Drama Queers! (23 page)

“Oh, my God…What’s happening?”

The firm grasp of his hands upon her shoulders.

The tender caress against her cheek.

The delicate way he lifts her chin.

Her words may deny it, but her body burns with a desire she has never known…This is exactly how I feel the moment
my
Richard presses his lips to mine.

My life will never be the same.

“Start spreading the news…”

Look out New York City, Brad Dayton
est arrivé!

You can bet Moody and Rakoff pitched a bitch when I told them I wouldn’t be around this weekend to rehearse
Faded Flowers
. Like I’m gonna skip the biggest audition of my life when I been planning it for months. Besides, it’s not like we still don’t got two more weeks before we start shooting.

Wanna know what I love most about NYC so far?

The people.

Like the lyrics to my favorite Sunday School song says, “
Red, yellow, black, and white
…” Well, so far I haven’t seen any Indians—I mean,
Native Americans
—but I’m sure they’re here somewhere.

Outside LaGuardia, I stand smoking a cigarette, waiting for the bus to transport me to Manhattan. I’m surprised how warm it is here. When I boarded the plane this morning at Metro, it was twenty-two degrees and
snowing
. Now it feels a balmy forty with partly sunny skies. I heard somebody say something about it being on account of New York is located on the ocean…Who knew?

I’d be lying if I didn’t admit I’m a tad freaked out having to find my way all by myself. For the bijillionth time, I reach deep into my pocket for my directions, scratched out on a piece of scrap paper.

Express bus from LAG to GCS
S train to Times Sa
1/9 to Houston

I don’t know why I’m worried. If I get lost, I’ll just ask somebody. Despite what I been warned about New Yorkers not being friendly, how bad can they
really
be?

“Does this bus go to Grand Central Station?”

After almost getting on the Q33 to Queens, I turn to the Hispanic-looking woman sitting on the bench beside me at the stop. I swear she’s carrying as many babies in her arms as she’s got bags at her feet, all of them dirty-faced and fat and totally adorable. The babies, I mean, not the bags.

The look she gives me says,
How dare you talk to me, you Midwestern gay-boy?
“No speak English.”

Well, how should I know?

Ten minutes later, a bus rolls up, large and blue. With the words GRAND CENTRAL prominently displayed on the light-up sign above the windshield, it’s gotta be the right one…I hope.

Back in Detroit, we rarely ever take the bus anywhere. In fact, I think the last time I rode one was back in 10th grade when me and Max hopped the SEMTA up John R to see
The Legend of Billie Jean
at Oakland Mall. This was before any of my friends could drive and feels like sooo long ago.

Like Rosa Parks from my native Motown, I make my way towards the back of the bus. There’s not a seat to be found amongst the natives and other tourists en route to their final destinations.

Lonely people in a city of millions
.

After we pull outta the airport parking lot and onto the highway, in the distance I see it. The City (as they call it), where the neon lights of Broadway are bright and magic fills the air…

An
hour
later, I step off the bus.

Back when I was little, whenever our phone rang, Mom would say “Grand Central” before picking it up. At the time, I never knew why. But when I exit the bus and enter the
real
Grand Central Station, I learn the answer…The place is a zoo!

In the middle, there’s this giant area called the Main Concourse. According to the brochure I picked up…

In the center sits the world famous rendezvous spot, a round Information Booth with its four-sided clock and pagoda made of marble and brass. I guess there’s also a hidden spiral staircase leading down to the lower level. Pretty cool, huh?

Turning back to the brochure, I discover…

Back in the day, the sixty largest stars were lit with forty-watt lights that had to be replaced by hand on a regular basis. There’s no way you’d catch this boy climbing up 125 feet just to change a lightbulb! If you ask me, the ceiling looks a little dingy, which is probably why they’re about to begin a master revitalization plan with the help of the guys responsible for restoring Ellis Island.

The other interesting factoid I read about is the Whispering Gallery…

Supposedly, if you and your love stand facing the walls in opposite corners, you can whisper sweet nothings to each other and hear every word said. Doesn’t that sound totally romantic? Now I
really
wish The Sophomore was here!

Truth be told, I don’t know what’s going on between me and that kid.

After that first kiss in my car, Richie’s been all about getting in-character for this
Faded Flowers
film. Like I said, we start shooting in two weeks, and he’s bound and determined we
become
Noel and Ryan, secret gay lovers.

Whenever he calls me, it’s “Hey, Ryan…” Whenever we hang up, it’s “Good night, Ryan…” Whenever we have lunch, it’s footsies under the table. Not that I’m complaining or anything, I think it’s totally cute.

About the only thing we
haven’t
done is have S-E-X.

At least not Y-E-T.

But I’m not gonna think about that!

There’s no time right now. I gotta find the S train and get myself down to Greenwich Village.

