Sweet Sixteen
"Surprise!"
my mother and father shouted in unison, laughing gaily. I stared at the photograph
in my hands. My throat was dry. My hands shook with tension. I gripped the
picture so hard that my fingers almost tore through the page. Did I need
glasses? Was I losing my mind? Or – worse – were the words I read a true
portent?
Just a moment before,
I'd excitedly opened the pink box, now discarded on the floor near my left
ankle. A sixteenth birthday only comes around once in a lifetime. All day, I’d
imagined the fancy party later that evening; charming, cleanly shaved
boys, beautifully groomed girls, delicious finger sandwiches, strobe lights.
Well, I thought grimly, maybe the strobe lights will distract the other guests.
All I'd wanted
from my parents was a new convertible. Not a Porsche or anything - a nice,
current model, one that was fast and had good mileage and made my ass look like
a dream when I stepped out. I'd even planned on it. When I invited the kids
from school over to my sweet sixteenth, I handed out embossed invitation cards
that read "Come see my hot new ride!" Everyone was envious.
And when I'd
stepped down to breakfast, after dreaming all night of speeding around quiet neighborhoods
with the bass up and the top down, I’d seen it on the kitchen table. A fancy
pink present topped with a tasteful green bow. I’d squealed and ran to open it. But instead of car keys in the little box,
there was only a picture. Frowning distastefully, I had pulled it out, gripping
it loosely between forefinger and thumb like a used sheet of toilet paper.
The photograph showed
a greasy man with a hideous smile on his face. His lips curled hatefully,
reminding me of two slugs performing a ballet on a salt lick. His lank, insipid
hair draped a wrinkled, nasty face with squinty eyes. And just in case I could
not recognize the man, he'd helpfully autographed the bottom of the page:
"OWWWW!
LOOKIN FORWARD TO THE HOTTEST SWEET SIXTEENTH EVER! PLAN ON A REAL PAR-TAY!
(Pictured here was a series of four
hearts hastily sketched and an ‘XOXOXO’)
STEVEN
TYLER."
* * *
"HONEY," my mother shouted as she banged on my
bedroom door. I’d dead-bolted it shut while I fashioned a little hobo stick out
of a few paper towels and the stick off a little American flag. Inside were all
of my important possessions - a little plastic saxophone, a cassette tape of
Tommy Tutone's greatest hits, a small handful of candy corns. It was time to
blow this Popsicle stand.
I opened the
window and stared out at the concrete below, trying to figure out the best way
to descend from the second story. I wished there was a trellis to climb down.
I heard a noisy
rattle at the door, and then my father began to yell. "We paid a lot of
money for this, and you aren't going to ruin it! Your friends are going to be
here in an hour and imagine what they're going to say if Steven Tyler is here
and you aren't!" I cringed and then crouched, preparing to leap. I might
die, I reasoned, but that was better than the alternative. I was just about to jump
when the doorknob turned and the door opened.
"Sorry,"
Mom said, smiling that bullshit fake apologetic smile that grown-ups get
whenever they screw you over. "I had a key."
"This is the
worst day of my life," I yelled, breaking the hobo stick across my knee.
"Why is it whenever anything important happens in my life, Steven Tyler
has to be there?"
"Baby,"
Dad said, "you love Steven Tyler. He's been your hero since you were
ten years old."
"When I was
ten years old," I said, gritting my teeth, "I used to pick my nose
and save the boogers for my collection. That's just what little kids do."
My parents both
looked at each other, and Mom sighed.
"Sugarplum,"
she said, "it would be rude to not let Mr. Tyler come to your party. He's
really excited. I'm making his favorite kind of cake."
"What
kind?" I asked.
"It's a lemon
coconut cake with cocoa sprinkled on top."
"That sounds disgusting. I want a chocolate cake."
"This is
close enough, and Mr. Tyler loves this cake," she said. She raised an
eyebrow. "And you'd better be polite.
He'll be here any minute."
* * *
Two hours later, I
stood scowling by the front door, shaking everyone's hand as they entered. At
first, I was apprehensively excited, but after the fifth person asked where my
sweet new ride was, I grew tired of greeting guests. How should I explain it?
"No, sorry, I didn't get a convertible. But Steven Tyler is going to show
up later and eat some birthday cake!" I hoped that when he showed up, no
one would recognize him and I could play it off. Maybe I could make everyone
believe that it was my father's lover, come to exact some sort of hateful
retribution for a sex crime so dastardly that it didn't even have a name.
