After five minutes or so most of the kids were there, so George blew his whistle to get their attention and started reading from the schedule I’d drawn up that morning and e-mailed to him before first class started.
Some of the crew always did the same thing—scenery or props work—and some rotated, especially the core of eight actors playing the Bohemian friends and their one outcast, Benny. George dismissed everybody but those eight and turned to me, saying, “Would you stay here for this? I want to talk to them about Roger.”
There’d been some problem the last few days over a few scenes with Roger and his roommate Mark, or maybe it was Roger and his heroin-addict, HIV-positive girlfriend Mimi, I wasn’t quite sure which. When the room emptied, George looked the remaining kids over—Robbie and Steven, who played the gay couple Angel and Tom Collins, Johnny Robertson and Sam who were Mark and Roger, Channing and the sophomore Marie, who were going to scandalize the audience as Maureen and Joanne with their same-sex affections onstage, Sarah, who knew how to play the sincere but nevertheless sleazy Mimi, and finally Preston, who had the smallest role of the group as Benny.
“We’re just three and a half weeks from opening night,” George began. He was immediately interrupted when Johnny starting groaning, and once one started, the others all had to join in. He let them get it out of their systems and then kept going. “No, no, don’t worry, we’re doing fine. Mr. Smith has a detailed schedule of everything that needs to get done before then, and we’re right on the button.” He turned around to me and lifted an eyebrow. “Right, Mr. Smith?”
I stepped up next to him and nodded. “Better than that. We’re ahead on most things, a little behind on just a few others, but nothing significant. Overall, it’s very good. It’s excellent. You should all be very proud of yourselves for what you’ve accomplished so far.”
The kids took that in with a grain of salt, I could tell. Everybody there knew that they’d be working long, grueling hours to become as perfect as possible before opening night. Steven clapped his hand on his forehead theatrically and falsetto-sang, “Good for us!” sounding like a chipmunk. The others laughed at him except for Channing, who was looking a bit pensive. She barely reacted at all.
“Before we start for today,” George went on, “I wanted to address…. Wait a minute. Let’s sit down and get comfortable.” The kids sat right where they were, on the cleared, carpeted floor. George and I pulled up some orange plastic chairs, the same ones that I’d put out for the parents’ meeting what seemed like an eternity ago. Most of them we kept stacked along the edges of the room, but there were always a few left out.
“Okay, that’s better. I wanted to talk about understanding and believing your parts. I know we’ve concentrated on singing, but don’t forget that you’re acting up on stage too. If you don’t believe in what’s going on, then we can’t expect the audience to. They won’t be moved by this story unless you present it convincingly.
“Now, Sam, I’m going to use you as an example, but all of you should do this and examine your character’s motivations. Really get to understand why they’re doing what they’re doing. Sam, in the beginning of the play, why do you think Roger hasn’t left his apartment for six months?”
Sam was a gangly redhead with a voice from the heavenly choir. His rendition of “Your Eyes” at the end of the show, when Roger believes Mimi is dying, would bring down the house. If there was anybody in the house to start with, anyway. He’d been struggling, though, with convincingly portraying Roger outside of the specifically staged songs.
Sam shrugged in the classic seventeen-year-old-boy-almost-a-man fashion. “Uh, because he’s depressed?”
“Yes, that’s right. Depression can paralyze a person, sometimes closing them down so they can’t make decisions. But there’s more. What’s going on in his life?”
“Nothing much. He’s sad ’cause he’s lost his girlfriend.”
“And….”
“Uh, she killed herself because she had AIDS.”
“Right. We don’t know from the script for sure, but it would be interesting to think that he might have actually seen her do this. Or, more likely, maybe found her body.”
“Oh, gross,” Marie said.
“That’s a traumatic, upsetting thing to happen. Unexpected violence leaves its mark on people.”
I could certainly testify to that, though I never, ever wanted to. I resisted the urge to shift in my chair, because no movement could get me away from my memories. Booze didn’t help either, not really, no matter how I’d tried.
