I Shudder

by Paul Rudnick

  From a certain perspective, Peter was perfectly well-adjusted: he saw the world as a happy, abundant place, and it was his job to sleep with everyone in it. He also lacked any form of urban gay elitism; he didn’t have a specific physical “type” and went to bed with all ages, shapes, and races. Gender wasn’t even an issue; one night a female friend of Peter’s dropped by, distraught over a recent breakup. “So we had sex,” Peter told me the next day. “I mean, she’s such a great person, and I just hated seeing her so down about everything.” “But she’s a woman,” I said. “I know,” said Peter, “isn’t that funny? The whole time we were doing it, I was having a great time, but I kept thinking, ‘But you’re a woman!’”

  I only once caught Peter in a moment of cultural disdain. He was working on a new musical, and the book was being written by a fellow who lived on Staten Island, with his wife and children. Peter would return from his meetings and report, “Oh my God, I can’t tell you what a pleasure it is to be around a normal, decent American family. Because, please, you know I love New York, but sometimes everything is too gay, gay, gay. And with Harold, I just bask in all of this amazing real life, with a mom and a dad and a lawn and a dog. Maybe you should try it.” I finally met Harold when he came into the city; he couldn’t have been nicer, but he was only five feet tall and had the tiniest hands. After asking around, I discovered a particularly relevant chapter from Harold’s past, and I couldn’t wait to tell Peter: “Darling,” I said, “I thought Harold was just terrific, but don’t you know—he’s a transsexual. He used to be a woman. His wife was his girlfriend, and their kids are adopted.” “I don’t believe it!” Peter insisted, and then, “Oh, but he does have those little doll hands…”

  As far as I know, Peter and Helen never had sex, but they were dear friends. Peter loved to mimic Helen’s accent, referring to her as Hewen Mewwill, and since Peter’s last name was Schifter, Helen called him Schifty. Like a large cat, Peter was always trying to coax people into scratching his neck or rubbing his shoulders. One night at Helen’s apartment, I watched as Helen obliged, and Peter literally purred. “Mmmm…” he said, squirming luxuriantly, with his eyes closed, “I’m just Mister Sex Kitten.”

  Yes, Peter could be appalling, but there was also something pure about him: he was trusting, and he believed that life could be glorious. So when he got sick, he was at first uncomprehending, and then he became withdrawn, refusing to see friends or family members, but finally his lifelong optimism, his maniacally irrepressible style, reasserted itself. “I’m sick,” he told me, “and I’m probably going to die, and it’s all going to be unspeakably horrible, but do you know what? I don’t know why, but I just don’t believe it.” This may have been heartbreaking, and an especially extreme form of denial, but it was also Peter at his giddy best.

  His first hospitalization lasted many weeks. Christmas was coming, so Peter had six nurses pose around his bed, like Ziegfeld girls, and he had them photographed pointing to a bedsore on his undraped behind. He then used this full-color image on his Christmas card. As his illness progressed, Peter began to suffer from AIDS-related dementia, and one day I found him shoved into the far corner of his hospital bed. I asked him why he didn’t stretch out, and he said that he couldn’t, because there were people waiting outside his window who were planning to shoot him. I asked, “But who would ever want to shoot you?” Peter than looked at me, with the grandest, haughtiest outrage, and declared, as if he were standing at center stage, in an important gown, “Assassins!”

  While Peter and Helen were close, she never went to see him at the hospital. “I just can’t,” she told me, and at first I was shocked. But then, as I was dropping something off at her apartment, as I was leaving, she grabbed my elbow, hard. “How is Peter?” she asked. “How is he doing?”

  “Not great,” I said.

  “Am I a tewwible person? Because I will not go to see him?”

  “No. I mean, I told him you were thinking about him, and he’s pretty out of it…”

  “Stop,” she said, interrupting my chatter. She sat down, shaking. “I can’t, I cannot—see people like that. I cannot see them…when they are sick, and dying. That is not how I wish to wemember them. That is not who they are.”

