Читать книгу When The Stars Come Out - Rob Byrnes - Страница 10

My life has had three acts.

Act One began when I was born in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania in 1934.

Act Two began when I was reborn on a soundstage in Los Angeles, California in 1969, on the day my eyes met the eyes of a stranger.

In those first two acts of my life—almost evenly split, chronologically—I led two very different lives. With my youth came a modest degree of fame; with my middle age came a great degree of love. And through those two acts of my life, I became a complete individual.

Now, as I enter my golden years, comes Act Three. The third act is where the plotlines are all drawn together, and you learn if you have been watching comedy unfold, or tragedy.

This is my story…

Los Angeles, California, September 1969

Step left. Step left. Turn to the right. Remember to keep a bounce in your knees. Step right. Turn to the left…

He moved across the floor of the soundstage, and hundreds of hours of rehearsals ran through his head. If he wasn’t particularly elegant or light on his feet, his movements were fluid, showing no trace of self-consciousness.

Turn right. Look at her. Hold the gaze. Smile…and…

She stopped singing.

Sing.

We have the moon, we have romance,

We have to take this one last chance,

So take my hand,

And take me out,

To somewhere where we’ll see the stars come out.

He sang his five lines to her in an unexceptional yet on-key baritone, and when he was done she picked up the song again. Then, again, he was dancing the steps that had been drilled into his head and his legs over hundreds—or was that thousands?—of hours of rehearsals.

Step right. Step right. Turn away. Remember to bounce. Slide to the right. Turn back. Turn away. Step…

He pivoted at the hip to look at her one last time, and when he turned away from her yet again, well …

That was when their eyes met.

For decades after that moment, they would describe it as “The Glance.” It was immortalized on film, made timeless by the cameras that captured it that day. But that was just the bonus … the moment they could replay over and over again, watching themselves in all their youthful glory.

More importantly—much more importantly—The Glance would be forever immortalized in their hearts.

For decades, they would agree that it had been a good day on the soundstage, which was fortunate, because it was also one of their last days on a soundstage. The Glance began a relationship, ended another relationship, destroyed some careers, and began others. It drove some people apart and taught others how to love.

But whenever Quinn Scott and Jimmy Beloit thought back to that day when their eyes locked on that soundstage, it was as if nothing bad had ever happened in their lives. It was as if theirs were not the careers destroyed, and they had not been the ones evicted from Eden.

Because they had found each other. And that, they knew, was all that was important.

At least, for the first thirty-six years. The thirty-seventh year, on the other hand, would prove to be a bit more problematic.

New York City, September 1970

It was Friday, which meant it was Date Night.

Every Friday since they had returned from their honeymoon had been Date Night, and this Friday would be no different. Even though the husband was growing slightly bored with the marriage … even though the wife was growing impressively pregnant with their first child … even though the night in New York was cold and wet … it was Friday, and it was Date Night. If it had been a federal law instead of a married couple’s custom, the Friday pattern could not have been followed more rigorously.

For Max and Frieda Abraham, Date Night followed a pattern that had, over the five years of their marriage, slowly evolved from a way to keep the relationship fresh into a numbing routine. They would dress and be out the door of their Park Avenue apartment—too expensive for their struggling budget, and too far uptown to be fashionable—no later than 6:30. They would indulge themselves with a cab, when they could find one, and travel to a movie theater somewhere north of Forty-second Street, the demarcation line at which they felt a cab ride would become cost prohibitive. They would almost always catch a movie, followed by a late dinner. And, after dinner, they would cab back to the apartment, arriving home no later than midnight. Frieda would go straight to bed, and Max would join her an hour or so later, first stopping to pore over the work he inevitably brought home in his briefcase, preparing for another long Saturday in the law office.

After almost 280 Date Nights, they both knew it was growing stale. Now, on most Date Nights, they barely spoke, except to review the movie they had just seen, or to review the food they were eating. Frequently, they both thought that they should tell the other that the routine-breaker had become a routine, but then they thought better of it, under the mistaken impression that their spouse still needed the break and that Date Night somehow continued to keep their relationship fresh and romantic.

Date Night on the third Friday of September 1970 started with a cab ride through rain-slicked streets to a theater near the Plaza Hotel, where they watched the colorful Kitty Randolph musical, When the Stars Come Out. For a new film, Max thought, it was already dated; a lavish Technicolor musical in 1970 seemed passé by a dozen years or so. American society had been transformed by Vietnam, Woodstock, rock ’n’ roll, and marijuana. Even the gays were becoming visible in the wake of the previous year’s Stonewall riot. The American musical had transitioned from Oklahoma to Hair.

