Drama Queers! (24 page)

Not that he looks like a child molester or anything, but I’ll never forget what happened when I was five years old and the Oakland County Child Killer struck for the first time…’member?

It all began in February 1976…

With the bicentennial mere months away, the body of a 12-year-old boy from Ferndale was found laid out in a snow bank in a parking lot on 10 Mile in Southfield. He had been strangled and sexually assaulted.

Over the course of the next thirteen months, three more children were abducted and murdered, much in the same way. The second victim, a 12-year-old girl from Royal Oak, ran away from home just three days before Christmas. On the morning after, they discovered her body along 1–75 in Troy near 16 Mile, aka Big Beaver. She had been shot in the face.

In January 1977, a 10-year-old girl disappeared from a 7-Eleven in Berkley. A little over two weeks passed when a postal carrier found her, lifeless, laying on the side of a road in rural Franklin. She had been smothered to death.

Finally, an 11-year-old boy from Birmingham went missing in March after buying a magazine at a nearby drugstore. Two teenagers later spotted him in a shallow grave near 8 Mile in Livonia, his skateboard by his side. He had been suffocated after being sexually abused.

What kind of person could do this to an innocent child?

Luckily, when these tragic events took place, my family was living in
Macomb
County, where as far as we knew, no Child Killer lurked. Yet I’ll never forget the terror instilled in me and Janelle at the time. Every day we ran home from school, fearful of being snatched up by a stranger. Every evening when the
Macomb Daily
arrived, we prayed they didn’t print another headline about another kid gone missing.

Over ten years later, the mystery of the Oakland County Child Killer remains unsolved.

“Next stop Times Square.”

Like nails on a chalkboard, the subway screeches to a halt.

Parka Guy informs me, “This is us.”

The train doors open, the people pour out, like sardines from a can. I don’t know where I’m going, so I keep my eyes peeled for directions to the 1/9 line to Houston.

“Can I carry that for you?”

As much as I wouldn’t mind the assistance, I keep thinking how freaked out my mom would be if she knew I was talking to a stranger, let alone accepting help from him. Especially one who may or may not be a serial killer, but
is
most likely gay and clearly into young boys.

“I’m good, thanks.”

Turns out, Parka Guy is also going my way, so I have no other choice but to follow. Down and around, in and out, past some kid beating a plastic gallon bucket with drumsticks.

Up ahead and down some steps, I hear what sounds like a subway pulling into the station. Sure enough, on the sign above, I see the word DOWNTOWN and the numbers 2, 3 and 1/9 in white on a red circle. Looks like we made it in the nick of time!

We step in, and stand clear of the closing doors.

“So does this train stop at Houston?” I ask. Only I pronounce the street name the way I been since I got here, like the famous Texas town.

You can bet I feel like an ass when PG replies, “No…But it stops at
How-ston
.”

I do a double take. “In Green-wich Village?”

“No…In
Gren-ich
Village.”

What the fuck?

I thought Detroit was the only place they were dumb enough to pronounce G-R-A-T-I-O-T as
Gra-shit
and S-C-H-O-E-N-HE-R-R as
Shaner
.

“Well, I’m staying with a friend on
How-ston
and Green-wich—I mean,
Gren-ich
,” I inform PG. Again, probably not such a good idea.

“Get off at Houston,” he tells me, “and walk two blocks west.”

I’m not sure how exactly I’ll be able to tell east from west, but once I get there I’ll either figure it out or ask somebody. To quote Paula Poundstone (yet again): “I can’t tell left from right without pretending to eat!”

At the next stop, 14th Street, I notice the train has filled up quite a bit since we first got on. An older woman with white hair and wrinkles stands in front of where I’m sitting. Straining to reach the bar overhead, she’s weighted down with shopping bags from someplace called Fairway.

“Excuse me, ma’am,” I say politely. “Would you like to sit?”

The woman looks down at me and smiles. “I’m fine, I’m getting off.”

I have to laugh at the way she pronounces
fine
like
coin
.

“This is the 1/9 to South Ferry,” a female voice announces rapidly yet audibly this time. “Next stop Houston…Step in, stand clear.”

Once again, we’re off, the clickety-clack rhythmically rocking me to rest.

