A Starr is Born

by Ryan Field

  “Should I stop complimenting you?”

  Morton smiled. “I didn’t say that. I said you’re full of crap. But there’s nothing wrong with being a little full of crap. You can feel free to compliment me any time you wish.”

  Then he noticed that Harrison hadn’t bothered to get dressed. “What are you going to wear?” He’d put on his jeans and boots, but he was carrying his shirt and jacket over his arm.

  “I’ll get dressed on the way,” he said. “My manager usually brings everything I need.”

  “Do I look okay? Do these jeans make me look fat?”

  Harrison bit his bottom lip and leered at him. “You look just fine, cutie.” Then he grabbed Morton’s hand and practically dragged him out the door and down the stairs.

  When they were outside, Morton noticed a few neighbors gaping and murmuring about the massive black SUV that was parked in front of his building near a fire hydrant. While Harrison continued pulling him toward the SUV, Morton smiled at one neighbor and nodded at another. He was so excited to be with Harrison he didn’t care what his nosey neighbors were wondering. And it wasn’t the fact that Harrison was a huge rock star that had him excited. It wasn’t the big black SUV either. It was his hand. Harrison had the biggest hand that Morton had ever held and it made his entire body melt. The feeling wasn’t just sexual either. Harrison’s large hands made Morton feel safe and secure, and thrilled to be alive.

  Apparently, they were late to wherever they were going. Morton followed Harrison into the back of the SUV and the driver barely gave this strange guy with light hair time to pull the door closed.

  While the guy with light hair looked Morton up and down with his own discerning eye, Harrison said, “Sam, this is Morton, the guy I told you I met last night. Morton, this is my manager, Sam Wasserman.”

  Before Morton had a chance to say, “It’s nice to meet you,” Sam turned to Harrison and said, “He’d a young one.” Then he turned to Morton and asked, “How old are you, twinkie?”

  Morton blinked and said, “How much do you weigh, skinny?” He didn’t want to be confrontational, and he didn’t want to embarrass anyone. It’s just that Sam’s age question was rude, and it took him off guard and he replied with the first thing that came to the top of his head.

  Harrison laughed and said, “Don’t mess around with Morton, Sam. He’s no one’s fool. And he’s got a mouth. You’ll be sorry.”

  Sam shifted his gaze to Morton again and said, “I’m 195 pounds in my bare feet.”

  Morton looked him in the eye and said, “I just turned 25 last month, with shoes.” Then he extended his right hand and said, “It’s nice to meet you.”

  While Sam shook his hand, Harrison said, “I’m glad you’re 25.”

  “Is 25 okay?” Morton asked. He hadn’t expected to be interrogated about his age.

  “Oh yeah, cutie,” Harrison said. “Twenty-five is perfect. These young guys nowadays are aggressive. They like to call me dad. I usually attract much younger dudes. But I don’t go there, if you know what I mean. If the dude isn’t over 21, I run fast.”

  “How gallant of you,” Morton said. “You’re a regular prince.”

  “You know what I mean,” Harrison said. He stopped laughing and spoke with a more somber tone. “I don’t creep out young guys. They creep me out plenty of times. But I know how to say no. You have to do the right thing in life.”

  “I totally agree,” Morton said. “So just how old are you anyway?” He’d been wondering about Harrison’s age. He’d always been attracted to older men, but it’s not like he cared about age. He just wanted to know the basics about him.

  “Old enough to know better, cutie.”

  “Seriously.”

  “Thirty-five,” Harrison said. “Does it matter?”

  He was obviously more sensitive about his age than Morton was about his, and Morton wanted to make things clear right then and there. “Of course it doesn’t matter. I thought you were 30. But frankly, I don’t care if you’re 60. I like you. Age doesn’t matter to me.”

  Harrison and Sam exchanged a quick glance, almost as if they approved of what he’d just said.

  Then Harrison said, “I like you, too.”