“Don’t forget that since the girlfriend had AIDS,” Steven put in, “Roger has it too. She gave it to him. Sam, that’s part of it.”
“And AIDS back then was a death sentence, to a slow and awful death not far in the future,” George said. “That’s something that the four of you who are portraying the HIV-positive characters need to remember. That kind of death is what Roger is inevitably facing. But here’s the thing. Is Rent a real downer of a show? Are these characters moaning about their fate? Are they half-living? Or are they going about really living?”
Sam raised his hand at the same time that I raised my head and gave George a hard look. He’d always given good pep talks, and I thought he was a good director, but all of a sudden I was seeing more of the man and the way he looked at life. He knew I was liberal? He wanted to direct Sweeney Todd? What else was in this genial hulk of a man?
“Well,” Sam said, “until he goes outside, Roger’s sort of moaning. You can’t really live stuck in an apartment.”
“And now we get to the heart of the matter. Roger is frightened, isn’t he? Can you imagine being that scared and that sad that you pull in and don’t even go anywhere?”
“It’s like being closeted,” Channing said, finally looking more like herself and speaking up.
“What?” asked Preston, who was a little clueless. “Closeted?”
“You know,” Channing said, tossing a lock of her dark hair behind her shoulder, hair the same color as her father’s. “Like the gays. Hiding. Cutting yourself off from society.”
“Pretending you’re somebody you’re not,” Johnny added.
“Oh, that,” Preston said. “Because they’re scared of the gay-bashing, sure. But wait a minute, Roger’s not gay. He’s got HIV from, you know, regular, uh, regular fooling around. Not from being with a guy.”
Steven hunched forward and planted his palms flat on the carpet. “But it’s the same thing,” he said intensely. “It doesn’t matter if you’re gay or straight, it still doesn’t make any sense to shut yourself off like that.”
He looked directly across the group to where Robbie was sitting to one side, and all the other kids did too.
“Hiding in the closet is for cowards,” Steven said. “The brave people step out, or never go inside to begin with. I think it’s really cool when somebody’s brave like that.”
Robbie flushed scarlet and turned his head, but there was a smile on his face.
“But Roger does go out after a while,” Sam pointed out. “He doesn’t stay shut in the closet.”
“Yeah, good for him,” Channing said.
“It’s the only way to do it,” Johnny said. “Just get out there and deal with it, whatever it is.”
Marie chimed in. “Yeah, whether it’s being gay or having some bad disease or, or, or….”
“Or freaking out ’cause his girlfriend killed herself and he saw all the blood,” Preston said with a certain relish.
“Right,” Marie said. “All of that. You can’t let any of that stuff get you down, can you?”
“My dad says Rent’s a good play,” Channing put in, “because the characters don’t run scared from what they are and the things they believe in. Though it’s true Roger plays the wimp in the beginning.”
“I’d have a hard time playing a character who was that scared,” Steven said. “That’s one of the reasons I like Tom Collins. He’s gay, and he’s cool with it.”
“I�
�m glad you like Collins,” George said, “but right now let’s finish up with Roger, who’s a really interesting character because he does indeed change. Sam, you’re right, Roger does overcome his fear and his depression. That’s courageous, just like Steven says, because whether a person is gay like Angel and Collins or straight like Roger, change is a hard thing to accomplish.”
Sam stuck out his tongue in Steven’s direction. “Roger’s cool too,” he said.
“I think they are all fascinating characters,” George said firmly. “It takes Roger a while, but eventually he, uh, shows his coolness. I want you to really understand that so you can portray his courage in leaving the apartment and finding Mimi. Despite the inevitability of his death, Roger decides to embrace life, doesn’t he? He’s brave, and there’s joy in him, in all of them, when they break into the song ‘La Vie Boheme’. Part of that joy is Roger’s victory. Get it?”
Sam nodded vigorously. “Sure.”
“Good,” George said, and he stood up. “Let’s head for the big stage now.
