She Ain't Heavy, She's My Mother (17 page)

To celebrate my Broadway debut, Mom invited all of our family and friends to New York to see me in the show,
followed by a post-theatre dinner at the Russian Tea Room. Since she never had a daughter to officially launch into the world with a proper “coming out,” Gayle treated this night as a sort of debut party for me. It wasn’t the typical white-dress-and-curtsey debut, but it was a debut nonetheless, and she was not going to let this once-in-a-lifetime moment pass without the proper attention it deserved. Mom spared no expense; she had custom invitations created with the all-too-precious wording “They say the starlight sure shines bright
… ON BROADWAY!”
About three dozen family members and family friends came up en masse for the event. After the matinee, the house manager of the Gershwin Theater knocked on my dressing room door, saying, “Bryan, I don’t know if you realize this, but there is a large group of people waiting in the lobby. I believe your mother is here with quite a few ladies, and they all have on furs.”

“I am so sorry, Rick,” I said. “I told her over and over to come to the stage door. Is there any way I could take them on set for a quick tour?”

“I think this will be the largest group ever, but all right.”

I brought all of them up on stage, to the elation of Moozie and Donna and her daughter Whitney, one of my seven sweet godchildren. As I pointed out the dangers and mechanics of the treacherous set, I looked over at Mom, beaming with joy as she spoke with the Watkins twins. Some photos were taken, and as the tour was coming to an end and as I was showing everyone to the elevator and stairwell, my dad’s best friend who just happens to be Aunt Carol’s husband, Uncle Jack put his arm around me
and said, “You know, your daddy would be so proud of you. You did this all on your own. Nobody could make a call or set this up, you did it, and no one can take that away from you. It’s rare to get to live your dream.” He paused for a second, then went on, “Did I tell you the one about the rabbi, the priest, and the Baptist?”

“No, Uncle Jack … but thank you.”

In college I had grown quite inclusive and loved making friends from all walks of life, from all cultural backgrounds, and while some of my friends only ran with their “set,” I couldn’t wait to meet different people, artistic people—actors, musicians, writers, and more. Mom knew that this would not just be a little social debut, but my real debut, and the invitation list reflected this promise, New Orleans meets Broadway. Cocktails and wine flowed like the Mississippi. If there is one thread that ties my taste in friends together, it is the love of a good time and the ability to celebrate, so after the Russian Tea Room all that were willing joined the caravan of cabs to my one-bedroom flat, where we danced the night away. Yes, threats to call the police were made by my neighbors, and finally, by Tuesday night’s performance, my hangover had kindly released me from its agonizing clutches.

One year later, the train had derailed—
Starlight Express
was closing. After the final performance, I rolled down the linoleum corridors and climbed up two flights of stairs on my rubber toe stops, with tears rolling down my ridiculously painted face. It had been a magical year. Even tearing the cartilage in my knee during my second-act number, followed by surgery and six weeks
of recovery, seemed a small price to pay for the thrill of being a part of this show, but now it was all over and I was inconsolable.

Jane Krakowski, who played Dinah the dining car, did her best to comfort me, assuring me there would be other shows. Although she was only nineteen years old at the time, she had a wealth of experience in show business and had already been nominated for a daytime Emmy for her moving portrayal of T. R. Kendall on
One Life to Live
. I appreciated her sage showbiz advice, but I also had a closet crush on her and secretly wished that we could date. But Jane had been around the theatrical block before, and intuitively knew in which direction my preferences
really
went.

Although I desperately tried to keep my desires hidden, it was clear to many people that I was just knock, knock, knockin’ on the closet door. I constantly tried to suppress my undeniable attraction to men, and frequently as well as willingly lost the battle. Yet I was able to find beautiful, virtuous young ladies to date and share enjoyable yet alcohol-induced relations, but these liaisons were fireworks free. At the ripe age of twenty-four, I somehow attracted young women to beard. I didn’t know any better. This little deception was all well and good for a while because I truly couldn’t fathom an “out” gay life.

Instead, after a climax-free hetero date and an ample dose of vodka, this handsome young buck would don a pair of tight Levi’s and hit The Works, a gay bar on Columbus Avenue. I’d amble in trembling with desire, fear, lust, and raging guilt, but nothing could stop me. No matter how I tried to reverse my tracks, my feet had wings and
led me closer. Within minutes of entering the dark bar and a few pounding strains of “Relax” by Frankie Goes to Hollywood, eye contact would be made, followed by a smile and a slinky exit to his place. I never revealed my real name. There are quite a few willing men who may fondly remember a midnight tryst with the elusive and tipsy Brad, Rick, or Craig.