Mr. Dell’Olio’s good friend, Christopher, is letting me stay at his place on Houston Street. He’s a professional actor. I guess they met back in the day when Dell was working as a director Off-Off-Broadway.

‘member the play I seen the show card for, hanging above mine and Richie’s table at Backstage?
Torch Song Trilogy
by Harvey Fierstein. Well, apparently Christopher understudied in the original production back in like 1982 when it transferred to Broadway. How cool is it that I get to meet somebody who does what I wanna do for a living, you know what I mean?

“Does this subway go to Times Square?”

Finally, I see a sign leading me to the S train, where I promptly get in line at what I’m pretty sure is the token booth, and address the oh-so friendly looking attendant behind the bulletproof Plexiglas.

The look the guy gives me says,
Are you an idiot, you Midwestern gay-boy?
“Only place it goes.”

Determined not to be affected by the nasty attitude of others, I ask, “May I buy a token…Please?”

Without any expression whatsoever, Token Booth Guy replies, “One dollar.”

I’m not saying he’s being a jerk just because he’s black and I’m white, but coming from Ferndale/Hazel Park where there’s
one
African-American kid in all of Hillbilly High (“but he’s nice”), how am I supposed to feel? Ever since I seen that commercial where the little boy tells his grandpa that his Jewish friend, Jimmy, called him
prejudice
, I always make sure I treat people alike no matter who they are.

I slip a $20 bill thru the slot.

“Ain’t you got nothing smaller?”

As much as I wanna answer,
If I did, I would’ve given it to you, now wouldn’t I?
, I mind my manners. “Sorry…”

Token Booth Guy says, “How long you in town for?” As if it’s any of his business!

I reply, “Until Monday.” Only because
my
mother raised me to be polite.

“Buy a ten-pack.”

“How much does that cost?”

TBG looks at me like I’m a Total Moron. “Ten dollars.”

Well, how should I know?

I thought maybe they give you a discount for buying in bulk.

Whatever…

Taking the plastic bag of tokens TBG practically throws at me along with my change, I head towards the overhead signs marked S.

At the end of the tunnel, I find
four
different sets of tracks.

“Excuse me…What train do I take to Times Square?”

This time I decide to ask a (white) woman wearing Reeboks with her tweed business suit and wool winter coat. She looks at me like I have TOURIST tattooed across my forehead. “Any of ’em.”

Well, how should I know?

I thought maybe each of the four different trains went someplace else.

Whatever…

Lonely people in a city of millions
.

Like a lamb to the slaughter, I follow the herd towards the arriving subway, climbing on board once the car doors slide open. A loud snap-crackle pops above my head.

“This is the shuttle to Times Square,” the husky male voice announces. “Stand clear of the closing doors.”

For a second, I panic. I’m supposed to be taking the S train,
not
the shuttle, whatever that is. A quick check of the map hanging next to the door informs me I’m indeed on the S (for
shuttle
) and that there’s only one stop between Times Square and Grand Central Station…So far so good!

Now that I think of it, I can’t say I ever rode a subway before. In fact, the only train I ever been on in my life is the one at the Detroit Zoo. Back when we were little, Dad used to take me and the girls at least once a year during the summer. At first sight of the shiny silver water tower rising above Woodward, I just about wet myself I got sooo bic-cited.

Whenever we went, we made sure to follow the white-painted elephant prints along the exact same route: the penguin house, the bird atrium, followed by the reptiles. A quick stop at the polar bear fountain, say hello to the prairie dogs, then work our way back towards the giraffes and zebras in their colorful Egyptian display. I
hated
the Hippo House…Talk about a stink!

With my red plastic elephant key, I made sure we stopped at every yellow information box, listening to the facts for each particular habitat. I’m sure this drove Dad totally crazy. But what I loved most about our annual zoological excursion was the end-of-the-day train trip from Africa Station back to the parking lot.

Sure, the cars were tiny, but the trip thru the tunnel made it worth the ride as me and Janelle competed to see who could scream their heads off the loudest. We also begged Dad to buy us one of them giant spiral-colored all-day suckers from the souvenir stand, and he would always remind us he spent enough money already.

“So what brings you to the Big City?”

A middle-aged man with a cheesy mustache and wire-frame glasses shares my subway seat. He reminds me of Mr. Klan, all bundled up in a navy blue faux-fur trimmed parka. You know, the kind with the snorkel hood and orange interior, circa 1977.

My first thought is,
How’s this guy know I’m a tourist?
Then I remember the suitcase by my side, which I can tell is totally annoying everybody whose way it’s in.

“I’m here for an audition,” I confess.

The look he gives me says,
Hello, Midwestern gay-boy!

Rambling along on its track, the jerking of the train makes conversation tricky. I explain all about how I’m an actor, about Juilliard, how I never been to New York, da-dah da-dah…Probably
not
such a good idea.