LARGETONY Blog

For the longest time I had no idea that the phrase “Friend of Dorothy” meant that someone is gay. Not sure when I figured it out. And I’m not completely sure how the phrase came about. I guess it must have something to do with the rainbow flag and “Somewhere Over The Rainbow.” Anyway, I ran across the phrase again the other day and it made me start thinking. What if Dorothy’s friends–the Scarecrow, the Tinman, and the Lion– were big queens?

So, I wrote this silly little piece about them going out on a fateful Friday night. In writing this, I realized that there is one thing good about being the quiet type and sort of keeping to myself when I do out. I get to hear lots of conversations. Who ever knew I was collecting material?

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“For Wizard’s sakes, what are you doing in there?” the Scarecrow shouted toward the bathroom down the hall.

His crossed leg dangled impatiently as he waited in the silence of the little cabin. The only sound in the front room came from the rhythmic ticking of the mantle clock. His attention went back and forth from thumbing through the pictures in an old issue of Entertainment Weekly (the one with Glinda on the cover) to peering at the hands of the timepiece. Scarecrow had no brain for telling time, but having glanced at the clock for the fifteenth time in what was probably fifteen minutes, he knew the night was slipping away. With a frustrated sigh, he tossed the old magazine onto the coffee table among the copies of Details and GQ. Then he thought better of it and restored the magazines to the perfectly ordered arrangement he found when he arrived at the Tinman’s place. Tinman could be very anal.

“Come on! Let’s go,” he shouted again.

No response. So Scarecrow headed down the hall and knocked on the bathroom door. “Tinny, it’s not getting any earlier. We’re whiling away the hours, here. Let’s go!”

When all he got was more silence, he grabbed the knob, knowing he’d find what he’d found countless times before. There was the Tinman, all his joints locked up. The only movement came from his eyes, which looked to the Scarecrow with a mixture of pleading and embarrassment.

Almost like it was ritual, Scarecrow rummaged in Tinman’s toilet kit for an oil can then methodically applied the remedy, starting at the jaw. “As many times as I have lubed you up, you think just once you’d buy me dinner first,” Scarecrow joked.

“Honey, how many times have I held your straw out of the way while you puked?” Tinman responded, working his elbows and knees.

“Touche,” acknowledged Scarecrow. “So what happened this time?”

“I was cleansing my pores. Too much steam,” Tinman explained.

“And now all you have to show for it is a bad breakout of rust.”

“No worries. I’ve got concealer,” Tinman chirped, pulling a spray can of primer out of the medicine cabinet.

Ten minutes later they were out the door and on their way down the Yellow Brick Road.

“So, where you want to go tonight,” Tinman asked.

“You ask that every Friday night as if there’s any place to go except into The City.

“Well, you never know when some place new might open up.”

“Oh, puleeze,” Scarecrow chuckled. “Nothing ever happens out here in the sticks.”

“Yeah. Not like the thrilling life on a farm,” Tinman quipped.

Scarecrow flinched a bit, but tried to not let it show. “My work keeps me living on the farm.”

“Work, or some farmer? Something’s keeping you, that’s for sure.”

“You don’t know what you are talking about!”

“Calm down, Scarecrow. It’s no secret that you are not exactly self-supporting. So, what if you spend the better part of the day on some farmer’s pole? We still love you anyway.”

“Heartless, bitch,” muttered Scarecrow.

Laughing like old pals, Scarecrow and Tinman continued on their little jaunt into The City. They knew they were about half way there when they had reached the bad part of the forest. On one corner was a gang of apple trees. “Looks like the bashers are out tonight, ” the Tinman warned.

“Those apple trees?”

“Yeah,” explained the Tinman. “They make you think they’re looking to get picked. Then once you lay a hand on their precious apples…WHAM!”

Scarecrow wondered if Tinman knew this from experience.

“So says the grapevine.”

“Hmmph,” scoffed Scarecrow, “you get them in the right mood and they’ll practically throw it at you.” Tinman raised his eyebrows at Scarecrow. Or so Scarecrow thought. It was hard to tell because everything was silver. Whatever the Tinman’s expression, Scarecrow decided it was best to save face. “Well, that’s what I heard…through the grapevine, of course.”

“Of course,” the Tinman smiled, knowingly.

A few blocks later, Scarecrow caught sight of someone in the shadows outside of “Wings.” The area was dimly lit by the neon sign over the entrance to the little dive. Still, he thought it was someone he recognized. “Is that who that who I think it is?”

Tinman squinted at the swishing figure up ahead. “Of course. Who else swings his tail like that?”

“Outside a place like that?” Scarecrow thought.

Lion was nervously pacing outside the bar. Seeing his two friends, he squealed and ran toward them.

“Where have you two been,” Lion mock-demanded, kissing each of them on the cheek.

“Question is where have you been. As if we didn’t already see,” Tinman retorted.