But on the screen, girl-next-door Kitty Randolph was still being romanced by blandly handsome leading man Quinn Scott in a colorful, imaginary world devoid of real-world concerns. She was the new-to-the-big-city ingénue, bravely fighting the corporate structure in a San Francisco advertising agency and struggling to be taken seriously as a woman and a professional; he was the chauvinistic ad man won over by her charms and talent. They met, fought, flirted, fell in love, and, of course, sang unmemorable songs to each other.

The minor nod to female empowerment aside—already done better and more effectively by real life—the movie was an anachronistic crowd pleaser. And Kitty Randolph was no longer the fresh-faced child-woman of her early career. Now somewhere in the gray area between thirty and forty, her youthful appearance came largely courtesy of soft focus. All in all, When the Stars Come Out had the feel of desperation to it, as if the producers felt they could hold on to a past that was quickly fading away … if it had not already disappeared.

Or at least that was how Max reviewed the movie over dinner.

“Not a bad movie, but it feels like it comes from another era.”

Frieda focused on her salad, gently poking the tines of her fork into iceberg lettuce. It annoyed Max when she did that.

“They’re getting divorced, you know,” she said finally, as she humanely speared a leaf at its corner and dipped it in the salad dressing pooled at the side of her plate.

“Who?”

“Kitty Randolph and Quinn Scott.”

Max had not even known they were married in real life. For that matter, he had not even cared. Still, Kitty Randolph was America’s girl-next-door, the kind of woman who did not get divorced. Even in racy, tumultuous 1970.

“Where did you hear that?”

“I read it,” said Frieda, again gently poking her lettuce leaves. “In one of my magazines.”

Max sighed. Her damn celebrity magazines, cluttering up the apartment. He hated them almost as much as he hated watching her poke the lettuce, and almost as much as he was growing to hate Date Night…but, of course, he would not say a word.

Frieda continued. “It’s all very mysterious. No scandal, like Elizabeth Taylor and Eddie Fisher and that poor Debbie Reynolds. They just…split up. One day they were together, and the next, he was gone.”

“He walked out on her?”

“He walked out. Or so they say. I read that he’s quitting the movies and moving to Long Island or something. I think he has a house out there.”

Max immediately decided that Quinn Scott was his hero. Any man who could just walk away had to be heroic, because most men—even hard-driving fourth-year associates at major law firms, like Max—were trained to just sit back and endure it for the rest of their lives. Like Max, they would marry at twenty-six, decide it was a boring mistake at thirty, and live silently with that mistake for another forty or fifty years.

True, Quinn Scott was not just any man. He was, like his wife, an actor, although not nearly as accomplished. He was that guy who you sort of thought you knew from supporting roles in John Wayne movies or insipid comedies, which, while not superstardom, put him leagues ahead of all the actors you didn’t sort of think you knew. And for three years in the ’60s he had played the lead in television’s moderately popular crime drama Philly Cop, which certainly counted for something, if not quite immortality.

So quitting the acting business? Max would believe it when he saw it. He was probably just diminishing expectations, to better make a graceful transition back to television. And anyway, there were worse ways for a man to spend those last forty or fifty years.

“Max?” asked Frieda. “You’re so quiet. Is something wrong?”

“No,” he said, catching a sidelong glimpse of the curvaceous cocktail waitress out of the corner of his eye as she passed and wondering not about her sexual voltage, but whether she, too, poked at her salad, one lettuce leaf at a time. “Just thinking about the movie. Go finish poking your salad.”

“What?”

“Eating your salad.”

She looked at him, not quite comprehending his words but still knowing that there was something about the way she was eating her salad that annoyed him. Her first instinct was to push the salad plate away; her second instinct—the one she obeyed—was to finish the salad at her own pace. She picked up the fork and began poking.

Max was saying something, but his words weren’t registering with her. Instead, she was thinking about how fabulous it must be to walk in Kitty Randolph’s shoes. Rich, famous, and now free to live her life exclusively by her own rules. And if the world, like her husband, thought When the Stars Come Out was anachronistic, well, the heck with them. Kitty Randolph didn’t need a man, and neither did…

She felt something.

“Max,” she said, in an instant forgetting her dissatisfaction as she looked at her husband and beamed. “The baby! It kicked!”

Washington, DC, September 2005

Noah Abraham kicked, and the wastepaper basket toppled over. Balls of crumpled paper poured out and rolled across the slightly warped hardwood floor of his living room.

Damn The Project…damn The Project that was slowly but steadily frustrating him, destroying every last trace of his creativity.

