“Alex, it’s Trevor. I know you’re home, so please pick up.” Yessir, on the double.
“Hi,” I said.
“Hey.”
“So…?”
“What’re you up to?”
“Just working quietly at home. But you know that obviously.”
“I was in the neighborhood and saw your car.” A drive-by? That was interesting.
“Yeah? What’s going on with you?” I was so low-key. My eyes drifted over the apartment and settled on my Making Mr. Right poster, which Ann Magnuson had autographed when I was a day player on Anything But Love. I re-read the credits, wondering what screenwriters Floyd Byars and Laurie Frank were doing right this minute and if they knew what a classic film they’d help create — and if Trevor was about to break up with me.
“Things have been pretty dead career-wise. And otherwise. Look, Alex, if you’re planning to stay pissed at me forever, you might as well tell me now. I wasn’t even going to call, but…”
“I’m glad you did, Trevor.” He’d made the first move. Why be difficult?
“Why don’t you come over, Alex?”
“Gotta get up early tomorrow.”
“I’ll make it worth your while.”
When I got there, he was spread naked on the couch, slowly traversing the length of his golden rippled torso with a dripping bottle of Veuve Clicquot. “I was reading Playgirl magazine earlier,” he explained in a ridiculously perky morning-show anchor voice. “For the articles. Great ideas in there to spice up Date Night when Granny’s got the kids…”. I could see right away a heart-to-heart about the direction of our relationship wasn’t too plausible. We had white-hot sex, did a little name-dropping, then snuggled under the red satin comforter, watching The Mrs Mouth Show on public access. A thoroughly normal couple by West Hollywood standards.
✽✽✽
Later on people would ask how it felt performing what were to become known as some of the most outrageous scenes in soap history, and I’d have to say I had a pretty great time — fighting with Natalie, doing Ollie, kidnapping my “ex-lover” Frederic (an ex-Santa Barbara contract dish who now recurred on Hearts Crossing solely to take my abuse), spewing amusingly campy dialogue (“You’re as transparent as prison bedsheets, Natalie. And just as besmirched!”) And the costume designer, Mitch (Mittens to his friends), was eager to validate the cliche that homosexuals dressed better, and came up with some super-smart ensembles for me to terrorize the town in.
Unflagging ratings and Entertainment Tonight coverage notwithstanding, there were those not entirely happy with the new Simon. The Gay and Lesbian Alliance Against Defamation was plenty peeved by the negative image conveyed by my sadistic, ruthless, sexually active, stylish homicidal character, especially when it was revealed Simon had used the mysterious sex potency drug to change Brent’s orientation from straight to gay: “Homophobic science-fiction… this irresponsible, ludicrous soap storyline presents us with the only gay character on daytime television and makes him as wicked and perverse as broadcast standards allow… The participation of allegedly gay actor Alexander Young in this hateful claptrap is particularly unconscionable.” Unconscionable was one of the show’s dialogue writers’ favorite adjectives, too!
Readers of the GLAAD newsletter from which the above quote was culled were encouraged to express disapproval by writing and/or phoning the network, production office, local TV stations and myself. I’m sure GLAAD didn’t officially suggest people call me at home, but somehow those irrepressible anonymous activist moppets got hold of my unpublished number and left messages like “Take a stand! Quit the show!” and “You make me sick, Miss Fucking Gutless Benedict Arnold,” so I had to change it again. I sent an Edith Massey postcard to Nick’s office with just my initials and the new number scrawled on it. Just in case.
I couldn’t help wondering what he thought of the new controversy. GLAAD had strong ties to the Gay-Lesbian Services Center in Austin, and I knew he’d helped organize a petition drive when thirtysomething was getting flack for showing two men in bed together. Was I a monster for going along with the cultural overlords’ heinous propaganda? The show was so over-the-top, I found it impossible to get personally offended. And anyway, Simon had been utterly villainous long before his gaiety came into the picture. It wasn't as if he’d been specifically created the world’s most diabolical queer.