"Wassup?" announced
another anonymous androgyne as it stepped through the front door. It sported a
backwards cap and hairless baby chin. With its shoulder length hair and squeaky
voice, I couldn't tell if it was a particularly ugly girl or a particularly
girlish boy. I silently pointed towards the large bowl of Chex mix in the
middle of the living room, sighing heavily.
Actually, things
were beginning to look up. No one had been creative enough to bring me any sort
of present, but a few kids had palmed me a ten dollar bill as they walked in,
so I was holding roughly seventy dollars in my pocket. The stereo in the living
room was playing some good music, some sort of hip hop electronica, and
everyone was starting to dance. Well, sort of. We were at the uncomfortable age
when everyone was afraid to dance with members of the opposite sex, so everyone
was bobbing up and down separately while holding canned sodas. But so far, my
sixteenth birthday party was really happening. Everyone seemed like they were
having a nice time.
And wonder of
wonders! Steven Tyler hadn’t even showed up. I looked at my watch. According to
Dad, he should have arrived around 45 minutes earlier. Please, don’t let him be fashionably late, I wished. Please say he took the money and split.
Maybe this would be the best sweet sixteenth in the world.
These thoughts had
just swarmed through my mind like a hive of bees, and as if God had heard them
and wanted to make a mockery of the honey in my brain, the front door slammed
open and a - I hesitate to say "man", more a disheveled
mass of hair and lips - walked in.
"YEA-AHHHH!"
shouted Steven Tyler. He took a swig from a bottle of whiskey he was holding,
belched, and held up a hand to silence the already silent crowd. "WHAT
UP, EVERYONE! HOW YOU ALL DOIN! LET'S MAKE THIS THE MOST ROCKIN SWEET SIXTEENTH
BIRTHDAY EVER, C'MAWN!"
My throat closed
up and all of my dreams faded away. Blackness covered my peripheral
vision, and I swayed. I felt my knees buckle. Was I going to faint?
Just then, one of
the androgynous boys snickered, pointed at Steven, and said "Check
out the birthday surprise! It's that sweet new ride we've all been hearing about."
Everyone started to laugh. Steven Tyler looked surprised for a moment and then
he said, "I'M THE SWEETEST! YuhAAYUH!" After shouting this last
(word? I’m still not sure what it was), he strode over to the stereo and poked
the eject button.
"Hey, come
on!" someone protested angrily. Steven Tyler picked up the CD in the same disgusted
way I'd picked up his autographed picture that morning. "A BURNED CD?
ELECTRONICA MIX? WHAT’S ALL THIS!? YOU CATS NEED SOME REAL MUSIC AT THIS PARTY,
UH YEA YEA YEA-AH!!" He slipped in a disk and pressed play.
Immediately, the opening
strains of "Love in an Elevator" began shaking the house. "GOO
WINNG DOOWWWN," howled the studio recorded Steven Tyler. The real Steven
Tyler stood in front of us, smiling with giant liver lips. He closed his eyes
and lip synched along.
One girl started
crying, and several kids walked outside to call their parents and say they
needed to be taken home. I didn't blame them. I bit my lip with frustration.
Would Steven Tyler ruin every party ever? It seemed that the answer was yes,
absolutely.
"WHERE’S THAT
CAKE YOUR MOM PROMISED!" Steven Tyler yelled out to no one in particular. He
didn't even know whose birthday it was. I wanted to pretend that I didn't know
either, but someone looked at me and said “Yeah, where's that cake?”
Steven Tyler
walked over and hugged me. "HAPPY BIRTHDAY, YEA-AAHUH!" I felt greasy
and misused. "LET’S GO GET US SOME CUH-YAH-UKE!!!" he yelled and sang
at the same time.
Mom brought out the
cake. As expected, it was mildly yellow with a brown powder sprinkled on the
top. The words “HAPPY BIRTHDAY” were scribbled in icing. Actually, it really
didn't look that bad. Sort of like an overripe banana. I'd almost convinced
myself to try the cake when Steven Tyler stuck his nasty finger into the cake,
pulled it out, and licked it.
"EAT THE
CAKE!" he sang. "THERE'S ONLY ONE THING THAT IT'S GOOD FOR!"
Then he laughed hysterically. "THAT CAKE’S AMAZING, MRS COMBS!!!!"
he told my mother, who was busy trying to light all the candles on the cake.
