A Starr is Born

by Ryan Field

  As he headed toward the door, he grabbed his black leather biker jacket and satchel and picked up a photo of his two dads on a table next to the front door. He kissed the photo and said, “Wish me luck,” and then he set the photo down again and went downstairs to find a taxi.

  He didn’t hide who he was and he’d never been ashamed of himself. Walking down the street this way gave him a chance to see how people would react to his outfit. In Manhattan most people either didn’t even notice, or they sent him a quick glance and continued walking. Those who did notice him were usually younger straight men who couldn’t stop staring at his legs. Though he’d never been a hairy man, he had his entire body waxed from the waist down regularly so he would be smooth all over. It wasn’t worth getting his upper body waxed. He barely even had hair on his forearms.

  When he reached the avenue, he barely had to lift his arm to hail a taxi. The first cute young taxi driver to spot him on the corner in the white mini-dress pulled right up to the curb for him. This was the reaction he’d been hoping for. He knew if he could garner this kind of attention from a guy driving a taxi he could get even more from the people where he would be auditioning.

  Fifteen minutes later, he paid the driver and climbed out of the taxi in front of the tall brick building where these auditions were being held. As far as he knew, this wasn’t an audition for a big network TV show. This was a small cable channel he’d never heard of that focused mainly on LGBTQ entertainment. As he turned to close the back door of the taxi, the cute young driver said, “Hey, you wanna hook up sometime, babe?”

  He smiled and said, “Thanks, but I’m married.”

  The guy laughed and said, “So am I. She doesn’t have to know.”

  “Be a good boy and go home to your wife.” Then he closed the door and went inside to get this whole thing over with.

  The audition turned out to be worse than he thought it would be. Every bad amateur drag act in New York was there and they made him lip-sync an old Barbra Streisand song that made him want to gag. He tried to explain that he didn’t lip-sync, but they didn’t want to hear that and he gave them what they wanted. He’d never been fond of clichés of any kind, and he’d always tried not to be a stereotype. But more than that, as a gay man he’d never been totally sure what a gay icon really was. He’d never been particularly fond of Barbra Streisand or any of the others. He assumed they were all nice people, but he didn’t want to imitate any of them. He just wanted to be himself.

  The people who were putting that low end reality show together were all non-gay, they knew nothing about LGBTQ people, and they thought they could snag a huge hit TV show with bad impressions of so-called gay icons. They kept saying they wanted the show to feel gay, and Morton knew it didn’t work that way. There were, indeed, excellent drag performers who mimicked the gay icons, but they did it because they truly loved them and were totally devoted to them. He knew one guy who did Marilyn, and another who did Liza, and those guys had spent their lives perfecting their art and their craft. These clueless non-gay people in this dowdy make-shift TV studio were only interested in bad versions of Bette Midler and Cher, and there was nothing they could do by then to save themselves from a total flop.

  After he auditioned, he was told to wait outside in a reception area with the other performers where the producers would announce who would be selected and who wouldn’t. He walked out into the reception area, filled with old green vinyl office chairs and a gray asbestos tile floor, and gulped. He took one look at a sad amateur drag queen who looked as though he was wearing his grandmother’s Sunday church dress and a hat made out of a Clorox bottle and he headed to the exit without glancing back. He couldn’t do this. He didn’t care if the producers loved him or not, because there was no way he would get involved in a project like this. It wasn’t that he was too grand or that he thought he was better than anyone. He just knew this show would crash and burn and he didn’t want to waste another minute there.

  On the way to the elevator he pushed the button and a deep voice behind him said, “You’re not wearing a wig.”

  He held his breath for a moment, and then he turned and found someone totally unexpected standing behind him. It was Harrison. He never thought he’d see him again. “I wasn’t in a wig mood.”

  “You should grow your own hair longer,” Harrison said. He was biting his bottom lip and looking him up and down.

  “Why? Do I look like Rachel Maddow in high heels?” It was his worst fear.

  “No, you look wonderful. You look like you. No one else on this planet looks as good as you. I just meant you’d never need a wig again.”

  “Well, thank you,” he said. “It was nice seeing you. I’m on my way home now. Have a good life.” He turned and pressed the elevator button again. Now he wanted to get out of that building even faster.

  When the elevator door opened, Harrison grabbed his arm and said, “Why didn’t you reply to me? I’ve been texting nonstop.”

  He turned and looked him right in the eye. “You left me stranded in Hartford, and I didn’t even know I was in Hartford. I think that’s good enough reason not to want to bother with you again.”

  He laughed. “That couldn’t be avoided. And you obviously got home okay. You look just fine to me, cutie.”

  “Oh, you’re a real prince, Harrison. I can’t tell you how wonderful that makes me feel.”

  “It’s not like I planned to leave you there,” he said. “You saw what happened.”

  “Oh yeah,” Morton said. “I was there. I also saw what happened on the Benny Larson show and how you went after that reporter. You know, you might want to think about anger management. You seem to find trouble wherever you go, and most of the time it’s because you’re the asshole causing the trouble.”