“Oh, no,” a newly political Mini-Kyle Chandler replied condescendingly. “Simon didn’t go gay until your orientation became public knowledge. And we certainly shouldn’t construe that narrative decision as a personal slam or punishment of any kind, should we? Heavens, no! It was just a wacky soap opera coincidence, much like Michael Damian starring in Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat on Broadway at the exact same time his character Danny Romalotti did the same thing on The Young & The Restless.” Where was Jeff Stryker when I needed him?
And what was I supposed to do, walk? Sorry, Connie, I just can’t play a gay psychopath anymore. Not unless they add to the cast a masculine, friendly, well-adjusted non-medicated bi-curious hero with discreet vanilla sexual tastes as an inspirational role model. And Simon must volunteer at least three hours per week to AIDS charities. Those are my demands. See you at the arbitration hearing. Then there was the option of acting like such a dickhead at work that they fired me. Either way, I’d be lucky to ever get another audition. But there were some things more important than buckets of money and a future in show business — moral and ethical fiber counted for something!
Call me a whore, but I believed none of it. And I had a sneaking suspicion Nick was sitting home after Barney went night-night, enjoying my taped antics with a grin on his face, if not a lump in his pants. Predictably, the show ignored the initial GLAAD squawk and proceeded as written by Jerry Reynolds: Monday — Simon installs a listening device in Cyrinda’s office. Wednesday — Simon informs Gwen that Ollie’s moving in with him.
S: It’s a one-bedroom loft. And I don’t have a futon couch, if you catch my drift.
G: Are you trying to tell me that you and Oliver — that Ollie is…? Omigod, I don’t believe you. You’re lying. You’re lying!
Thursday — Simon torments Frederic with a live rat. Friday — Simon makes a covert end-of-show phone call indicating he plans to use the sex drug for widespread domination.
Allie and I were in my dressing room between scenes, signing stacks of 8x10 glossies the fan mail department had dropped by, along with a letter for me from prison and an offer to endorse Wet-brand lubricant, when Babs Flanagan showed up carrying the new Entertainment Weekly. “Just look at this,” she brayed excitedly, handing me the open magazine. My eye was immediately diverted by a photo of Corey Haim, Trevor (nude under overalls) and a couple of other hunks clustered around the dimpled baby diva who played Muffin. Below was a semi-sarcastic announcement of the absurd new sitcom’s place on the summer schedule, to be kicked off by a live MTV party at a UCLA frat house. By comparison, the Hearts Crossing blurb on the opposite page was quite favorable, with a shot of me, Babs and Megan and a winky recommendation calling our show “daytime’s edgiest and most shameless traumarama.”
“What on earth am I wearing?” Babs took a little pair of cat-eye spectacles from the pocket of her caftan and squinted at the picture. “Aahh, who gives a fart,” she conceded, stowing the glasses. “Alex, you look adorable, honey. Doesn’t he, Allie?”
“Good enough to blow,” she chirped perkily.
Babs giggled, then picked up one of the photos I’d autographed. “‘See you in Hell’? Oh, Alex, you go too far!”
A bit later, we were taping a scene at the Blake Mansion, and I noticed a tremor of unrest among the crew that went above and beyond their usual annoyance with Babs for screwing up shots by too obviously reading her unmemorized lines from the cue cards. When we took a five-minute break, I asked our 350-pound stage manager what was going on. “Some kinda protest out f
ront,” he said, swiveling his headset around to avoid getting chocolate from his Kit Kat on the microphone. “Everyone’s in the booth checking it out.”
I hurried back there. It was full. One of the monitors in the viewing bank was tuned to the closed-circuit camera at the studio gate. An indeterminately large crowd was marching around waving picket signs. One flashed on-camera long enough to read HEARTS = HATE. STOP SIMON NOW! “It’s those GLAAD kooks,” the associate director said.
“They’re gunning for you, baby,” Reese Jacobs told me with a clap on the back.