These lurid encounters were often thrilling and for an instant satisfying, but then the waves upon waves of fear and guilt, guilt and fear would hit. I’d daydream nightmarish scenarios of jealous lovers “outing me” to my shocked and unsuspecting mother and family in the middle of a packed Galatoire’s restaurant on a Sunday evening where everyone knew everyone, including those who were at my Russian Tea Room debut, and all would be horrified. Even Nelson, our family waiter, would shake his head in disbelief and disdain as he handed my sobbing mother a freshly pressed white linen napkin and served the piping hot soufflé potatoes. Being outed seemed a fate worse than death; coming out was utterly unimaginable.

Until then, I never knew people in real gay relationships. Like so many, I never had a role model. And one can’t really count ponytailed and bronze-blushed George, Mom’s ex-hairdresser turned wardrobe supervisor for Siegfried and Roy. (Let’s be honest, after coiffing Gayle, really where else was he to turn?) My biggest fear was that I was doomed to live the rest of my life alone and, worse, loveless.

Jane, prudent beyond her years, and gifted with an understanding soul, told me that I could be anything I wanted to be and love anyone I wanted to. She also advised
me to save some money from my paycheck each week, as actors never knew when the next job was going to appear. Foolishly, I didn’t listen to her and thought the show would never close, and that once on Broadway, always on Broadway. Big mistake!

Once the show did close, it would be weeks before I could collect my much-needed unemployment benefits, and I had vowed, since my father’s untimely passing, never to burden my mother with my financial woes. So, reluctantly, I called my former employer to eat crow and, if necessary, beg her to give me back my old job as a “fragrance model,” the lowest rung on the modeling ladder, at Bloomingdale’s, the Ringling Brothers of retail. I was paid to obnoxiously invade innocent customers’ personal space and force them, with a plastic smile affixed to my face, to sample the latest designer aromas—perfumes, eau de toilettes, and every imaginable crème, gel, or body douche—and sell, sell, and sell. It’s not that ghastly, once you come to terms with embarrassment and degradation. The pay is decent, the hours are flexible so there’s time to go to auditions, and samples abound so that my friends and I always smelled clean, spicy, or musky, depending on the vendor.

Fortunately, they took me back, and on my first day I was warmly greeted by a few of the same co-workers who had bid me adieu for the lights of Broadway just a year ago. Eric, a fleshy, aging twink with an overly high and low-lighted bleached blond wedge haircut, was the exception. This egomaniacal poof referred to himself in the third person as Mr. Eric, and worse, he was a self-absorbed, self-proclaimed expert on all aspects of the business of
“show,” from Hell’s Kitchen gossip to cutting-edge MTV pop music trivia:

“Mr. Eric thinks little Miss Whitney thing is fierce, girl” … “Patty Lupone, ooh, don’t make Mr. Eric go there, chile, unless you want a pyrotechnical display, the diva can sing down.”

Every clichéd statement was buttoned with the hackneyed triple snap. He wore so heavily on everyone’s nerves, but especially on mine. He was out, open, and free. He was himself. He frightened me. He saddened me. He made me wonder what my life would become. Fear fueled by fear.

In all fairness, I have to admit, he did have some semblance of wit, which I envied. When a new perfume line, like Dior’s Poison, was being launched and the main drag of the fragrance promenade was completely carpeted in purple plush, with wild green and golden vines wrapped around every column, I and the other part-time retail sheep would follow the strict pitch lines and approach dictated by both Bloomie’s and the Christian Dior reps. Not Mr. Eric:

“Ladies, be the first on your block to Poison your husband, the newest and hottest fragrance from the one and only legendary fashion icon Christian Dior, introducing Poison. It’s to die for!”

“Try some Poison?”

“May I Poison you, ma’am?”

What rankled most was that people lapped it up. He was a success. Meanwhile, I just sucked in my cheeks to give the appearance of sculpted cheekbones like a real model and ask if passersby would care to try this new stuff called Poison. The more he hawked, the more I tried
the sexy soft sell. The more flamboyantly he raved, the more pantherlike I posed.