  “We cleared all that up in a long public statement,” Harrison said. “I never knew my accountant made contributions to that politician. I’d never support anyone who’s anti-gay. We fired the accountant. I wanted to make that clear to everyone, and I didn’t want people thinking I’d support anyone who’s anti-gay.”

  As he finished saying that, a middle-aged man stepped up behind them and said, “Can we get this show on the road, rock star man. I need to use the elevator.”

  Harrison turned around to face him and he made a fist. “What did you say?”

  “Don’t try to intimidate me, pal,” the guy said. “I know who you are and I don’t care. I’ve seen you in the building before. You’re that washed up old rock star who no one cares about anymore. Now either push the button or get the hell out of my way.”

  Harrison’s face turned red and he grabbed the guy by the collar and dragged him to the other end of the hallway. He pushed the door to the stairs open, shoved the guy through the doorway, and said, “You’re taking the stairs today, buddy. Now fuck off.”

  When he returned to the elevator, Morton shook his head. “Nice, Harrison. Let’s hope he doesn’t call the police.”

  “Let him call the police. I couldn’t care less. I own the building. I’ll throw him out.”

  Morton blinked. “You own this building?” What were the odds that he’d have an audition in a building owned by Harrison? This wasn’t fair.

  “As of right now I do,” He said, and then he laughed. “I’m not sure about two or three months from now. I owe a few bucks in taxes, thanks to that asshole of an accountant. What are you doing here anyway? Are you stalking me?”

  “Don’t be an idiot,” Morton said. He was trying not to smile. “I had an audition here, the audition from hell if you want to know the truth. I had no idea you own this building. I wouldn’t have come if I had known.”

  “Oh, I remember those auditions well. Come up with me and check out my studio. I want you to see it. Just look around.”

  He was worried that if he went with Harrison to check out the studio, they’d wind up doing more than just looking around. The attraction was still there, even stronger now. “I really have to go.”

  Harri
son pushed the button and the elevator door opened immediately. “It will only take a minute. I want to hear you sing in a real studio. This is strictly professional.”

  “Really?”

  “This is where we rehearse everything,” He said. “I’m serious. I own the building and my studio and my offices are on the top floor.”

  In spite of Harrison’s multitude of shortcomings (and he had plenty), he kept smiling and Morton couldn’t say no to him. He followed Harrison into the elevator, up to the top floor, and into his studio. He told himself this was professional and it was about music. If Harrison tried to hook up with him again, he’d leave immediately. This had nothing to do with Harrison’s smile or his scruffy long beard or the way he looked at Morton when he said his name (no one had said his name and looked at him that way since his dads died).

  At least these were the thoughts crossing through his mind as Harrison rested his palm on the small of his back and led him to the other side of the studio. And he felt hopeful, again.

  Chapter Eight

  After Harrison took him on a tour of his music studio, Morton sang something for him, and then Harrison asked him if he wanted to go uptown to his apartment. “I’m starved,” he said. “We can go back to my place and order take out.”

  Morton wasn’t so sure. “Where is your place?”

  “East 69th.”

  “I can’t go like this,” Morton said. He gestured to what he was wearing. “I was dressed for an audition. I only perform in drag. I normally don’t walk around town this way.”

  “Are you ashamed of the way you look?” Harrison asked.

  “Of course not,” Morton said. “I wouldn’t be doing it if I were ashamed.”

  Harrison grabbed him by the waist and pulled him closer. He kissed him on the mouth, and then said, “Then let’s just go. My car is right downstairs. And I really am starved.”

  Morton smiled and looked down. Harrison was still holding him and he realized he did want to get to know him better. “I guess we could order a pizza. It couldn’t hurt.”

  “Chinese,” Harrison said. “I can’t stand pizza.”

  Morton took a few steps back and gaped at him. “Who doesn’t like pizza?”

  Harrison shrugged. “I guess it’s one of my flaws.”

  “Like alcohol and drugs?”

  “Probably,” Harrison said. “I know my flaws all too well.”

  “At least you’re not in denial,” Morton said. He was only half joking around. He’d grown up with an alcoholic dad and he’d seen denial all his life. His dad, Albert, would never admit to being an alcoholic. He considered himself a heavy drinker, which is how he wound up getting killed in a car crash along with Morton’s other dad, Stephen.

  “Sometimes I wish I were in denial,” Harrison said. “It’s harder when you know you’re a fuck up.”

  Morton felt a little sorry for him. “You’re not a total fuck up. You’ve done a lot.”

  He smiled at Morton and said, “You know, Morton Starr, you are the most beautiful man I’ve ever met.”

  Morton felt his face turning red and he glanced down at the floor. He never knew how to reply to compliments. “You said you were hungry. We should go.”