  * * *

  The driver took them to an airport in New Jersey that Morton wasn’t familiar with. He’d lived his entire life in New York City and anything west of Manhattan felt like Russia to him. They ran to a helicopter, climbed inside, and the pilot took off before they had a chance to sit down and buckle their seatbelts. While Morton sat quietly in the back, Sam started complaining that they were going to be late and he started handing clothes to Harrison so he could change right there in the helicopter.

  It looked as if Sam had picked out all his clothes and Morton couldn’t help but ask, “Do you dress him all the time?” For as strong and powerful as he seemed, Morton was starting to realize that Harrison tended to be a very needy man.

  Sam sent him a deadpan stare and said, “It’s what I live for.”

  Harrison pulled a skin tight, low-cut black T-shirt over his head that was exactly like the one he’d worn the day before and said, “He doesn’t dress me. He just knows what I wear and he carries them all over when I’m touring. I’m not complicated. I wear a lot of black and white and gray. And I always wear the same kind of clothes, especially when I’m working. It’s never been about the clothes for me. It’s always about the music and the performance.”

  Morton shrugged and said, “Some people might say that makes you even more complicated.”

  Harrison smiled. “Well some people don’t know anything.” Then he slapped Morton on the leg and kissed his cheek.

  While Harrison was pulling his black boots on, Sam turned to Morton and asked, “Harrison tells me you’re a performer, too. He thinks you’re very good.”

  Morton realized that Harrison must have been texting this information to Sam, because he hadn’t heard him say anything aloud. He smiled and said, “Yes, I’m a drag performer. But my act is a little different than what you might be used to with typical drag shows.”

  “Why drag?” Sam asked. “According to Harrison, you don’t lip sync, there’s nothing flamboyant about you, and you probably could be doing what you do without dressing up in drag. So why do you do it?”

  “It’s what I know,” Morton said. He wanted to be as honest as possible. “I was raised by two gay dads who were drag performers all their adult lives. They were both very well known on the drag circuit in their time. My dad, Albert, used the stage name Mona L’Amore, and my other dad, Stephen, went by Stella Dellora on stage. They taught me a lot. I grew up watching and learning. And after they died suddenly in an accident, I decided to follow in their footsteps. I guess it’s my comfort zone. And as far as I know, there’s no one else out there like me.”

  “You don’t look like a drag performer to me,” Sam said.

  “You don’t look like a manager to me,” Morton said.

  Harrison laughed.

  “I’m sorry,” Sam said. “I didn’t mean it that way.”

  Harrison broke into the conversation and said, “That’s what makes him so different. Don’t you see? You have to listen his act to understand what I’m talking about.”

  They couldn’t continue the conversation because the helicopter started to descend toward a large open parking lot. As far as Morton could tell, they were somewhere in Connecticut and they’d finally reached their destination. Although he was still excited about being with Harrison and being whisked off on a Sunday in such a random way, he was starting to wonder if he should have listened to that little voice in his head that told him not to do things.

  After the helicopter landed everything happened so fast the only thing Morton could do was follow Harrison and Sam into this massive arena with thousands of people screaming and chanting Harrison’s name. He had to run to keep up with them. And Harrison seemed to take on a completely different personality. His face lit up, he started acting out his excitement by ma
king fists and throwing his arms in the air. As they crossed through crowds of people that were being held back by barriers and security guards, Harrison reached out to shake hands, and sometimes even to kiss people. Morton knew he was a huge rock star, but the magnitude of it all hadn’t hit him until this moment. And he’d never felt so invisible in his entire life.

  When they reached the back section of the stage area where Harrison was about to perform, Harrison continued rushing forward and Sam guided Morton to a small section where he could stand in between huge speakers and watch the show. Someone else slapped some kind of backstage sticker or pass onto Morton’s shoulder, and Sam went to another section to see what Harrison was doing.