And as the day progressed, and I became a mannequin in response to Mr. Eric’s fabulousness, the Dior reps asked me to be more clever and energetic in my sales approach, to “say and spray” more like Mr. Eric. All day, all I heard was Mr. Eric, Mr. Eric, Mr. Eric.

Just as the day was thankfully crawling to an end, Lorna of the Bloomie’s fragrance brass sauntered to my side. She was an emaciated, painfully platinum permed woman with a disturbingly crinkled Louis Vuitton Bocca tan, which had prematurely aged her bitter rainbow-painted face. Why is it that people in the cosmetics sales business find the need to wear as many possible shades of eye shadow, blush, and lipstick all at the same time, as if they were a living display palette? Lorna was the rule rather than the exception. Her motto was “More is more, and it’s not done until it is overdone.” Whatever the trend du jour was, she raped it. Fresh from her Virginia Slims cigarette break, which was every fifteen minutes, she graveled, “Bry baby, the frog fags at Dior think you’re cute, but they’re not having your ‘subtle’ approach at all what-so-ev-a, and to tell you the shit, neither am I. So tomorrow I’m switching you to Perry Ellis, and pep it up or it’s bye-bye Bloomie’s, hello Della Caravaggio House of Pasta, you get the drift, toots. See you tomorrow, and wear something Perry Ellissy—and tight. Ciao bella, I mean bello, wink, wink, kiss, kiss, whateva.”

The next day I wore aubergine pleated trousers and a black turtleneck under a signature plaid Perry Ellis blazer—in fact it was the very one from his fall ad campaign, the
last collection he designed before he died from AIDS. Thank God for the “sample sale” industry, which would not only clothe me in the latest styles at a fraction of the cost, but would also allow me more flexible hours of employment stocking racks upon racks, assisting incredibly rude, fashion-challenged people’s decisions, and keeping the wig-wearing garmento wives from killing each other and everyone else at the dreaded Escada sale.

Walking to Bloomie’s, as if I were walking the Perry Ellis runway, a skill I had mastered years ago by studying the fashion show videotapes in the designer sections of Rubenstein Brothers of New Orleans, I pondered possible pitches to impress Lorna and other cosmetic hags. My primary aim, though, was to outshine Mr. Eric.
They want pizzazz, they’re going to get it
, I thought.

I galloped onto the perfumery gallery at peak stride, and executed a perfect one-and-a-half Dior turn, then dramatically snapped my head east, fixing my now smoldering eyes on Lorna. “Mr. B’s the name, fragrance is the game.”

Impressed by my newfound self-confidence and runway prowess, Lorna, stifling an emphysemic hack, growled, “Better, bubee, love the way the hair keeps moving even after you’ve stopped, now that’s talent, my fried mop is so plastered with that stiff stuff shit it’s about to break off, and then what? Yours truly will look like a Chernobyl gerbil with a tan, God forbid.” I rattled off my new pitch lines:

“The fashion, the flair, the style, the scent, it’s essential Ellis for men.”

“Sample the casual elegance that is the world of Perry Ellis.”

“Perry is sooooooo
very.”

Lorna pointed to the door and exclaimed, “Get out there and spray, baby, spray!”

Now on a male fragrance-model high, without even inhaling the aromatic fumes, I strutted my cookies out to the bustling Bloomie’s cosmetic drag, turning on a dime, flipping and working my newfound best attribute—my hair.

My long bangs were still in motion when I spotted Mr. Eric. He was working, of all designers, Calvin. Calvin Klein! The be-all and end-all of American contemporary design. Calvin redefined fashion, invented the camel-toe designer jean, brought back the bomber jacket, and, of course, Calvin, his classic first male fragrance in the navy blue streamlined bottle, my signature, which I was wearing right then, and perhaps too much of it. I liked Perry’s scent, but it really was too sweet, for me, and even though “Calvin” was a bit musky, the touch of citrus made it a classic. I did know my designer colognes.

Mr. Eric was standing there head to toe in the newest Calvin Klein triumph of design—draped beige. Before it was black, black, black, and then draped beige. Calvin is so revolutionary. Mr. Eric looked me up and down, and grinned, because he knew I was perfect Perry, and he was cookie-cutter Calvin.

“Sample the casual elegance that is the world of Calvin Klein.”

That was my line, dammit. Literally. I had come up
with that simple yet poignant catchphrase, and in the blink of an eye, I had been robbed.