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.