  It occurred to me that Helen, more than anyone, and certainly more than Peter, was terrified of death, of any sort of faltering or shutting down. A fatal illness meant that there would be no more cigarettes or chocolate or fresh starts. And Helen desperately believed that escape was always an option, and that everyone was entitled to an unlimited number of new lives.

  I didn’t think that Helen was terrible; I thought that she was, despite her often rigid, tough-fräulein façade, completely human. She believed in compassion, and in behaving well under difficult circumstances, and when she couldn’t live up to her own high standards, it was the closest she ever came to falling apart.

  A few years later, when Helen developed emphysema, she was taken to the hospital, clutching her Xeroxed phone list; if she was still returning calls, she’d never die. The last time I saw her, she was still full of plans for new plays and new clients. “Oh, Wudnick,” she said, “I have so much to do.” She had planned for the future, however; her frugality had paid off, because she left an estate of almost four million dollars, stipulating that most of the money would be put in trust, to create an annual set of cash awards for up-and-coming playwrights.

  At Peter’s memorial, a friend remembered how Peter had once studied the grim, ultramodern set for some Shakespearean tragedy; the set was a sort of bleakly lit jungle gym of rusted iron bars. “Do you know what I would do with this set?” Peter had decided. “I’d tie big pink bows all over it.” He was joking, and maybe this is an incredibly shallow thought, but still—which production would you rather see?

  Sixty Seconds

  When I was growing up, the family across the street had a rich uncle who worked as an art director on many movies and long-running TV shows. And every Christmas this uncle would ship his relatives what seemed like a truckload of gifts, wooden crates filled with professionally wrapped packages containing all the latest toys and games and clothing. I knew that deliveries from Hollywood were special, as if the boxes were packed with actual, napping movie stars and freeze-dried palm trees.

  Years later, after my first play was produced Off-Broadway, to a resounding and completely justified lack of acclaim, I got a call from a Hollywood producer named Allan Carr. Allan had seen my show and wanted me to write the screenplay for a new, updated version of the sixties spring-break romp Where the Boys Are, a movie remembered mostly for its yearning title song—“Where the boys are, someone waits for me…”—as keened by Connie Francis. I was at a low ebb, but I wasn’t sure if Where the Boys Are was the antidote, so Allan offered to fly me down to Fort Lauderdale for some on-site convincing.

  I was greeted at the airport by Allan, who was dressed in what can only loosely be called men’s clothing: he was wearing picture-window-sized, white-framed sunglasses, white espadrilles, white capri pants, and a voluminous white silk blouse accessorized, at the breast, with a gleaming emerald brooch in the shape of a tortoise. He was standing, like Washington crossing the Delaware, in the backseat of an electric-cherry-red Rolls-Royce convertible with white leather upholstery; picture a hostessy polar bear bursting from the center of some enormous, heart-shaped satin candy box. The car was being chauffeured by a stunning, six-foot-tall, richly tanned blonde whose necklace spelled out her name in diamond chips: Starr. Starr was a superb driver, while wearing only a crocheted, powder blue string bikini and bronze, spike-heeled sandals. “Darling!” Allan yelped, tossing me into the backseat beside him. “This is just the Rolls—wait till you see Florida!”

  Spring break had reached full capacity, and the streets of Fort Lauderdale were jammed with thousands of the sort of vivacious, platinum-fried coeds still tickled to be called coeds, being pursued by frat boys whose baseball caps came equipped with holsters for two cans of beer, attached to el
aborate tubing leading to their mouths. Starr eased the convertible through this writhing, “Jen, over here!” mob, as if we were an ambassador’s family fleeing the fall of some riot-torn republic. As Allan waved merrily, his blouse billowing and the sunlight bouncing off his emeralds, I was convinced that the college kids would torch the car, drag our pleading bodies from the flames, and then crucify us, before moving on to a wet T-shirt contest.

  A note on my use of the term “blouse”: I feel that any white silk garment that reaches the wearer’s knees cannot really be called a shirt. “Blouse” has more grandeur. Years later, I witnessed a different, violently heterosexual movie producer wearing an even more Grecian white silk blouse as he entered a studio commissary in Los Angeles. Because his latest action blockbuster had grossed over 500 million worldwide, and because he was accompanied by Arnold Schwarzenegger, all of the executives abandoned their salads to claw their way toward the producer, assuring him, “Great look!” “Is that silk? I’m insane for silk!” and “Where can I get that? Tell me!”