I let them all leave without me; I felt as if I didn’t have the strength to get up from my chair. They didn’t have a clue what they’d done, none of them did, but they’d cut me open, dissected me, judged me, and thrown me out with the trash.
Is that what they thought about life in the closet? These teenagers who hadn’t lived much sure thought it was despicable, my life. It wasn’t so easy to leave where it was safe, damnit! They didn’t know about Mr. Ed Walker and men like him, and how much my life would change if people like him knew.
George stuck his head back into the classroom, holding on to the doorjamb. “Are you coming, Tom? I could use your help.”
Sure, I would help out. I stood up and took that one step forward that I needed to take. I’d call Kevin this evening, and let him know that, yeah, I’d be at his house this Saturday after all.
Chapter 6
A Matter of Trust
KEVIN BARELY gave me a chance to kill the engine of the Miata after driving into his garage before he was hollering from where he stood in the doorway to the house. “Hurry up! Notre Dame and Navy are just starting. Get your butt moving.”
He punched the control to bring the garage door down and disappeared. I stayed where I was behind the wheel of the car as the door slowly cut off the November sunlight from outside, until only the bare bulb overhead illuminated the space. That wasn’t exactly the reception I’d been expecting, after all the fuss to get me there. This was a big deal to Kevin, I knew, so why…. I shrugged and got out, leaned over to the passenger seat to grab the beer I’d brought, and followed Kevin inside. The laundry room with a strong smell of detergent greeted me first. Next came a bright and airy kitchen with a window at one end that showed the branches of a tree with a few leaves lingering. The weather had suddenly turned chilly. It felt more like mid-November should now, and at last my habitual long sleeves would fit in with what everybody else was wearing.
“Okay if I dump the beer in the fridge?” I called, not really sure where Kevin was in the house.
He was close by. “Sure, go ahead.”
The television was going, and I heard the announcer say “kick-off.” The refrigerator was a side-by-side model, and the two packs of Michelob fit in with no problem when I hoisted them up. Past the snack bar was a media room where Kevin was seated on a blue leather couch in front of a big-screen TV. He was leaning forward with his hands between his knees, intent on the game, looking a lot like Grant would have in the same situation. Except Grant was gangly like me, and no pair of jeans ever looked as good on him as they did right now on Kevin, snug straight down the length of his thigh. And Grant, with his fair coloring, would never have been able to wear a green pullover sweater with the same eye-delighting appeal. Kevin looked good and casual, right at home and a little anxious… about the game, I thought, and not about having me here. He was so comfortable with me being there that he wasn’t even looking my way.
I was a true idiot to be standing here hesitating. This was going to be as good a weekend as all our others had been, and it was stupid to allow my resentment over what the kids had said to color how I felt about Kevin. He’d been right about this: we could meet at his house safely, at least once in a while. No boogie men had followed and harassed me on the road. Nobody had jumped out at me in the garage, and no one would be coming to the front door. This was going to be all right.
“Hey, there,” I said as I went in and sat down next to him “What’s the big deal about this game?”
He looked at me sideways as if reluctant to take his eyes off the action for even a few seconds. “Haven’t I told you I’m a big Notre Dame fan?”
“You’re kidding.”
He turned his attention back to football. “I’m from Marathon, professor, home of Saint Mary’s church, first communion, and all that jazz, at least until we moved to Little Rock. I didn’t get out of the clutches of the Catholic Church until I went off to college. Notre Dame is in my blood.”
“I didn’t know you were Catholic.”
“Recovering Catholic, please. It’s a lifelong job, but somebody’s got to do it.”
“I used to be Presbyterian.”
He offered me a high-five without even looking my way.
A big square coffee table with four inset glass panes was perfect for putting feet up on, so to the sounds of the excited crowd I put mine up next to Kevin’s, slouched down a bit, and got myself comfortable. I wasn’t exactly sure what I’d been expecting once I got here—Kevin had been so insistent, and he’d sounded so happy when I’d told him I’d come—but it hadn’t been this casual welcome.