  The music sounded not long after that and it pounded in Morton’s eardrums so hard he had to grab a side rail to keep from falling over. Then Harrison grabbed a microphone and started singing one of the popular songs that had made him a star and the crowd screamed so loudly they almost drowned out the music. It was nothing but absolute chaos, but still fascinating to watch. The fans loved him, and he seemed to love what he was doing. He moved so naturally on stage, and sang with such passion, Morton felt as if he was getting an education in performing by just being there.

  Then everything changed. The more they cheered, the more wild and erratic Harrison became. It was as though he wanted to please them so much he couldn’t figure out a way to do enough. Morton could smell marijuana burning every time he took a breath. When he glanced around he saw people smoking it freely and without shame, as if it were perfectly legal and nothing would happen to them. He also noticed them drinking and snorting cocaine. He knew this was part of the rock culture and he wasn’t judging them. But when he saw Harrison stop performing for a moment so he could turn around and snort cocaine, he felt a sting in his heart and he realized he hadn’t been prepared for all this. This was nothing like his life, or anything he’d ever known, and he wasn’t sure how to react.

  He stood there and watched. After he snorted the coke, Harrison returned to the stage and started singing another song. This was a slower song and the audience grew quieter, which gave Morton a brief sense of relief. But that sense of relief didn’t last for long, because a moment after he started singing the love song, he turned all the way around and started staring at Morton. He appeared to be singing the love song to Morton and Morton felt a chill run through his entire body.

  It would have been a tender moment if Harrison hadn’t started gesturing for Morton to join him on stage so he could sing the love song to him face to face in front of thousands of people cheering and screaming. Morton’s eyes grew wide and he gestured back that he had no intention of going on stage. He threw his arms forward and mouthed the words, “No way. Stop it,” but Harrison didn’t listen. He just kept smiling and singing to Morton, and then he started walking toward him.

  By the time he reached the little section where Morton was standing between the speakers, he reached out and grabbed Morton’s hand. He stopped singing and shouted, “C’mon. Come out there with me. Sing something. I want them to hear you.”

  Morton had never felt this kind of panic before. He shouted back, “No. I’m not going out there. Go back on stage and sing. I’m not doing this.”

  Harrison refused to listen and Sam came running over to intervene. But that didn’t help and it only seemed to make everything even worse. After that, Harrison ran back to the stage and started climbing this tall metal structure that looked like some kind of scaffold. He was smiling and singing the entire time. As he climbed to the top, he appeared as fearless as he was clueless and Morton just shook his head.

  Morton ran up on stage and started screaming at him. “Get down from there. You’re going to kill yourself, you big idiot.” Then he turned to strangers on stage and said, “Get him down. He’s going to get hurt.”

  No one listened to Morton, and the audience screamed even louder. They actually cheered him on as if they wanted him to go higher and risk his life.

  Morton stood there gaping and shaking his head because he knew there was nothing he could do at that point. Harrison was out of control and the rest of them were encouraging it. But when a piece of the scaffolding broke and the whole structure came crashing down, Morton’s heart stopped beating for a second. Harrison went flying into the audience as if he’d been shot out of a cannon at the circus and he landed in the front row of the audience on top of a group of people who were probably too stoned to even realize it.

  Everyone on stage, including Morton, ran to the edge of the stage to see if he was okay. At first, Morton was afraid to look down. He thought he’d been killed. When he did glance down, Morton saw him on his back, laughing and shaking his fists around as if he wanted to climb up and fall all over again. Then someone grabbed a microphone and said, “He’s okay. At least he looks okay.” The loud music started to play again and the stoned people started screaming.

  Sam ran by and Morton grabbed his arm and asked, “Is he okay? Did he get hurt?”

  Sam shrugged. “They said he sprained his ankle. I have to go down there and get him back to the helicopter. Last time something like this happened he broke his arm and didn’t even know it until the next morning.”

  He left Morton standing there with more questions, and there was nothing Morton could do but go back to where he’d been standing and get his satchel. He’d put it under a speaker for safe keeping, because he didn’t trust anyone in that place.

