That’s not a novella, that’s a novel.”

He laughed. “I know. I know. You’re right, I know. But see, the last time I wrote a novel, I wrote about two hundred and fifty pages, and then I cut more than half out. It was only seventy-five pages when it was done. So a novella.”

I nodded.

“See, I can see my characters right now. My characters, they are all around us. They are so real and vivid, they are sitting right here.”

He pointed to the table to my left, his fingers leading the way with the smooth grace of a beauty queen.

“There is Clarence and Chancy.”

His arm swept toward the table to the right.

“And Betty and Page are right there.”

His wrist tossed to the left.

“And way over there is Patty. Because she can’t stand to sit next to Page. Even though they’re sisters. Twin sisters. So they never sit together. Always apart.”

I nodded.

“See, I want my story, my novella, to go all the way, you know.”

“All the way?”

His eyes grew.

“Yes. Hollywood. I’d like Hollywood to pick it up.” He nodded with a smile and took a sip of wine. “See I’ve written it in a way that I already know who will be cast for the role of the mother.”

“Oh?”

“Olympia Dukakis.”

“I was just about to say her name.”

“Either Olympia or Lainie Kazan.”

“I don’t know who she is.”

“You don’t? How could you not? You’ve not seen ‘My Big Fat Greek Wedding’?”

“I’ve seen it, but I don’t know who she is.”

“The mother?”

I shake my head.

“Well, anyway, she’s the perfect mother, and I’d love for her to play that role.”

He sipped his wine, nodding.

“Perfect mother. Perfect. And, of course, as the writer, I’d have a cameo appearance. I’ve already written it. The scene where I’d appear.”

An evening of excellent flavors and low price points began to take effect as my enthusiasm burst through my filter and I blurted, “Wearing an ascot?”

His jaw drops as his fingers pressed into his chest.

“An ascot? Why would you say that?” His voice, shrill with shock.

In a moment, with one phrase, just three words, I have managed to pinpoint his flamboyant arrogance, piercing right through his heart. Way too gay for me, I find myself wanting to douse him with a fire extinguisher.

“Isn’t that how characters of writer/directors dress?” I reach for my wine.

“An ascot?”

I’m realizing I’ve just made his entire book into a farce. I gulp.

“I guess it’s not that type of movie.”

“Seriously, why would you say an ascot?”

I shrug my shoulders.

“You’re drunk.”

I hiccup, beating my chest with reverse ‘I love you’ hand signs. “Midwest! Represent!”

The Principal ducked, glancing over his shoulders quickly.

“Jesus. What are you doing?”

I flashed the signs again. “You mean this?”

The Principal dove down, as if I had fired a handgun at him. He turned, scanning the restaurant.

“You’re going to get us killed.”

“What?”

“You’re going to get us killed. We’ll be killed. Shot. Dead. Why are you flashing the gang sign for the Latino Kings?”

“Midwest! Represent!” I said again, flashing the sign.

“Lord!” He kissed his knuckle and made a sign of the cross.

“Gang sign? Latino Kings? Really?”

“Yes. I’m a high school principal. I know a Latino King when I see one.”

“I picked it up from the gaybies. They went to a conference and came back with this. I guess it’s a gang sign, in that sense. They were saying there should be a secret sign of the gays that we could flash, and if you know it, then you know the code.”

“That’s all well and good, but they should have probably picked a sign other than the Latino Kings.”

The waiter appeared next to our table.

“We’re ready for the check,” The Principal said. “The check please. I think we’re ready.”