The kid takes the podium. He has bucked teeth and hair combed to one side. A young woman in a gown is standing by. She helps people on and off the stage. The crowd, the well-dressed men and women and children, the prominent doctors and the matrons in their horn-rimmed glasses all smile indulgently. He announces he will read a poem. A few people chuckle. The teenaged boy in the back rolls his eyes.
"Hafta groan!
I go home!
How much does your mother moan?"
While the crowd puzzles over this, looks for the link to fundraising and medical research and Finding a Cure, the boy turns to the accoutremental woman. "May I see you pee?" She tries not to look too shocked. The funny-looking kid laughs and laughs.
"Penis! Vagina!"
She tries to get him off the stage. He only tightens his grip on the mic and begins swearing.
"Poo-poo! Titties!"
The audience keeps the outrage in check, but they're feeling it all right, wondering why they're being held hostage by this little maniac who appears to be experiencing both a Tourette's outburst and a cocaine rush. A few of the older kids hide their smirks. After speeches and an older generation's idea of music, this has been the best entertainment so far.
He screams his final "fuck!" as attendants drag him off the stage. From the wings we hear faint, fading singsong: "Oh, The Tampon Man, the Tampon Man...."
The MC returns and hopes to restore order.
It didn't start out this way. Oh no. No. It began, as a matter of fact, when I was diagnosed, and set my course to Dee and Char's place.
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