Opening Doors

          The light is different here.  Early in the morning, there is an almost purple tint as the sun tries to burn through the clouds or fog.  Late in the afternoon, the sun casts a goldenrod color across the town, making the bay the most shocking color of blue I’ve seen.   I’m in Provincetown.  The end of the world.  The tip of the Cape.  Literally.  If I go any further, I’ll get wet.  I saw my utility bill for the first time yesterday.  They charge a delivery fee for electricity.  Like somebody planted the electricity, waited until electricity season, picked it when it was ripe, loaded it on a truck, and hauled it all the way out to Provincetown.  There are no chains, no malls.  No sweet tea from McDonald’s, no Big Macs and Whoppers.  No Starbucks.  No horns or sirens wailing.  No nine to five office job.  No homeless people bugging me for my last dollar.  No subways, no trains.  No Blue Door Video store where you can get a blow job anytime, day or night.  But there is the Dick Dock!

            The journey began on May 18^th.  Actually, I’m not sure when the journey really began.  I’m not sure when I became so disenchanted with my cushy $140 thousand dollar-a-year job as a glorified secretary that I quit without anything lined up.  Disenchanted with my routine.  With the sameness that had become my life.  Work and wine.  That’s what life had boiled down to.  And the occasional blow job by a stranger at Blue Door Video.  So I can’t pinpoint the exact time and date that this journey really began.  But I physically left New York City on May 18^th.  And I was sweating.

            I packed up half my life—all my tight little t-shirts and my skimpy bathing suits (or pretty panties as my friend Valerie calls them)—and left the other half—the boring sweaters and dress pants—in my apartment, which is being subletted by a friend.  I neglected to do a practice run with my suitcases, and I woke up profoundly hungover from the night before.  I almost gave myself both a hernia and a stroke trying to get all that shit through Penn Station at morning rush hour.  Who knew pretty panties could be so heavy?  I got on the train, threw my ton of suitcases in a corner and collapsed into my seat, a sweaty mess.  The lady next to me glanced over and quickly looked back down, certain she was seated next to a meth addict.  An hour later, I managed to heave myself into the bar car and downed a bottle of water and a bottle of orange juice.  Several hours later, after a train ride, a cab ride, and a ferry ride with a cute Pakistani, I arrived in Ptown.  My new temporary home.

            I’m still not quite sure what I’m doing here.  I do know that I’m working at a nice resort.  I work the front desk, and I serve cocktails at the nightly cabaret shows.  So basically I get to meet every single person who checks in the hotel and then spend the evenings around a bunch of comedians and drag queens.  And when the pool opens, I’ll be serving cocktails poolside in my pretty panties.  So I know I’m doing all of that, but on a grander scale I’ve not a clue.  Moments of panic grip the sensible side of me. 

            “What the fuck are you doing?  You gave up a great job, apartment to come live the life of a cocktail waiter and bohemian artist!  You’re an idiot!”

            Then, the romantic artist has his say.

            “Everything is fine.  Everything will work out.  You’ll be fine.  You’ll be okay.  Just keep writing.  Stay positive.  Have fun.  Fly.  And keep doing sit-ups.  Nobody wants to be served cocktails by a queen with a muffin top.”

            So maybe this is an existential crisis?  Maybe.  Mid-life crisis?  Possible.  But everyone here thinks I’m 32, so a mid-life crisis wouldn’t make sense.  They’ve no clue I’m approaching the age every gay guy on the planet winces when they hear.

            But even though I haven’t really figured out why I’m here, I’m happy as a clam.  I’ve escaped a stressful miserable job to take a summer and breathe.  To take stock and figure out my next step.  To write.  To read.  I’ve already read the memoirs of both Patti LuPone AND Susan Lucci, required reading for any fairy worth his salt.  And I’ve just started “Eat Pray Love.”  So maybe this will be my very own “Eat Pray Love.”  I’ve already eaten my weight in fried shrimp, lobster, pastas, and clam chowder.  I pray every night that the sit-ups will offset the breading and carbs.  And I’m quite taken with a certain investment banker who is also here for the summer.  Six-feet-four, manly, nicely built with just a little sheath of flab, enough to make him sexily flawed.  A hairy barrel chest, a crazy big smile, and equally crazy curly hair.  I mean, the kind of hair that your hands can get absolutely lost in.  For almost eight years, I searched New York City high and low, from the Hudson to the East River, in every bar, restaurant, and video store for a sexy investment banker.  It took me all of three weeks to find one in Ptown.