I was ready to spaz out but the mood in the booth was surprisingly lighthearted. Anything to break up the monotony of another taping day. Everyone chatted and speculated whether or not we’d be on the news until it was time to go back to work. We got through the scene, my last of the day, and Allison accosted me en route to the Natalie’s Office set where they were now positioning cameras.
“Hey, Alex… if you want to wait, I’ll walk out with you. I’ve only got a couple shorties and I’m done.”
I said okay, showered, changed, and assumed the fetal position on the sofa of the now-dark Simon’s Loft set at the other end of the stage as Natalie wound up some emotional moment with her legally married boyfriend. I wondered how long it would take for my storyline to become more trouble than it was worth, getting me axed. Suddenly a pair of ripped Levi’s and a hairy washboard stomach under a cropped Nike t-shirt dominated my field of vision. I looked up. It was Brent. He sat down.
“What’s up, Alex?” he asked quietly. I clutched my forehead and shook my head dejectedly. “That big stink downstairs? I don’t get it. They’re gay, right? You’d think they’d want more gays on TV. And I don’t see why they’re called GLAAD when they’re p.o.’ed all the time.”
“Excellent point. The name’s an acronym,” I foolishly tried to explain. “You know, the first letter of each word put together to spell something.”
“Oh, okay. Like FBI.”
“Yup.” He was trying to be supportive.
They wrapped and Allison came over. “Ready? Hi, Brent.”
“Hey, Allison.”
“Don’t you want to take your makeup off?” I asked.
“Not if I’m gonna be on the news. Just kidding. I’ll do it at home. C’mon.”
We said goodbye to Brent, who was polishing his large gold cross with his half-a-t-shirt, then went into her dressing room, where she changed clothes in front of me. “If these protesters hassle you, don’t even talk to them. You owe them no explanation.” She gathered a few stray items and stuffed them into her bag.
“They think I’m a traitor to the homo race.”
“Fuck ‘em. I know plenty of queens more evil than Simon. Most of them are in casting. You’re just doing your job.”
“So was Eichmann.”
We walked past the Date Bait isolation booth sitting forlornly on wheels in the studio corridor and got on the elevator. “How’s Trevor?” she asked. He and I had recently had dinner and a screening of Baby Doll in the home theater of Allison and her husband’s beautiful house on Commodore Sloat Drive.
“A little self-obsessed.”
“When you look like that, who can blame you?”
“The timing’s really off.”
“What timing?”
“The fact that I’m becoming notorious just before he becomes a star. I mean, he tries to understand, but it’s…”. I didn’t know how to describe the omnipresent tension that hung like a haze over even our cuddliest moments without making Trevor sound like an asshole. Which was rather telling, I supposed.
“If you ever want to change your surroundings, or just hang out and watch obscure black-and-white films, we’d love to have you. Alone or attached. Just call me, okay?”
“Thanks, Allie. I will.”
We left the building and headed for the parking lot. No game-show queues today, thank God, but we wouldn't be able to see if the picketers were still in front of the studio until we were driving out. Allie got into her navy-blue BMW and raised the rag-top. “Stay close behind me,” she ordered.
I started my car and we pulled around the building together. The GLAADsters, about 40 or 50 of them, were parading around the main gate, which Allison and I were approaching at the posted speed of 15 mph. A news van from another network’s local affiliate was parked across the street, eager to discredit their rival with a live scoop. We were close enough to actually see the picketers by now — mainly plain-jane activist types of assorted genders, median age 35, with a smattering of the shaved ’n’ pierced Club Fuck contingent thrown in for variety. They were chanting something. I lowered my window a crack to hear. “Positive images now! Positive images now!”
Allison was at the gate. The mechanical wooden arm raised and she drove through, preparing to turn onto the street. The protesters swarmed around her car, trying to thrust leaflets at her. She kept the car moving and spurted into traffic at the first opportunity.
The crowd turned their attention to my car, now passing beneath the wooden arm. I spasmodically checked to make sure all four windows were up, noticed my white knuckles clenched around the steering wheel, and relaxed my grip. Chances of recognition were slim. They’d probably never actually watched the show. Plus I was wearing Trevor’s enormous sunglasses from Puerto Vallarta. And LAX.