  A few minutes later, as Morton left the arena and headed back to the helicopter to meet Sam and Harrison, while being pushed and shoved the entire time by disgruntled people who had come to see Harrison perform, he glanced up at the sky and saw the helicopter he’d arrived in take off without him. He turned around and watched it become a small invisible dot, and then disappear completely.

  He grabbed a man’s arm and asked, “Where am I?”

  The guy was obviously stoned. He started laughing and said, “You’re too funny. You’re in Hartford, dude, you must have some really good shit.”

  “You should see me at the circus,” Morton said.

  The guy was implying that Morton was too stoned to know where he was, but Morton was short on patience and decided it would have been a waste of time to explain to an idiot what had happened to him. He just smiled politely and said, “Thank you.” Then he turned and pulled his phone out of his satchel to find an Uber driver who would take him to the nearest train station.

  Chapter Six

  “Are you sure you can do this?” Sam asked. “We can still back out. I can say you’re sick with the flu or something.”

  Harrison was looking down at his phone. They were in the SUV and on their way to a TV station in Manhattan where Harrison was scheduled to do one of those morning talk shows. It was the morning after Harrison had fallen off the stage in Connecticut, and he probably should have been in bed sleeping, but he’d refused to back out at the last minute. This appearance had been arranged months in advance, and the host of the show was one of the few openly gay people who had his own talk show. He glanced up from his phone and said, “I’m fine. I’m just a little groggy, is all. I can’t let Benny down. Who could he get to replace me at the last minute?”

  “Just because you once fucked the host doesn’t mean you have to put your health at risk,” Sam said. “They can figure something out, not my concern.”

  Harrison smiled. Sam had never liked Benny. “I’m fine. My health is not at risk. I want to do this. I need a good, positive interview for a change.” He thought about the time he’d tricked with the host of the TV show, Benny Larson, and how much fun he’d had. Benny was one of those normal gay men in public who were hard to figure out, but in the sack he turned into one of the most ferocious, effeminate power bottoms Harrison had ever been with. The guy literally begged to get fucked, and Harrison did his job as a top to accommodate him. He’d pinned Benny’s knees to his ears, and turned him over to fuck him upside down. They’d only been together that one time, but it was someth
ing that Harrison would always recall with a smile.

  “What are you looking at now?” Sam asked.

  Harrison spoke softly, and his voice was hoarse that morning. “Just my social media.” He also had a bandage on his ankle and another on his wrist. After he left the concert yesterday, they flew him back to the airport in New Jersey, and then to the emergency room of a nearby hospital. The doctors said he’d been lucky he hadn’t broken any bones.

  “What are they saying today on the Internet?” Sam asked, as if he were too afraid to check it out himself.

  “Looks like the same old bullshit,” Harrison said. “My fans who love me are cheering me on and wishing me well after the fall. Those who hate me think I should move to another country and change my name.” He’d seen it all by then on social media. Everyone with an unsolicited opinion couldn’t wait to offer it.

  “I’ll check it out later and do damage control,” Sam said. “I’ll put out a press release or something to let them know you’re fine and that nothing happened to you in the fall. I’ll say you were taking over the counter cold medicine, you had a bad reaction, and you lost your balance.”

  Harrison laughed. “They like it when I’m bad.” He’d lost track of how much coke he’d done at the concert, and then he took a few pain killers, a chill pill, and washed them down with vodka. He didn’t mention it to Sam, but he still couldn’t feel much that morning. He was just so used to living this way he knew how to forge ahead and function.

  “Only to a certain extent,” Sam said. “If you’re not careful you’re going to cross the line one of these days and I hate to see that happen. Being bad is one thing, but no one likes a dickhead.”

  He patted Sam’s shoulder and said, “You worry too much, dude. It’s all good.”

  “While we’re talking about worrying,” Sam said, “we have to discuss the taxes you owe the government. I’ve been talking to the new accountant and it’s not good. In fact, it’s worse than I suspected.” Sam had fired the previous accountant after he’d found a few mistakes in the books.