  Harrison smiled and took his hand. He led him out of the studio, down the hall, and to the elevator. Morton was relieved when the elevator didn’t stop at the floor where he’d auditioned. He didn’t want to run into any of those people because it would have been too awkward and weird, and he would have had to make up an excuse about why he’d left.

  When they were outside on the sidewalk, Harrison led him to a brand new Bentley he’d left parked in front of the building in a no parking zone. As he reached down to open the passenger door for Morton, he reached up with his other hand to yank a parking ticket from the windshield. Morton looked at the parking ticket and shook his head. “You know it’s a lot easier to just follow the law and park where it’s legal. Have you ever considered that?”

  “I never take the easy way. C’mon, get inside.”

  This was the first time a man had ever opened a car door for him. At least it had been his experience, based on the many dates he’d had over the years, this kind of gesture wasn’t part of the routine with two gay men. He actually felt awkward about it but he didn’t say anything. Harrison seemed to be such a strong controlling man he didn’t want to insult him.

  When they pulled away from the curb, Harrison hit the gas and Morton grabbed his seatbelt. “I think I just heard the car scream out in pain.”

  Harrison started driving even faster, and he blew through a red light without glancing back. “These cars are practically handmade. They’re built to withstand anything.” He looked at Morton and smiled. “They’re tough as anything, like you.”

  He made a right turn, hit the curb, and nearly took a street light with him. Morton held his seatbelt tighter and said, “And it’s a good thing, too.”

  Harrison just laughed and drove even faster.

  By the time they reached East 69th Street, Morton was ready to jump out the window and run for his life. He’d never been with anyone who drove so recklessly, and he couldn’t wait to get out so his feet could touch solid ground.

  Harrison pulled up to the front of one of the newest high rise buildings in the neighborhood and the Bentley screeched to a halt. As the car jerked and Morton fell back against his seat, Harrison smiled and said, “Here we are. Home sweet home.”

  “Can we just do one thing first?”

  Harrison tilted his head sideways and stared at him. “What?”

  “Can we go back to East 44th Street and get my stomach. I think I lost it somewhere near Lexington. Seriously, dude. You need to slow down a little.”

  “You sound like my manager.”

  “Good,” Morton said. “Someone needs to tell you.”

  Harrison opened the door and said, ““C’mon. Let’s go up and order.” Then he unfolded from the car, handed the keys to a doorman with a tip. He was the only one who didn’t seem to notice or care that it was a $50 bill.

  The lobby of Harrison’s building reminded Morton of hundreds of other lobbies he’d seen in New York. Cold, stark gray marble floors, walls of glass mixed with wood and stone. Grey mid-century modern furniture of the most generic kind that seemed to suggest the designer hadn’t been too worried about clichés. The only thing different about this monochromatic grey lobby was there were no people in sight and it was about 10 times larger than most other lobbies.

  They took an elevator to the top floor where Harrison said he owned a penthouse. When the elevator stopped and the doors opened, they both stepped into the front hall of Harrison’s apartment. The walls were all white and the floors were that light high gloss polished concrete that seemed so popular lately. They shined with such intensity he felt as if he were walking on water. And when he glanced down he actually could see his reflection.

  “So this is home?” Morton asked, as Harrison led him to the right.

  “I’m still working on it,” he said. “I haven’t had time to do much. I’m always working on music.”

  Morton noticed there were still a few unopened boxes in the hall, and there didn’t seem to be much furniture either. They passed what appeared to be a formal living room with a long black leather sofa and a black baby grand piano. There were two modern lamps with square shades resting on the floor in front of a marble fireplace not far from a few more unopened boxes. The room across from that appeared to be the dining room, but without a table and chairs, and just one massive crystal chandelier suspended from the ceiling in the middle of the room. As magnificent as this place was, it lacked something fundamental that Morton couldn’t quite figure out yet, and it left him feeling a little glum in spite of how much he liked Harrison. Even worse, with the white mini-dress and the white stilettos he wore, he blended into it all much to well for his own comfort.

  Harrison led them back to a massive kitchen area with an island that was larger than the bathroom in Mo
rton’s apartment. It had a sparkling white stone top that went down each end like a waterfall, and a pale grey base that matched the polished concrete floors and the other cabinets against the wall. The appliances were all those high end stainless steel affairs Morton had seen in magazines, with European names he couldn’t pronounce. And when he looked up at the ceiling and noticed how high it was, he wondered who got up there to clean it.

  The great room was open to the kitchen, with one long wall of glass that led to a substantial terrace and a fireplace surrounded in white marble. The only piece of furniture in that room that commanded attention was a long, white grand piano. Harrison walked over to a glass coffee table in front of a white leather sofa to get a take-out menu. Morton laughed and said, “You still use take-out menus?”

  Harrison sent him a look and said, “Yeah. We older people aren’t like you young ones who just order from an app on our phones. We still need to hold the menu in our hands.”

  They hadn’t discussed the age difference yet. “You’re not that much older.”

  He sent him another look and said, “We’ll see about that.”