CHORUS OF ONLOOKERS:

I know this can’t be easy for you.

Just hold your smile

and see it through.

Everybody’s watching—

they always do.

Step forward

and forward

and never forget

the person standing next to you.

TINY:

In so many ways you amaze me.

DAD:

In so many ways you amaze me.

CHORUS OF ONLOOKERS:

I know this can’t be easy for you.

But it can be so many other things too.

TINY:

So hold your smile

DAD:

and see it through.

TINY AND DAD:

Together

we can do this.

You and I.

Here and now.

TINY:

You throw the ball and hope—

DAD:

You catch the ball and run—

TINY:

You walk wide—

DAD:

You walk tall—

TINY:

You don’t hide—

DAD:

You don’t fall—

TINY AND DAD:

Step forward

and forward

and never forget

the person standing next to you.

They make it through. With style.

ACT I, SCENE 8

Tiny comes downstage again, to allow for the scenery to change.

TINY:

Next up was Phil Wrayson. In order to come out to him, I invited him to the Gay Pride Parade in Boystown. For those of you not from the Chicago area, Boystown is, well, the place in town where boys who like boys go to be boys who like boys and see other boys who like boys. You would think that this destination alone would have been my coming-out statement, but such is the logic of a boy coming out to his best friend that even at a Gay Pride Parade, the conversation needed to be had, no matter how nervous-making it was.

As Tiny is talking, the stage transforms into a Pride parade, complete with drag queens, leather daddies, gay parents, and (if you can fit them onstage) Dykes on Bikes. Phil Wrayson is right there with them, looking out of place, but not self-consciously so.

PHIL (coming up to Tiny):

I’m trying to imagine what the straight equivalent of this would look like.

TINY:

The morning commute?

PHIL:

I was just asked by a drag queen if I was into otters. I’m hoping she didn’t mean that literally. That has to be a nickname for something, right?

TINY (nervously):

Phil, there’s a reason I brought you here.

PHIL (not getting it):

I hope it’s not to pimp me out to otters. Truly, I’m not into otters.

TINY:

Phil, I’m gay.

PHIL (mock-stunned):

No!

TINY (in earnest):

It’s true.

PHIL:

You mean, like, you’re happy.

TINY:

No, I mean, like, that guy is hot.

He points to a hot guy in a skintight yellow tank top—or some such article of clothing. You know, the kind where the guy looks more naked than if he were actually naked?

TINY:

And if I talked to him for a while and he had a good personality and respected me as a person I would let him kiss me on the mouth.

PHIL (appearing not to comprehend):

You’re gay?

TINY:

Yeah. I know it’s a shock. But I wanted you to be the first to know. Other than my parents, I mean.

As Phil continues to mime shock—strike up the band! The music begins.

[“DUDE, YOU COULDN’T BE GAYER”]

PHIL (singing now):

You’re gay?

Next you’re gonna tell me the sky is blue,

that you use girl shampoo,

that critics don’t appreciate Blink-182. Oh, next you’re gonna tell me the Pope is Catholic,

that hookers turn tricks,

that Elton John sucks HEY!

Tiny has shoved him playfully, and the song turns into a call-and-response. The choreography should have them dancing around the Pride parade, not unlike Ewan and Nicole dancing on top of the elephant in Moulin Rouge! At some point, you might want to have the background Pridesters form a Rockettian kickline.

TINY:

But I’m a football player!

PHIL:

Dude, you couldn’t be gayer.

TINY:

I thought my straight-acting deserved Tonys.

PHIL:

You own a thousand My Little Ponies!

TINY:

Is it really so obvious?

PHIL:

Only in the same way that

the sun rises in the east,

The Lion King vilifies the wildebeest,

Harry Potter has a lightning scar,

and Republican politicians can be found sneaking

into every gay bar.

TINY:

I’m gay!

PHIL:

Hey hey hey!

TINY:

Gayer than a three-dollar bill.

PHIL:

Gayer than The Real Housewives of Beverly Hills.

TINY:

Gayer than a Fire Island share.

PHIL:

Gayer than bleach-blond hair.

TINY:

I couldn’t be gayer . . .

PHIL:

. . . if you memorized all seven seasons of Buffy the Vampire Slayer!

TINY:

I couldn’t have a more homo strut . . .

PHIL:

. . . if Neil Patrick Harris was up your WHOA!

TINY:

And you don’t mind?

PHIL:

No more than I mind

the sun setting in the west,

Dolly Parton’s immortal chest,

puffy shirts at a Renaissance Fest,

or little birds chirping cutely in a nest.

You don’t want me, do you?

TINY:

I would prefer a kangaroo!

PHIL:

Phew!