Noah had months earlier stopped thinking of it quaintly as “his project.” Now it had a capital T and a capital P: The Project. It was the quintessence of a good idea gone heartbreakingly bad and, in the process, consuming him. It cost him sleep, it brought on unfamiliar frustration, it stopped his creativity dead in its tracks. In short, it was a major pain in his ass.

He didn’t consider himself a quitter, but The Project had been making him reconsider. He didn’t quit when he sank a ton of family money on a weekly community newspaper in western Massachusetts, exposed a hotbed of municipal and business corruption, then learned belatedly that weekly community newspapers depend for their survival on the goodwill and advertising dollars of municipal officials and business leaders. Yes, the paper had to close, but he hadn’t quit.

He didn’t quit when his stint at an environmental group ended after a series of unfortunate run-ins with the executive director. The woman was an egotistical, incompetent jerk, running the organization into the ground and compromising its principles. Just because the board of directors unanimously if erroneously decided that he, not the director, was the problem, thereby bringing about his abrupt severance pay–free exit from the staff, he hadn’t quit. And the fact that the executive director later took a job as a petrochemical lobbyist proved his point, in a sense. Yes, she remained on friendly terms with the not-for-profit board and had quadrupled her salary but, to Noah, it was a moral victory, and he moved on. He didn’t quit.

And then came his project, which quickly morphed into The Project, and that, well…that made him want to quit. It was dead end after dead end, a string of furtive meetings and mumbled conversations offering neither insight nor depth. It was a maddening process yielding questionable results, at best.

And, worst of all, there was no one else to blame. No corrupt politicians, no incompetent executive director…Noah Abraham had only Noah Abraham’s brainchild to blame. And his brainchild had grown into a very troublesome, morose, uncooperative, and disobedient brain-adolescent.

In his idealistic moments, he told himself he would push on, despite feelings of hopelessness and frustration. He had always moved on. He had moved on from the newspaper to the environmental group to The Project, and he would just keep moving.

But in his realistic moments, he thought, Well, what the fuck did you expect when you decided to write a book about closeted gay congressional staffers? To which his only answer was, “Seemed like a good idea at the time.”

Noah picked up the spilled wastepaper basket contents and tried to press on, repeating his “you are not a quitter” mantra to the point where it became numbing. But it was too late; his eyes were now open. He had a great book idea, confirmed by a decent advance from a decent publisher, but there were good ideas and there were good ideas that are ultimately unworkable, and Noah was coming to the conclusion that his months of research would have no payoff.

He sat back on the couch, briefly closing his eyes and wishing everything would become clearer and easier. He wished…he wished he could understand.

Noah Abraham understood a lot of things—the AP Stylebook, the rules of most professional sports, the novels of Fitzgerald, the electoral college system, and on and on—but he did not understand the closet. He spoke a little Spanish, a little French, and even a little Russian, but he couldn’t speak the language of those people.

He tried to hide it and project empathy, but more than a few of Noah’s closeted subjects thought he was arrogant. That wasn’t just his supposition; they had told him that in no uncertain terms. To their faces, Noah conceded the point and apologized, but in his head he was never apologetic. First and foremost, his premise was, What is wrong with this person that, thirty-six years after Stonewall, he or she cannot come out? If closeted Washington could not deal with that premise, then it was their problem, not his.

Noah had done it, after all. He came out to his parents during his junior year of college, and had lived a full and openly gay life for the fourteen years since that day with no repercussions. Now, a few months short of his thirty-fifth birthday, he hoped to learn what led other people to bury their sexual identities for the real—or, more likely, imagined—sake of a job, family harmony, and social acceptance. He would write about his new insights and maybe change the world just a little bit for the better. He would help people embrace their sexuality and finally come to peace with themselves.

If only, he thought. If only…

If only these fucking people would say something! If only they’d let themselves be visible!

Racial minorities couldn’t hide their race. The handicapped couldn’t hide their handicaps. Religion, well…yes, you could hide your religion, but who bothered in 2005? As Noah saw it, it was only too many of his fellow homosexuals who were hiding. They were hiding, and they were mute.

Which made it his job to end the charade. Or so he saw it.

And The Project was to have been his tool to end the charade, but…

He walked to the kitchen, poured a glass of merlot, and again tried to wrap his head around his frustrations. It seemed like only moments had passed before he refilled the glass. And then he decided that maybe watching a movie on HBO would be less frustrating.

A few hours later, somewhere in the latter half of the movie, he felt no better. But at least he was a little bit drunk, which helped him fall asleep on the couch. Because those nights in bed, sober, torturing himself, were the worst.