"Thank you,
Steven," she said, smiling and blushing. I remembered that she'd once told
me that she had a huge crush on Steven Tyler in her youth and I felt sick to my
stomach.
The stereo was
still playing Aerosmith tracks. That - along with the ragged hole in the top of
the cake - eliminated any hunger I might have. I did not even want to look at
the birthday cake, which - due to Steven Tyler's disgusting finger - now read
"HAPPY BIRTRDAY". But everyone crowded around and sang, and I had to
blow out the candles. "Make a wish!" Mom exclaimed.
"HERE, LET ME
HELP!" chirped Steven Tyler, and he blew on the candles. His fish-like
lips flapped like a heavy, damp curtain in the wind. Spittle flew everywhere, and
the candles were extinguished. "YUH YEAAH-AAH!" he shouted, and
everyone clapped politely. Mom cut everyone a piece, and it tasted exactly like
it sounded. Like a lemon coconut cake with unsweetened cocoa and Steven Tyler
spit on top. I couldn't even eat two bites, and I noticed a lot of
untouched slices sitting around the house later. Steven Tyler ate five pieces while
he drank half the bottle of whiskey.
Half an hour
later, he was crawling around on all fours and dry-heaving. I never actually saw
him get sick, but there was a rancid smell from behind the potted plant in the
corner. He stood up every few minutes and ate another plateful of cake and had
another swig of whiskey (just watching the rising and falling levels in the
bottle, I estimated at least three bottles consumed during the birthday party)
and then he crawled around on the floor and talked to himself some more. About
the only times he walked like a normal human being were when he was hitting on
the fifteen-year-olds from my class or when he was putting in a new Aerosmith
CD. After the first CD ended (he announced that it was a mix of his very
favorite tracks), he started on the very first Aerosmith album and went through
them all chronologically.
Somewhere after
“Night in the Ruts” but before “Get a Grip,” Steven Tyler came up to me and
asked if he could borrow five dollars “for a magic trick.” When I opened my
wallet and said all I had was a bunch of tens, he said “YUUAAYUH! LET’S TRY EM
OUT!” and took them all. Then he tucked them in the waistband of his leather
pants. I didn’t even try to get it back. That was all the cash I had in the
world and the only birthday present I got, other than Steven Tyler’s presence.
* * *
Steven Tyler stuck
around at my Sweet Sixteenth for nine hours. Long after all the other kids had
made sad, fake excuses and left early, Steven Tyler told me he was going “to
make sure [I] got my money’s worth.” Then he passed out for a few minutes,
whiskey bottle still in hand. When I finally went to bed, he was still listening
to his own albums and staggering around.
The next morning,
I woke up feeling ill. My stomach ached and I couldn’t stop thinking about the
evening before. Would anyone ever talk to me again?
When I walked
downstairs, I saw the worst sight ever. Steven Tyler was passed out in the
living room. His thick lips were smeared with the remains of the birthday cake,
and some icing was on his nose. The remains of his last bottle of whiskey were
spilled on the carpet and he smelled like he’d pooped himself. I wanted to push
him a little with my foot so he’d wake up, but I was also uncomfortable about
rousing him.
When I turned off
the stereo, he snorted and woke up a little. When he realized I was the one
walking around, it was like an electric shock hit him. His eyes lit up. “WUH-YAAAYUH,”
he shouted at me. “HAPPY BIRTHDAY! WAWNA BIRTHDAY SONG?”
“My birthday was
yesterday, Mr. Tyler,” I said, but he didn’t care. “TAWKIN BOUT THANGS THAT
NOBODY CARES,” he yelped like a kicked puppy. “WEARIN OUT THANGS THAT NOBODY
WEARS.”
I backed out of the room and went back to bed.
And as I covered my head with a pillow, hoping that he’d quiet down and hoping
the neighbors couldn’t hear, I felt a little sad. My parents had believed that
hiring Steven Tyler was a smart and considerate thing. They thought that they
were making my birthday an affair to remember.
And who was to say
that they hadn’t? As I listened to Steven Tyler’s shrieking in the living room,
I realized that I was now an adult, that Steven Tyler had somehow ushered me
through childhood and into maturity. And, remembering the way that my mother
had blushed while looking at Steven Tyler’s freak show lips, like two painted
goldfish wriggling for air in the middle of his face, I hoped to God that I’d
been adopted.
Hoorah!!! Birthday surprise! hahahahah
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