They converged on the car and a fat guy with Dr Cyclops glasses and an Endora t-shirt shoved a computer-printed pamphlet titled “Heartless Crossing” up to my window. Eight or ten sign-wielding people were directly in front of my car, but I continued to roll forward. Then someone slapped the hood and I distinctly heard him scream, “It’s him! That’s Alexander Young!”
Holy shit. Now they were all pressing up to the windows to get a peek at the Antichrist, a cacophony of yelling audible through Saf-T-Glass. I slammed the horn down and the mob recoiled slightly. The studio guard was arguing with a few people to my left, but it wasn’t clearing the way any faster. I started to plow through anyway. Later I found that someone had crookedly affixed a SILENCE = DEATH pink triangle sticker to my bumper. (I left it, so there.) Just as I was ready to make a right turn onto the avenue, a mohawked maniac leapt onto the hood and started waving his fist while bellowing something defiant.
Thoroughly agitated, I pulled out with him still on the car, and accelerated down the street with a trail of protesters running behind. Probably remembering how vile he’d been told I was, Numbnuts slid over to the edge and shakily assumed a launch position before I decided to hit the freeway, or shoot him. I put on the brakes ever so suddenly and he toppled off. In the rearview mirror I watched him careen into a curbside garbage can, shrieking obscenities.
Honestly, this wasn’t how I’d pictured stardom.
MAY 27, 1991
I had until May 31 to be out of my apartment, but Sara’s new job at Paseo del Rio started June 3, which meant we had to leave San Antonio on Tuesday the 28th if we wanted the weekend in L.A. My parents had been up to Austin Friday and we moved all my stuff back to San Antonio and ordered pizza and my dad made a little speech about how proud he was that I was pursuing my dream and moving to Hollywood to act. I happened to know that required him to swallow quite a chunk of disappointment over the law school thing (the tuition deposit was fortunately refundable), so I was especially shocked when he whipped out a check for $35,000 (one-third of his payout from the recently settled assault case) and told me it was a graduation present from him and Mom.
“If you’re going to be out there busting your ass to be a movie star, we don’t want you worrying about holding down some piece-of-shit day job,” he said, a bit misty-eyed.
Sara was all for it. She’d spent a couple days in Dallas with me, covering the Teenage Brides of Christ shoot for The Daily Texan, and said, “This is what you were meant to do. Incredibly trashy motion pictures.” And despite the 19-hour days, cat-fighting boozy drugged-up co-s
tars, and director Carl DeAngelis pawing me on two separate occasions, I knew she was right. I’d never felt that alive, not even with Nick. It was two weeks of exhausting, nerve-wracking magic that I’d do anything to recapture. The other cast members fueled my fantasies with promises of places to stay and introductions to agents.
Leaving Nick in Texas was the only run in the pantyhose of my plan. But I didn’t know what else to do. Our relationship couldn’t progress without him dumping Barney, and if he had any intentions of doing so, they were a secret. Whenever I’d envisioned the coming fall semester, I shuddered. It would’ve been madness saddling myself with the gauntlet of first-year law school on top of the stress of constantly wondering if this would be the week he’d tell me he loved me and wanted to be with me alone… or if my one free evening would tragically coincide with some mandatory hours of Barney-maintenance. How could I concentrate on memorizing a thousand-page tort text when all I could think about was Nick?
And he’d never try to stop me from going to L.A., not even if it were just the two of us here, if Barney had been dropped on his head as an infant and taken a job sweeping up at his parents’ furniture store with his ersatz special-ed diploma and never laid eyes on Nick — the Nick who wanted great things for me. This was the right move at the proper time, before I started to wrinkle around the eyes. If only Nick wanted great things for himself, too. He’d pack up his safe, fatally bland existence in Austin and take a chance and come with me. I knew how impossible this was, but it still saddened me to realize that I’d been unable to demonstrate that my love for him was something he could rely on.
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