So that’s what I’ll continue to do.  Just live.  Be happy.  Dismiss the doubts and trust my decisions.  And enjoy my low-stress job on the beach.  I’ll continue to eat (and do sit-ups).  I’ll continue to pray.  And maybe even break a few hearts along the way.  In case no one has noticed, my shtick is to give each essay a “clever” name using something out of pop culture.  For example, last week’s essay entitled “Six Degrees of Cheyenne Jackson.”  But for the most part, I name them after songs that I love.  Mostly showtunes.  Last week, my dear friend Lindsy sent me a huge coffee table book.  An anthology on the life and career of Barbra Streisand.  Again, a must-read for any card-carrying fairy.  She attached a note that read “I’m so proud of you for always opening new doors in your life.”  That’s what I named this essay.  “Opening Doors.”  It’s a Sondheim song, one of my favorites.

Since Lindsy is probably the smartest person I know, if she says I open new doors then it must be true.  So that’s what I’ve done, opened a new door.  I’m not sure what the room will look like on the other side yet.

I guess I’ll find out when I get there.

           

Six Degrees of Cheyenne Jackson

Oh God, here he comes.

            It was the moment I had been waiting for since seeing “All Shook Up” at the Palace on Broadway.  This too-beautiful creature named Cheyenne Jackson was walking toward me.  Chey, as an acquaintance-of-an-acquaintance calls him, eluded me for years.  Ever since I saw him in that Elvis show, I hoped against hope I’d run into him somewhere so I could profess my love.  There were near misses at a couple of bars.  And my aforementioned acquaintance-of-an-acquaintance knows him.

            “Oh I love Chey,” he would proclaim.

            But now.  On West 47^th Street in Hells Kitchen, he was coming right toward me.  And I was looking good. 

            I’ve always been infatuated by stars.  Actors mostly.  Singers occasionally.  If I had the means and resources, I’d be the biggest star-fucker around.  But they’ve always eluded me.  And when I moved to New York, I heard stories all the time. 

            Oh, Ed used to sleep with Nate Berkus.

            John hangs out with Tommy Tune all the time.

            Dale had a three-way last weekend with…Never mind.

            But not me.  The closest I ever got was at my old job at a bank in Chelsea.  I helped Jackie Hoffman balance her checkbook.  This was pre-“Xanadu”, so she didn’t have the ‘in’ with my Chey at the time.  But she did slip me a free ticket to see her at Joe’s Pub.  And then there was the time my friend Greg and I somehow ended up with Carson Kressley’s cell phone number in Provincetown but that’s a whole other story.  Actually, I got pretty close to a little star wattage in another instance.  By sheer determination and blatant stalker ingenuity, I met a Broadway dancer.

            I was 24 years old, just out of college, living in my small hometown of Linden, Alabama and drinking quite a bit.  I was also in the closet.  So I used to daydream a lot.  About getting out, coming out, meeting a man.  I was watching a talk show one afternoon, and the company of a huge Broadway musical was performing.  One dancer stuck out among the rest for some reason.  Maybe it was his talent.  Maybe the fluidity of his movement.  Maybe the huge bulge in his tight pants.  Whatever the reason, I was in lust.  A month later, my gal pal Lindsy and I visited New York City for the first time.  Coincidentally, we had tickets to that same Broadway show.  There he was, live and in person.  From the first row of the mezzanine, I was in love.  And, through the glory of Playbill, I learned his real name.  Let the fun begin.

            Later in the week, Lindsy and I stumbled upon Rose’s Turn in Greenwich Village.  A small piano bar with hugely talented singers, Rose’s Turn was like every closeted gay boy’s Xanadu.  Even Lindsy loved it.  During one of the breaks, I excused myself and headed for the restroom.  The door swung open and out walked my handsome Broadway dancer.  He looked at me and smiled.

            “It’s all yours gorgeous.”

            I almost passed out.  No person in my entire life had ever called me handsome or gorgeous except for family members, and they were probably just trying to prevent another teen suicide.  I walked into the bathroom to catch my breath.  A handsome and talented man thought I was gorgeous.  I couldn’t wrap my brain around it.  When I walked back to the table, I was glowing.  And the dancer was seated at the table next to us.  I took my seat and a big swig of draft beer and turned to my new beau.

            “We saw your show tonight.  You were great,” I offered.

            He smiled a genuine smile.  Lindsy was aghast.

            “Thanks.  I’m glad you enjoyed it.”

            He proceeded to ask us where we were from and didn’t even make fun of Alabama.  I was smitten.  Lindsy was confused.  Having no idea I was in the closet, she just kept right on drinking.  Her head buried not in the sand, but a really strong vodka gimlet.  It was every fantasy in 3-D.  Sitting in a New York City bar in Greenwich Village talking up a Broadway dancer who I had seen on television.  All my friends back home were going to be jealous.  And of course, one day we would marry.  We chatted for a while about trivial things until it was time for him to say goodbye.  And he did.  No promise of future contact, no exchange of phone numbers.  Just “nice to meet you” and “have a great trip.”  Lindsy thought it was all pretty cool, but I talked about it the entire trip.  I was sure he wanted to talk to me again.  Oh, the delusions of a twenty-four year old closeted gay guy.

