of the top stars of If Tomorrow Never Comes—will be the showcase of this year’s Gay Men’s Health Crisis holiday show. It gives me such real satisfaction when my professional life can merge with my personal.’”
My mother had so blindsided me with this stunning revelation that for a second I almost missed the obvious.
“Why the hell are you reading Homo Extra?”
“Lenny Abramawitz recently became homosexual and his granddaughter who lives in the city brings him gay materials to help him cross over,” she explained. “Loni is very sweet. Buck-toothed, but sweet.”
“Ma, the GMHC gala is a very high-profile gig for Lorna,” I said. “She wants to transition to Broadway and this is a great opportunity for her.”
“And what is the Salvatore DeNuccio Tenants Group Christmas celebration?” she asked. “I’ll tell you what it is. It’s what the Secaucus Herald called ‘The annual holiday treat for mature adults.’ And they put the The in italics!”
“Ma, I really don’t think I can help you out,” I said, knowing full well that by the end of our conversation I would have committed to help her out and agreed to run the lights for the show myself.
“Stevie, you have to do this for your mother,” she began. “I already told my ladies that one of your soap people will be appearing live to sing and perhaps dance.”
“Well, you shouldn’t have committed yourself,” I said, exasperated. “You watch I Love Lucy every day. Have you learned nothing?”
“I was put on the spot! Paula D’Agostino started talking about her kid who works on that friggin’ Today show. She said Katie Couric—who Paula said still talks to her daughter—is going to come here and demonstrate what a colonoscopy really is and I just couldn’t take it anymore. I told Paula, ‘Katie can shove her colonoscopy up her ass, my Stevie is going to bring us the gift of music this holiday season.’ My ladies cheered me on,” my mother added proudly. “You cannot make me disappoint my ladies, Steven.”
Before I could even utter a reason why Lorna could not perform at Mr. DeNuccio’s retirement villa, she continued.
“What did I tell you the day you told me you were homosexual when I found you trying to squeeze into my Easy Spirit beige pumps? What did I say?”
“You said you weren’t disappointed in me,” I responded sheepishly.
“That’s right. I was disappointed in your choice of shoe, but I was not disappointed in you because you were gay.”
“I know,” I said even more sheepishly.
“So don’t disappoint me now, Steven. I need you more than ever.”
“I will do my best to get someone to sing at your show.”
“That’s my boy,” my mother said proudly. “Now I have to go, bingo starts at seven and Mama need a jackpot!”
So many things raced through my mind after my mother hung up on me. Why it should never surprise me that I get sucked into her hijinks, how I secretly love to get sucked into her hijinks, and how Flynn and my mother both refer to themselves as Mama. I made a mental note to ask Lorna Douglas if she’d like to tour as I pulled the torn piece of the New York Times Arts section out of my pocket. I took a deep breath, happily realized that I hadn’t felt this nervous since I asked out Johnny Sanducci, the premed student who became my first boyfriend, and dialed Frank’s number. After four rings the machine clicked on. As I listened to Frank’s deep masculine voice assure me that I had called the right number, that I should leave a message with my date and time, and that he would get back to me as quickly as humanly possible, I thought that perhaps I should hang up and call him back later. But then I realized my number would be electronically saved on his machine so when I called him back later he’d know I had called him previously and hung up. Damn technology!
“Hi Frank, this is Steven,” I started. Then I coughed. “Sorry. This is Steven from Starbucks. You, um, gave me your number on page three of the Arts section so I’m calling. I’ll keep this short and sweet so I don’t scare you off before I ever learn your last name, which I swear is something I’ve only done to two other guys before. That was a joke. It was actually three guys. That was another joke. Sorry, I guess it’s not good to joke when you don’t have an audience. Makes you feel like Carrot Top. That was another joke.”
It was then that I remembered what Johnny Sanducci said when he broke up with me. “You’re a really sweet guy, but you should never try to tell a joke.” Taking a deeper breath I continued rambling on Frank’s voice mail.
“Please note that if I could erase this message I would, but I can’t so this, sadly, will have to count as our first conversation,” I said, stifling a nervous laugh. “Please don’t use this message against me and give me a call when you can or as quickly as humanly possible—you see I do listen, even though I have a tendency to ramble when I’m nervous. Okay, that’s all, I’ll talk to you later.”
I left my home number and my work number on his machine and was about to give him my cell phone number when I realized I had already blown it with Mister Devastatingly Handsome Regular Guy so it really didn’t matter if I gave him my Social Security number, he was never going to call and my love life, which had been so promising less than an hour ago, was now as infertile as Lorna’s character, Ramona, on ITNC.
Two hours later, Frank still hadn’t called me. I stood in front of my bathroom mirror for about twenty minutes trying to figure out why I felt so handsome when Frank’s green eyes stared down at me and why I felt so ugly when I stared at myself. When I finally tore myself away from the mirror, I immediately picked up the phone and started to dial Frank’s number, then stopped. I started several more times, stopped several more times and once got all the way to the sixth digit before slamming the phone down in frustration because I realized if this relationship stood any chance of survival Frank had to return my first phone call. It was the least he could do.
For the rest of the evening, I putzed around my apartment, cleaned then re-cleaned my mini-kitchen, and finally watched an I Dream of Jeannie episode on TV Land, which simply made me long for a simpler, more magical time. But no matter what I did, I kept wondering why Frank didn’t call me back. A few minutes before midnight, I finally turned off the television and accepted that my day would end like it had started, with me being duped by a man. As I dragged my taut-yet-single ass into bed and pulled the charcoal gray Calvin Klein comforter and complementary pale pink sheets up to my chin, I clung to one saving grace: my full-size bed is much smaller than Ely’s, so chances were good that at least one other gay man in New York City was feeling lonelier than I was tonight.
Chapter Three
Monday mornings on the set of If Tomorrow Never Comes are like Willy Wonka’s chocolate factory before the tiny Oompa-Loompas stick their tiny chocolate time cards into the tiny chocolate time card machine and man their tiny chocolate stations. It’s all boring book scenes without the jaunty yet repetitive music. And like Mr. Wonka’s factory it can also be a dangerous place to be. Unless you learn to follow the instructions from the network brass, ignore the phone calls from every actor’s agent, and stay far, far away from the show’s resident diva.
Miss Loretta Larson hates every morning, afternoon, and evening spent in fictional Wonderland, but she hates Monday mornings the most. Mainly because she spent Saturday and Sunday in a drunken stupor trying to forget that on Monday morning she once again has to take up residence as Regina O’Reilly, the grande dame of Wonderland. Loretta is a bitter, angry, lonely actress, but the fans adore her so even though she is also a bad actress, she’s one lucky lush. For the past twenty-eight years Loretta Larson has repeated the same facial expressions, vocal inflections, and cosmetic injections, yet somehow manages to keep the fans of ITNC entertained with her performance and obsessed with her persona. They worship at her 100-percent-proof, liver-unfriendly altar and, thus, everyone else who works with Loretta worships her as well.
“Loretta!” I exclaimed, clutching my Venti skim, extra-hot, light-whipped