Two hundred miles away, at the exact moment Noah was drifting off to sleep on his couch, Bart Gustafson strode into The Penthouse, a bar tucked onto a leafy side street on the Upper East Side of Manhattan. From the safety of the doorway, he carefully assessed the crowd before advancing forward, squeezing between patrons who lined the narrow space along the bar until he reached the spiral staircase leading to an upper level. There, as a pianist sang to an indifferent audience, the crowd was notably thinner. He easily found an opening at the bar and ordered a drink.

“You’re new here,” said the youthful bartender, as he set the scotch and soda on the bar. Bart couldn’t identify his slight accent. “I’m Paolo.”

“Bart,” he said in response, adding a friendly nod. “I’ve been here before, but it’s been a while.”

Paolo smiled. “You’ve been here before and still you came back?”

Bart scanned the room and laughed. “I guess I’m a glutton for punishment.” It was a joke, whether the bartender knew it or not. The Penthouse was the epicenter of the older gay bar crowd in New York, which was a demographic Bart felt comfortable with. He knew there were eyes in the room sizing him up—young, good-looking…was he new in town, lost, or a hustler?—but he paid them no mind. He was out for a friendly drink in a city that often overwhelmed him, and so he went for the comfort of The Penthouse and its gentlemanly clientele.

Bart waited until the pianist finished his unique version of Son of a Preacher Man to an almost unnoticeable smattering of applause before turning back to Paolo, who still stood nearby. “It’s sort of quiet up here tonight.”

“Mondays,” Paolo said, as he emptied a departed patron’s glass into the sink behind the bar. “It’s busier downstairs, but every place uptown is dead on Monday night. If you’re looking for action, I could recommend maybe a club in Chelsea.”

Bart shook his head. “No, I’m fine. It just seemed quiet.”

Paolo turned slightly while he straightened a row of stemware behind the bar, but kept his new customer in his peripheral vision. This kid was half the age of most of the men in the bar, and he didn’t want to go to Chelsea? Well, if he thought he was going to make cash transactions in the bar, he had better think again.

The glasses straightened, the bartender walked back to where Bart sat on the other side of the bar. On an ordinary night he might not have bothered, but with seven patrons lining the polished wood bar—all of whom had full drinks in front of them—he had the time and, more importantly, he had the curiosity.

“So, what brings you out tonight?” he asked, when he had Bart’s attention.

“Oh, I just came in from Long Island for the week. Sort of a mini-vacation.”

“I see. A vacation from your boyfriend?”

“No, I’m single,” Bart said, and he wondered if the bartender was trying to pick him up, which in turn intruded on his comfort level. “I just needed to get away for a few days.”

“You live alone on Long Island?”

What was it with this guy? “No. I live with a couple of older guys.” He hoped that would warn the bartender away.

Paolo smiled conspiratorially. “So you’re like a houseboy?”

Bart sighed. “Uh…yeah, sure.”

Now things began to make sense to Paolo, as he ticked off Bart’s comments in his head. The kid’s a houseboy for two older gentlemen, and he knew what that usually meant. Now he’s in town for a few days and he wants to hang around with the older crowd. Probably looking for a little business on the side. And he’d almost certainly get it: he was very good looking and obviously well built, and he had that All-American Boy look working with his Ralph Lauren shirt and khakis. He would be considered totally fuckable if he wandered into one of the hotter bars in Chelsea or Hell’s Kitchen…in fact, he could have any man in The Penthouse. He probably could have even had Paolo, had they met more innocently on one of those rare nights he wasn’t working.

True, Paolo—who had seen his share of hustlers pass through The Penthouse doors—wasn’t getting those vibes off him, but Bart was definitely getting the message…all the more so with every little bit of extra attention the bartender was giving him. And those messages made him uncomfortable.

For his part, Bart was now convinced that the bartender was, in fact, trying to pick him up. Why else would he be virtually on top of him, when he had a number of other patrons to talk to? Why else would he care about his relationship status? Or who he lived with?

He was relieved when Paolo finally excused himself to tend to another customer. But, sure enough, as soon as that drink was served, he was back.

“Another one?” he asked, motioning to Bart’s almost-empty glass.

“No, thanks.” He rose from his stool, dropped a few singles on the bar, and left. He really hadn’t wanted to return to the couch on which he’d be spending the week so early in the night, but the bartender’s attention was proving to be too much.

When he was gone, a regular customer seated at the other end of the bar asked Paolo, “So who was the cutie who just left?”

“Some ‘houseboy.’” Paolo’s eyes danced at the description. “He said he was just visiting. But I’m betting he’s a hustler.”

The man frowned. “Too bad he left. I wouldn’t have minded getting a piece of that.”

Paolo playfully swatted at the regular with his bar rag and said, “Yes, why should you be any different from everybody else?”