Maybe my body language spoke for me, because Kevin turned to me. “Wait a minute,” he said. “This isn’t right.” He grabbed the remote from the cushion between us and turned down the sound a notch or two. Then he soundly kissed me, ending with a loud smack as we parted. “There, that’s better. Hello. I’m so glad you’re here. And, sorry, I can get a little wound up in this.”
“I’ll say. I was getting ready to wave my hand in front of your face.”
“Hey, I’m not that bad. See, they’re cheering and I’m not even looking.” He kept his gaze steadfastly on my face, so I obligingly looked at the screen and told him, “Navy was tackled for a loss.”
“Okay!” He grabbed my shoulders with both hands. “Please tell me you don’t hate the Fighting Irish. Because if you do, I’ll have to toss you out on the sidewalk or bury you in the yard or something.”
Kevin was in a very good mood.
And despite my worries driving over, as the game wore on, I was too. Kevin’s high spirits were contagious, or maybe it was that I pretty much always felt good when I was with him, and it was only when I was anywhere and everywhere else that the doubts crowded in. I settled into watching the game and didn’t have to work hard to start having a good time. The Irish returned a blocked punt for seven points, and after Kevin finished cheering and a commercial came on, I wrapped an arm around his neck and pulled him close. “One kiss for each point, okay?”
Kevin’s eyes widened, and he looked about as shocked as I’d ever seen him, maybe because it had been my idea and not his. But he sure didn’t fight it. We took our time, starting out closed-mouth, and after the first one we broke apart and Kevin murmured, “One.” Then after the second, I licked the tip of his nose and said, “Two.”
At three I slid my tongue between his lips and he hummed in approval, and then showed me exactly how much he liked sucking on my tongue. I hitched closer and spread my fingers through his hair, loving the feeling of the short strands against my hand, loving the sound of Kevin’s quickened breathing even more. “Three,” I said a minute later, and then we went back to it. In the background Nissan was advertising the Altima, and I didn’t feel the least bit guilty ignoring the pitch.
We were still going when the commercial ended and the crowd started roaring for the kickoff. Kevin pulled away and then planted his lips along my jaw line, four
times, from my chin up to my ear. It sort of tickled. “Five, six, seven, and one for luck,” he whispered as the kicker’s foot impacted the ball.
I would have been happy to keep playing that game, but through the rest of the first quarter the Irish looked hapless and Navy looked worse, and nobody came close to the end zone so we could celebrate some more. That was, curiously, okay. It gave me an incentive to get into the game and root for the Irish. After all these weeks, I was sure that Kevin wanted to suck my dick as much as I wanted to suck his; it would happen, only not right now. Soon, soon….
After the first quarter I nudged him and said, “Hey, how about lunch? I’m starved.” It was almost noon.
“Hold on, just a minute.” During the next commercial he dashed to the kitchen and brought out spinach-artichoke dip that he’d made himself, a bowl of chips, and barbecued chicken wings. We munched on those and drank beer for a while and watched while Navy tied the score at seven apiece with a twenty-yard run. Kevin swallowed a chip wrong when that happened, and he choked. I pounded him on the back and said, “Drink some beer.” He did, gulping, and finally got his breath back.
“You give good advice.”
“No kidding,” I said. “I’ve got half a counseling degree, remember? Everybody thinks counselors know what to do all the time, when they really don’t.” I was hardly listening to what I was saying. My back-pounding had turned into flat-handed rubbing across his shoulder blades and up and down his spine. Kevin stretched and shivered under my touch.
“Oh, God, that feels good,” he pretty much whimpered.
It felt good to me too. I knew he ran in the mornings, but other than that I couldn’t imagine how he kept in the shape he was in, so fit it seemed he could step back into his college days and play again. I loved touching him. His skin, his muscles were a delight to my fingers.
Dreamspinner Press Year Three Greatest Hits Page 94