It never fails, whenever I get in a car or other moving vehicle, no matter how long the ride, I immediately wanna take a nap. Back when I was little and Mom couldn’t get me to fall asleep, she’d make Dad drive us around the block. In two seconds, I’d be out like a light…Too bad this guy in the parka keeps yak-ing my ear off.

“So how long you in town for?” he questions, milking each moment of our time together.

“Just till Monday.”

Boy, am I ready to get off this train and be on my merry way all by myself!

“If you need someone to show you around, feel free to call.”

Growing creepier by the second, the guy jots down seven digits on a scrap of paper with a pen he pulls from deep within his parka.

Lying thru my in-much-need-of-braces teeth, I reply, “I will.”

As if
! Not that I’m saying he’s a perv or anything, but come on…The guy’s gotta be at least twice my age. What’s he doing offering to play tour guide to a teenager?

Finally, the subway comes to another screeching halt.

“This is our stop,” Parka Guy informs me.

Turns out, he’s also getting off at Houston.

Just my luck!

Out on the street, once more he offers to assist me with my suitcase.

“I’m good, thanks…” The last thing I need is him knowing exactly where I’m staying all weekend, you know what I mean?

“You positive?”

Not sure how else to give him the hint I’m not the least bit interested, I answer, “Positive…My
boyfriend
is meeting me here any minute.”

Thank God he finally gets it.

Like a weasel, I watch him burrow back beneath the ground. I guess this wasn’t his subway stop after all! I can’t help but feel sorry for the guy. It must be tough making friends in this town, let alone finding somebody special.

Lonely people in a city of millions
.

Bradley James Dayton, you’re a fool!

I been in New York City for all of ten hours and already I got myself in trouble.

Make that
twelve
.

A glance at my Swatch informs me it’s almost 2 o’clock in the morning. Only eight more hours till the biggest audition of my life.

What the hell am I doing wasted off my ass in a gay bar?

Around 3:30 PM, I arrived at Mr. Dell’Olio’s friend Christopher’s place on
How-ston
and
Gren-ich
, after escaping the evil clutches of Parka Guy the Pedophile.

Buzz!

I pressed the button marked 5-B and waited…Nothing happened.

Buzz!

I pressed the button again…Nothing happened.

Buzz!

I pressed the button a third time, before coming to the conclusion that all I needed to do was
push
the door open since it wasn’t the least bit locked. How’s that for feeling secure?

After hauling my suitcase up five flights of stairs to a darkened hall with lead-painted peeling walls and a single burned-out bulb, my gracious host greeted me at the door.

“I see you survived the subway…”

Barely!

About 6’ tall with feathered-back sandy brown hair and just a hint of hi-lights, Christopher appeared rather stylish for a guy his age—twenty-seven. When I followed him into the apartment, I couldn’t help but notice his ass hanging out of a well-placed rip beneath the right cheek of his Bugle Boys. He reminded me of George Michael from the “Faith” video. All he needed was the leather jacket, sunglasses, and some scruff.

“Can I offer you something to drink?”

Dying of thirst, I replied, “I’ll take some pop.”

Christopher chuckled at my Michigan-ism. “One
pop
coming right up.”

I made myself comfortable on the couch, gulping down a refreshing Diet Rite.
“Ahhh!”

“So when’s your big audition?”

“Tomorrow at 10 o’clock.”

After months and months of waiting, the big day was about to be here.

I glanced around the living/bedroom. On the walls, an assortment of
Playbills
and Theatre posters reminiscent of Backstage restaurant made me suspect that Christopher most likely was gay. His record collection also tipped me off, comprised of classics such as
Go West
by The Village People, Bette Midler’s
The Divine Miss M
, and the brand-new, self-titled
Cher
, featuring “We All Sleep Alone,” which I L-O-V-E!

“You’ve got
plenty
of time,” my host assured me with a flounce of his wrist. “Get out and see the sights before the sun goes down.”

Truth be told, I couldn’t do anything for the next eighteen hours but worry about my audition. This is why I decided to pick up some postcards, thinking I better send one to my mom and my sisters…And Mr. Dell’Olio…And The Sophomore.

“There’s a great little bookstore you should check out called Oscar Wilde’s.”