            A few weeks after I returned to Alabama, I started getting drunk regularly.  I was so miserable and repressed and bored.  I desperately wanted to move but was financially not ready.  So liquor allowed an escape.  And also produced grandiose thoughts and blurred the line between fact and fiction.  The fact was that this dancer only spoke to me for about an hour one night in a piano bar in Manhattan.  But in Liquorland, where misery and delusion collide, we were destined to be together.  One night after a bottle of cheap Zinfandel, I called directory assistance and got the dancer’s phone number.  Easy.  He would love me soon.

            I called him and launched into an inane recounting of how we met a month earlier while I was in New York.

            “We met at this really cool piano bar, and we talked all night.  I’m interested in moving to New York and being on Broadway so I figured we have a lot in common.”

            “And I gave you my phone number?” he asked, his voice full of doubt and uncertain of my sanity.

            Uh-oh. 

            I thought quickly and ran a mental list of all the hip places in New York that I knew about.

            “Yes, you gave it to me as you were leaving to go to the Times Square Brewery.”

            It was at this particular moment that my story truly crashed and burned.  No savvy New Yorker worth his salt would darken the doorstep of the Times Square Brewery.  And not many Alabamians loaded on White Zinfandel would know this.  Still, ever the gentleman, the dancer simply asked me to send my photograph to his theatre’s address.  I guess he needed to see who he was putting a restraining order on.

            “Send that to me at the theatre, and I’ll give you a call back.”

            I was elated.  And then I passed out.

            The following day, I got home for lunch, and I saw on caller I.D. that he had phoned me.  I immediately called him back.  He asked me some questions about my life, my job.  I asked him some questions about being on Broadway, living in New York, his love life.  I learned that he had someone in his life, and they lived together. 

            No matter.  Once he sees my pictures, he’ll ditch that clown and come running to me.

            He told me that he would give me a call sometime, and we hung up.  I was so excited that I didn’t eat lunch.  Instead, I went through an entire photo album of snapshots and deemed two pictures perfect enough to send to my new love.  Luckily, I forgot to mail them.

            That night, after a half a box of White Zin, I called him to ask about his day.  This time, the warmth in his voice was replaced with a chill and exasperation.  I tried to ask more questions but was met with snappy one-word answers.  At the end of the conversation, he told me that there is someone in his life that he loves and that this person does not appreciate my phone calls.  Still, he wished me luck, and we said goodbye.

            I got off the phone and finished the box of wine.  I looked around my lonely house and wandered when my life was going to begin.  And if I had a lamp to switch off and on, I would have been a dead ringer for Glenn Close in “Fatal Attraction.”  I wanted to live in an apartment building in a big city where nobody locked their doors, and friends just glide in and out while cracking jokes and looking pretty.  If they did it on “Friends”, then I could too.  Then, a moment.  A moment of clarity that shattered the haze of boxed wine.  It was time to move.  To Birmingham, for now.  Where there were certain to be gay bars and gay men and snappy queens to hang out with.  So, two months later, Lindsy and I moved to Birmingham.

            And over a decade after that, I’m living in New York City.  I ran into the dancer once in a bar.  Of course, he didn’t recognize me.  Thank God.  And I barely recognized him.  He’s put on some heft.  However, I wanted to stop him and apologize for creeping him out or making him uncomfortable.  Tell him that I was in a bad place and managed to crawl out and become a productive and out-and-proud gay guy.  But I didn’t.  I just let him pass.

            But now.  Here comes Cheyenne Jackson.   I noticed him right away.  Taller than most.  More good looking than just about everybody.  He was listening to headphones and singing along with the music.  It was a beautiful spring evening, so I’m sure he was heading to the theatre.  He had “Xanadu” to do.  I was certain there would be eye contact.  A smile.  He would turn around for a double-take.  I would do the same.  The headphones would come off.  We would slowly walk toward each other with huge grins.  Introductions.  A one-liner to crack the ice.  Finally, numbers would be exchanged.  A date would be made.  The rest…well, history of course.

            He walked right by me.  With not so much as any eye contact.  None.  Ten years before, I would have been crushed.  Now, I just giggled to myself and savored the fact that Cheyenne Jackson just walked by.  But then again…what would be the harm in turning around and chasing him down the street and asking for his phone number. 

            He should be flattered by that.

            Or did Glenn Close think the very same thing right before she offed the rabbit?