  Back in Florida, as I awaited certain dismemberment, the crowd surrounded the car, bringing us to a standstill, and a contingent of rowdy, shirtless guys in cargo shorts clambered onto the hood, like apes atop a downed fighter jet in the jungle. One dude approached Allan; “Man,” he demanded, running a paw over the car’s cherry red enamel, “whattya call this thing?” The crowd hushed and Allan replied, with not a little snobbery, “Expensive.” As one, the kids roared their approval, and all the guys began high-fiving a jubilant Allan. The seas parted, and we soon reached our hotel.

  Allan was riding high. He’d caught the showbiz bug early on, and by college he was already investing in Broadway revues. He’d managed the careers of such stars as Peter Sellers, Ann-Margret, and Marlo Thomas, and then escalated to producing, where his hits had included the movie version of Grease and the stage musical of La Cage Aux Folles. He’d bought Kim Novak’s Hollywood estate and installed a neon-lit disco in the basement. His track record had allowed him free rein on his less lucrative projects, like the Village People musical Can’t Stop the Music, which had starred a rollerskating Steve Guttenberg and Olympic champion Bruce Jenner, in a midriff-revealing sweatshirt. My friend Eric had worked as a production assistant on Can’t Stop the Music, where his duties had included buying jockstraps for the near-naked, teasingly photographed locker-room number. Eric later worked for a Saudi prince, the one who’d acquired a Beverly Hills mansion where his landscaper had painted the pubic hair on all of the outdoor statuary an eye-catching tomato red. Eric had left that job after coming across a document that, in the event of an armed kidnapping attempt, listed the relative physical importance of all employees; Eric’s job level had put him in the category of easily expendable human shield.

  Once I’d unpacked at the hotel, I was told to find Allan on the beach, for his version of a script meeting. He’d changed into a resplendent linen caftan with a tropical print of palm fronds, pineapples, and toucans. He was leading an entourage that included at least twelve assistants, business associates, and an in-house drug dealer. As we strolled, Allan began discussing what he called “our movie”: “I want it to be young and sexy and just wild! I want the hottest guys and the most gorgeous girls, climbing all over each other!” As he babbled, Allan would nod toward an actual hot guy playing volleyball or a gorgeous girl lounging on a nearby towel, and an assistant would race over and ask the young person if he or she wanted to come to a party and be in a movie. Phone numbers were acquired. Because we were on Earth, everyone said yes.

  Allan wasn’t clear on specific plot points, at least not yet, but he knew what he liked. He’d turn to an assistant and announce, “You know what this movie’s gonna need? A whole pack of beautiful socialites, wonderful old stars, like June Allyson or Gloria DeHaven. In those gorgeous watercolor print chiffon garden-party dresses! And they’ll be chic and dizzy and they could be spying on the kids! Gloria DeHaven, in a chiffon dress, climbing a ladder! I love that! That’s the movie!” And the assistant would murmur, “Gloria DeHaven” into a mini Japanese tape recorder, as the other assistants debated whether Gloria was still alive, or, as they put it, “available.”

  Later that evening Allan and his crew gathered for a family-style dinner at our hotel’s restaurant. Until this point, Allan had been nothing but effusive and embracing; he was like the tireless Grand Marshall of some personal Rose Bowl parade. Like everyone else, from the kids on the beach to the dads from Omaha snapping photos of the man in the dress, I couldn’t wait to see what Allan would do or wear next. But then, around nine p.m., Allan began to sag alarmingly, and his celluloid-bright eyes dimmed. He also became increasingly vicious, not to me, but to his staff: “I said I needed to call the L.A. office, you fucking moron,” he’d snarl. “What am I paying you for? Why don’t you die?” This transformation was shockingly abrupt and quickly remedied, a few minutes later, by a drug delivery. Allan’s joyous spirit returned, due to the largest rock of cocaine I have ever seen, hanging from his nose. Like everything else about Allan, even his substance abuse resembled a Christmas tree ornament.

