PDQ: Boy Band Survivor
By Pete
Schulte
He
went by the name of Patrick now, but he could never quite outrun his former
life as PDQ, lead singer -- if that was really his voice -- of The
Honey Boyz, a boy band that shot straight to the top…hung around a few
years…then plummeted into near obscurity. Near is the key word. For no matter how many years
whiz by, no matter how he altered his appearance, Patrick Donald Quinn would
always be PDQ, lead singer of that God-awful boy band. What did they call
themselves? The Sunny Boyz? The Bunny Boyz? The Money Boyz? Of course it was
the Honey Boyz. The fucking Honey Boyz. And PDQ? That little prick was
the worst of them...
So
that was the current life of Patrick Donald Quinn. Some money in the bank, yes,
but always trying to stay one step ahead of those who wanted to punish him for
his past. Did he think he deserved it? Kind of. But should it last forever?
Should one be hounded forever for being in a boy band? Some thought yes, their
hatred still burning after all these years. They’d find him again, oh yes, they’d
find him again.
The
Honey Boyz formed in Orlando, achieved their fame in Los Angeles, then crashed
and burned when they tried to cross over into television and movies in
Hollywood. Their crime was getting older, for being grown men now. Well, that
and a lack of marketable talent. What was a Honey Boy to do now but to go back
home. Restart and reinvent his life. Buzz…
Patrick
did not go home to Orlando though. He met a girl and returned with her to her
hometown of Highlands Ranch, Colorado. They married, bought a home, and had two
children. Years passed. One day they sold their tiny condominium and bought a
larger home near the town center. They were now in an actual neighborhood with
other young families with kids. There were school plays to attend and parties
to go to. Wait, parties to go to? That was a problem.
“You
don’t want to go to the party?” said Patrick’s wife, Sherry. “But they’re
welcoming us into the neighborhood. We have to go.”
“Can’t
I be sick?”
“Patrick,
you’re being ridiculous. Nobody is going to bother you. They don’t care about
any of that past stuff out here.”
“Oh
yeah? Can I quote you on that?”
So
Patrick and family went to the party, an indoor/outdoor affair with plenty of
people, plenty of drink and merriment. After a while Patrick was so comfortable
he left Sherry’s side and ventured off to the keg out back. He pumped the keg
alone but was soon joined by another man. Patrick poured the guy a beer.
“You
look familiar to me,” said the squared-shouldered, big-bellied man. “Do I know
you?”
“I
don’t think so,” replied Patrick, uneasily. “I’m just the new guy in the
neighborhood.”
“Still,
I think I know you.”
“No,”
said Patrick, turning away, “you don’t.”
Patrick
lost himself in the small crowd of guests and tried to become as inconspicuous
as possible. Every now and then he spied big belly and had to quickly relocate.
Eventually though, he was cornered and had to confront the inevitable, his
inglorious past, his cross to bear, his Honey Boy days.
“This
is killing me because I know I’ve seen you somewhere. Were you in a commercial,
on television?”
“No
commercials,” said Patrick.
“It’s
eating me up. Come on, where have I seen you?”
“I
was in a band,” said Patrick, sheepishly. “It was a long time ago.”
“What
band? I’ll know it.”
“I
was in the Honey Boyz,” Patrick confessed. “It was a long time ago. Just let it
go.”
“The
Honey Boyz? Are you fucking kidding me? You tell me you were in the Honey Boyz
and you want me to let it go?”
“I’ll
pay you to let it go,” said Patrick. “I swear to God.”
“Which
one were you anyway?”
“It
doesn’t matter,” said Patrick.
“Which?”
“PDQ,
alright. I was PDQ.”
“PDQ,”
sneered big belly. “Oh, you were the worst, PDQ. With that stupid haircut, and
the fancy facial hair, and up on stage shaking your booty for teenage girls…”
“Just
stop it. I’ve been punished enough.”
“You
claim you were in a band,” said big belly, “but that wasn’t a band-band,
that was a boy band. There’s a big difference. I’m afraid I can’t live in the
same neighborhood with a boy bander.”
“Look,”
pleaded Patrick, “we didn’t commit any crimes.”
“You,
sir, committed a crime against rock and roll.”
“Oh,
come on. Look, I was dirt poor, I had no place to live, I was eating garbage. I
had no education, no talent to do anything at all. Do you have any idea what I
had to go through to get the boy band gig in the first place?”
“I’ll
bet.”
“Come
on, man. Can’t you just leave it alone?”
“No,
sorry, I just can’t. We’re going to have to step outside.”
This
was the worst part for Patrick, the stepping outside. He knew what was coming,
but it was their decision…
“Okay,”
said big belly once outside, “prepare to be pummeled. Accept your fate.”
Big
belly reared back and took a mighty swing at Patrick, but there was no Patrick.
He was up in a tree overhead. “Hey, what the…” said big belly.
“I’m
up here,” said Patrick.
“Hey,
you get down here and take your lumps. How did you get up there anyway?”
Patrick
jumped down from the tree and stood in front of big belly. Big belly took
another swing, but alas, no Patrick. He was up on the roof.
“Jesus-God,
where are you now?” said an exasperated big belly.
“Up
here on the roof. You should join me. It’s nice.”
“How
did you do that? How did you get up there?”
“There’s
something you should know about boy banders,” said Patrick. “The fact is we can
fly. It has to be this way. We can’t afford to be punched and kicked. It’d ruin
our looks. It’s in all of our contracts.”
“Oh
yeah,” said big belly. “Well maybe I’ll take out my gun. I’ve shot down plenty
of birds, PDQ. Let’s see how fast you can fly.”
“Don’t
bother,” said Patrick, snapping his fingers and disappearing into thin air. “We
can turn invisible too.”
In
an instant big belly was being pummeled himself from something unseen. When at
last he got up he called out, feebly, “PDQ? PDQ? Where are you, PDQ?”
“You
should go now,” said Patrick, hovering high overhead. “You should go now…fast.”
And
go big belly did, and he never bothered Patrick again. Boy band power!
The
end.
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