Lion waved off the suggestion. “Oh, I didn’t go in. You know what a coward I am. I must have stood on this sidewalk forever.”

“But a monkey bar?” Tinman asked, scornfully.

“Oh, don’t get your stuffing in a wad, Scarecrow. I was just browsing. Checking out the flyboys.”

“Better watch out for those military types. They run in packs. Groups of them looking for a tail to hook.” Scarecrow advised. “Might end up taking on more than you bargained for.”

“If only I had the nerve,” Lion let out a purring sigh as they continued on toward The City. “But boys like that have no interest in girls like me. You know how they are. A laundry list of things they don’t like…’No fats, no fems, no foreigners’.”

“Aww… don’t be so hard on yourself, sweetie,” cooed theTinman as he drew Lion into a sisterly hug. “You’re not a foreigner.”

It took him a second, but Lion caught the Timan’s dig. “Bitch!”

“Why does everybody keep calling me that?” cried the Tinman with false shock.

“Cause you are, Blanche. You are.” chimed in Scarecrow.

“I know you’re just joking, Tinny. But you’re right. If I don’t do something soon,” Lion moaned, poking at his chubbiness, “I’ll be shopping at Lion Bryant.”

Realizing his buddy was feeling a little self-conscious, Tinman decided to pump Lion up. “Are you doing something different with your hair?”

“You noticed,” Lion beamed with delight, “I had it done in The City.” Waving his hands airily, he continued. “You know. Snip, snip, here. Snip, snip, there. A couple of tra-la-las. What do you think?”

“I think somebody needs their curling license revoked,” chuckled Scarecrow.

Lion whirled around on Scarecrow with venom in his eyes. “And I think somebody could benefit from a little product. Look at those split ends. Honestly, Scarecrow, you hair looks like straw.”

“It is straw. I’m a scarecrow, dumb-ass.”

“You said it. Not me,” Lion quipped with a toss of his ribboned tresses.

Tinman knew that if the subject didn’t change quick, things could get really ugly. And he has spent enough Friday nights listening to Scarecrow and Lion bicker. “Soooo…what do you say we go to ‘Poppies’ tonight?”

“That place always puts me to sleep,” Lion vetoed.

Scarecrow, on the other hand, lit up at the suggestion. “But you can always count on Glinda to show up with a little snow to wake things up.”

“It’s a good thing you don’t have a brain,” Lion said with exasperation, “You’d just snort it away.”

“Speak of the devil,” Tinman said before Scarecrow and Lion had a chance to renew their snapping at each other. By this time the trio had reached the center of The City and found themselves in the midst of a big crowd that was forming to get a look at the giant TV screen mounted to one of the buildings bordering the square. Even traffic had stopped as driver’s craned their necks out the window to look up.

Scarecrow, Tinman, and Lion lifted their eyes to the jumbo picture where a satellite feed of Glinda loomed over them in glittering pink. Being outside, there was no sound, of course. So no one around them knew exactly what was going on. But it was definitely a news event. From the best they could make out, she was broadcasting from one of the villages (City people didn’t wear flower pots on their heads). In the background was a shack or a house or something that had caved in. And was there somebody underneath?

“Who’s her? Who’s her?” the Lion pointed excitedly at the screen.

Everyone gaped at the big-eyed creature wearing the checkered outfit and carrying the flip-top purse. She stood close to Glinda, who was addressing the little villagers. Some strange little ball of black fur danced at her feet. The trio was in awe, mesmerized. They never had seen anything like her.

“Whoever she is, she’s fabulous!” Scarecrow cried.

“She’s fierce,” added Lion.

A giant fireball suddenly appeared on the screen and the crowd recoiled, as one. If there had been much noise before, everything had now become hushed.

“Well, look who else is there, ” clucked the Scarecrow.

“Ugh,” grunted the Tinman when the green face filled the five-story screen. “What is with her and the make-up? Does she really think it looks good? Really, she ought to find a better color.”

“Like silver?” jabbed Scarecrow.

“Don’t make me light a match up in you.”

“Look!” the Lion interrupted. Any eyes there were not already glued to the screen quickly returned to it. “She’s trying to take the girl’s shoes. While she’s still wearing ‘em!”

“That bitch!” exclaimed Tinman.

“Not the word I would have used,” whispered Scarecrow. “But it rhymes.”

“Wicked!” Tinman chuckled.

Delighted gasps rang out through the crowd as they were all treated to live images of sparks shooting out of the dazzling shoes to burn the thieving fingertips. Even Glinda allowed herself a smug grin.

Never letting his eyes leave the screen, Tinman tipped his head toward Scarecrow, “So, you still think nothing ever happens out in the sticks?

This entry was posted on Wednesday, August 10th, 2005 at 12:49 am and is filed under humor, stories. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can skip to the end and leave a response. Pinging is currently not allowed.