  The next morning began at an upscale marina, where a fast-food mogul was hosting a party aboard his yacht, to herald Allan’s arrival in Fort Lauderdale, and to thank Allan for all the business he’d be bringing to the city. The dock overflowed with local politicians, newspaper photographers, and TV news crews. Allan posed happily with just about everyone, and then he headlocked both me and the owner of the yacht. As the flashbulbs popped, he asked, “So, Paul, what do you think the caption to this picture should say?” “Indicted,” I replied, and while Allan laughed, the yachtsman wasn’t so sure.

  I’d never been on a yacht, and the experience was everything I’d hoped for: appallingly ostentatious and irresistible luxury, like riding the waves while straddling enormous bales of cash. Yachts, like private planes, feel deliciously sinful, because they’re so unnecessary. Nobody really needs a plane or a yacht, but once someone has far too much money, they start looking for trinkets to fly or to sail, telling themselves, “I’ve earned it,” “You only live once,” “It actually saves me time” and other such daily affirmations for billionaires. I imagined that poor people had been stored somewhere below, and could be jettisoned, as ballast. As we set out to sea, I found that the craft was stocked with bars, buffets, a helpful crew, and, mostly in swimwear, all of the male and female bodies which Allan had been picking up on the beach. They were being used, to their sometime confusion, as human decor. Allan was grouping them, beside railings and on deck chairs, for maximum effect: “Kimmie, stand next to Chad. Chad, put your arm around Savannah’s waist. Perfect!”

  I explored a blindingly polished mahogany hallway, and opened one of many doors. I peeked into a stateroom with Wedgwood blue walls, cut crystal lamps with pleated silk shades, and a suite of antique French furniture, all of it bolted to the floor, in case of choppy waters. At the center of the room were Allan and a friend, on all fours, rooting around in the lush, cream-colored wall-to-wall carpeting. At first I assumed that someone had lost a contact lens, but then I saw that the two men had accidentally dropped some cocaine, and were snorting it directly out of the rug. Allan didn’t stand up, or even rise to his knees. He simply rotated his head toward me and said, smiling, “If you ever write about this, I’ll have you killed.”

  I withdrew and, a half-hour later, I was summoned to the rear deck of the yacht, where Allan was nestled on a built-in banquette upholstered in navy canvas. He was now wearing lime green harem pants, pointy-toed gold slippers, and a burnt-orange tunic embroidered with tiny Moroccan mirrors; he looked like a well-fed fortune-teller, or a special guest Mah-Jongg champion on The Golden Girls. Allan had always struggled with his weight, and he’d once had his mouth wired shut; I’d heard that he’d quickly wrenched out this apparatus himself, using pliers, because he craved éclairs and strawberry ice cream and because he couldn’t stop talking. I sat beside him as the yacht glided past many impressive home
s. As in Beverly Hills, the architecture of Fort Lauderdale called to mind a Hollywood back lot, with its careening mismatch of eras: there was a Roman villa, a Loire Valley château, and a sleek midcentury creation that resembled a private airline terminal. “So, what do you think of me?” Allan inquired, as he sipped from a large martini glass outfitted with a paper umbrella, a lemon wedge, and an orchid.

  “I think you’re…great,” I replied automatically, because I was his guest.

  “Fuck you,” Allan said, still completely upbeat. “That’s not what you think, not really. That’s not what anybody thinks. So tell me, be completely honest, I’m a big boy—am I a clown? An asshole? Am I some ridiculous drug-crazed fatso Hollywood faggot?”

  I hadn’t been expecting this. Allan was, of course, all these things, but he was also extremely smart. “Look,” he continued, “I’m from fucking Illinois. And I was a chubby little kid who wanted to be Mitzi Gaynor. And that ain’t easy. But it ain’t bad. And do you want to know my secret? Do you want to know why I live in a mansion, and why I’m worth God knows how many gazillions, and why when I call the head of any studio in the civilized world, they stop what they’re doing and they take the call? And they say, ‘Allan, do you know how much we love you?’”

  “Why?”