in a bucket of bleach, thus turning them white! Then when he came waltzing into Old Lady McKenzie’s Civics class the next day feeling all fashionable, she took one look down her nose at him and groaned, “What is that?”
Which is what I ask Brad now, with regards to the Ginsu…Though I can only imagine why he’s brought it along.
“For Protection.”
“Oh, Brad…You are sooo dramatic,” I sigh. Then I grab hold of his waist for dear life and we begin pedaling down the block.
Back at my house…
We start the so-called séance by placing the cut out non-naked photos of JEH—compliments of Big Boobs Janelle and Teen Beat magazine—around a makeshift shrine of candles we’ve set up on the floor in front of my TV. Then we put a very special record on my turntable…Bonnie Tyler’s “Holding out for a Hero.” Which happens to be the theme song from the JEH/Jennifer O’Neill Cover Up TV show, in case you’re not aware.
“God, he was a Total Babe!” Brad gushes. Like a Total Girl. “Wasn’t he, Jack?”
Looking at all the photos spread out on display in front of me, there’s no denying that Jon-Erik Hexum was an attractive man. With his dark curly hair, chiseled jaw, and sculpted muscular body…But I say nothing.
“If you were a girl, would you think he was a babe?” asks Brad.
“If I was a girl?” I reply. “Sure, I would.”
I watch as Brad pulls out a purple Bic lighter from his denim duffle bag—the one he made himself in Mrs. Wood’s 7th grade Sewing. One by one, he begins lighting the candles. Making the room even more ooky-spooky as they reflect off my TV screen.
“God, I loved his voice!” Brad gushes again. “It was so deep and sexy.”
Watching the candle flames flicker in the darkness, I say nothing.
“I wish my voice sounded like that.”
Again, I say nothing.
“I still can’t believe he shot himself,” Brad sighs. “I mean, what was he thinking putting a gun up to his head? What a waste!” Then he reaches into his duffle bag once more. This time, he removes a raggedy pink bath towel.
“What are you doing?” I ask, having no idea what Brad’s got planned next.
He stands up, bends over at the waist, wraps the towel around his head. The exact same way my Mom does after she washes her hair in the kitchen sink in the morning. Then he stands upright, flings his head back, and announces, “Okay…I’m ready.” But he’s quick to add, “Are you sure your parents went to bed?” For the bijillionth time.
“Their bedroom door was shut,” I answer. For the bijillionth time.
“Maybe they’re just having sex?”
“I doubt it.” I know for a fact that can’t be the case. “My parents only have sex on Saturdays,” I tell Brad. Like clockwork. Which is something I don’t even wanna think about. (Gross!)
“Did you put your ear up to the door?”
I give Brad a look—head tilted, forehead crinkled, nostrils flared. “Are we gonna do this, or what?”
“Okay, okay,” he snarls. “Jeez!” He sits back down beside me. Then he says, “Gimme your hand.”
To which I immediately respond, “I don’t wanna hold your hand!”
Brad gives me the exact same look I just gave him. “It’s how you gotta do it,” he says, informing me of the strict rules to performing a séance. “We gotta channel all our energy into making JEH appear to us.” He reaches his hand out. I reluctantly take it, noting how rough and callous-y it feels. In all the time I’ve known Brad Dayton, I don’t think I’ve ever held his hand. I also notice the yellowish stain on his right middle finger…from all the nicotine in his cigarettes!
But I say nothing about his filthy, filthy habit.
“Now close your eyes,” he instructs, all mysterious-like, “and concentrate.”
I sit quietly in the ensuing silence, doing my best to think Happy JEH Thoughts…Till I hear what can only be described as the sound of a dying cow.
“Ohm…Ohm…”
I peek open my right eye, only to find Brad—eyes closed/pink towel around his head looking like a Total Dweeb—chanting. Like a Buddhist monk. Or whoever it is that chants.
“J…E…H,” he says, drawing out each individual letter in his best Ginger-Grant-from-Gilligan’s-Island voice. “Can you hear me?”
Nothing happens…
“Hello?”
“This is never gonna work,” I tell him adamantly. “Why are we even doing this? Why should we care about resurrecting the spirit of some dead actor-guy, anyways?”
Totally calm, Brad does his best to explain his reasoning to me—still as Tina Louise. “JEH won’t show himself,” he coos, “if he thinks you don’t believe.” Then he continues with the “ohms” while I continue to sit, eyes closed. “Jon-Erik Hexum,” Brad says, this time employing the full moniker. “If you’re out there, give us a sign.”
Nothing happens…
“Knock three times to let us know you’re there,” he continues.
Nothing happens…
Brad assures him, “There’s nothing to be afraid of.” Then he adds, “We want to help you…We want to know the truth. Why did you leave us? Were you afraid? Afraid of who you really were? Afraid of what you were feeling deep down inside of you?”
“Gimme a break!” I mutter.
“You can trust us, Jon-Erik,” Brad promises. “We won’t tell anybody your secret.”
Suddenly from out of the darkness…There comes a knock!
“Holy shit!” Brad jumps a mile. “Did you hear that?” Then he looks around the room for some kinda Presence looming in the dark. “Hell-ooo! Is anybody there?”
Another knock…Then another…And another.
“Jon-Erik Hexum, is that—?” Brad stops. Which is when he catches me knocking on the side of my put-it-together-yourself Sauder faux-wood laminated TV stand. “Ja-a-ack!” Then he pushes me—hard.
“Ow!” I practically holler, holding my shoulder in pain. “That hurt.”
“I can’t believe you did that,” he scolds. “You totally had me freaked out…I thought it was really him.”
“I’m sorry,” I apologize. “I couldn’t help it.” But it’s not like I didn’t tell Brad what a dumb idea I thought it was from the get-go. And to twist the proverbial knife and pour salt on the proverbial open wound, I add, “This is sooo stupid!”
“No, it’s not!” he vehemently declares.
“Yes, it is!”
“Well it’s your fault if it doesn’t work,” Brad insists, placing the blame right where it belongs. It is totally my fault because I don’t think it’s gonna work. And I tell him so.
He hisses at me, “Nonbeliever!” Then he shuts his eyes and starts in again with the chanting. “Ohm…Ohm…”
Because I can’t possibly sit here for a minute longer—along with the fact that it’s getting late and it’s a School Night—I come up with a quick way to get myself out of this…
“Oh, no!” I cry, in my best “Now I’m getting freaked out” voice. Then I jump up and pull the string on the overhead ceiling fan/lamp, flooding the room with light. “I just thought of something.”
“What?”