I’d be lying if I didn’t admit I don’t know much about the guy. Other than he wrote
The Picture of Dorian Gray
, which Mrs. Malloy forced us to read in 11
^th
grade English Shit—I mean,
Lit
. I barely remember the story. Something about a guy who is sooo vain he doesn’t wanna grow old, so he pays this artist to paint a portrait of him that ages instead.

At the time we read it in class, I didn’t realize Oscar Wilde was gay. Until Stacy Gillespie raised her hand and was all like, “Mrs. Malloy…Wasn’t Oscar Wilde homosexual?”

Flummoxed, Mrs. Malloy was all like, “Why yes, he was.”

End of discussion.

The Village (as they call it), is totally cute, but totally confusing!

With tiny crooked streets running all different directions, a person could easily lose his way. At one point, West 4
^th
Street actually crosses West 10
^th
. There’s even an aptly named
Gay
Street right across from the Oscar Wilde Bookshop, which Christopher says is like the world’s oldest gay bookstore, established in 1967, two years preceding the birth of the Gay Liberation movement.

A few years ago, I begged Jack to come to New York with me to celebrate his 16
^th
birthday, which falls on June 27
^th
, the eve of the Stonewall Riots…And do you think he would?

N–O!

“Good afternoon.”

A young lesbian-looking woman greeted me from behind the counter as the jingling of bells announced my arrival. Like everything else in NYC, the bookstore was super tiny. I guess there isn’t a whole lot to offer in the world of Gay Literature. The fact that such a place even exists totally amazes me. I can’t imagine
ever
finding anything gay-owned and operated in Hazel Park. Or even Ferndale, for that matter.

A display marked STONEWALL BOOK AWARD-WINNERS offered such titles:
The Spirit and the Flesh: Sexual Diversity in American Indian Culture, Sex and Germs: The Politics of AIDS
, and
The Celluloid Closet: Homosexuality in the Movies
. Out of curiosity, I wondered if they had a copy of
Now Let’s Talk About Music
by Gordon Merrick laying around anywhere.

Years ago, I bought a copy of this trashy gay romance novel up at B. Dalton’s in Universal Mall, all about these gay guys, Ned and Gerry, cruising about on the gay
Love Boat
, getting it on with anybody and everybody who comes along. Lemme tell ya, me and Jack read that book over and over (and over) till the cover practically fell off. I can’t believe he threw it in a mailbox on his way to school one morning, fearing Dianne would find it when she was snooping about, aka cleaning his room.

“Are you looking for something particular?” Lesbian Lady inquired, a polite smile gracing her fine-featured face. Why do some women look good without makeup and others not?

“Just these, please.”

I decided to skip the Gordon Merrick in favor of a few black-and-white NY landmark postcards I found on a rack next to the register: Empire State Building, Statue of Liberty, World Trade Center. The last thing I needed was to start reading
The Adventures of Ned & Gerry
and get all distracted when I had the biggest audition of my life in the morning, you know what I mean?

“Come again,” Lesbian Lady told me after I paid for my purchase.

“I will…Next time I’m in town.”

I couldn’t resist letting it slip I was a tourist, as if LL couldn’t already tell by my I
NY shopping bag filled with the I
NY T-shirts I bought for my mom and my sisters…And Mr. Dell’Olio…And The Sophomore.

Before I could depart, LL asked, “Where you visiting from?”

“Detroit, Michigan,” I answered proudly, probably for the first time in my life.

“What brings you to The City?”

Her genuine interest took me by surprise.

“Well, since you asked…”

I explained all about how I’m an actor here for my Juilliard audition, da-dah da-dah…

Wanna know what she said to this?

“I auditioned for Juilliard…
Three
times.”

This explained why she was working in a bookstore and not on Broadway.

“How did it go?” I wondered if maybe she could give me some insight as to what tomorrow had in store.

“Fine, I thought…The last one, I even got a callback.”

“Well, that’s a good sign.” I tried my best to sound encouraging. “Maybe four’s a charm.”

The woman shrugged. “Being an actor is tough…Especially if you’re a Friend of Dorothy.”

Dorothy who?

Outside, it surprised me to see how dark it was at only 4:30 PM. Maybe because of all the tall buildings blocking out the sun. Or the fact that New York City is on one edge of the Eastern time zone and Detroit the other, closer to Central in Chicago. Either way, it totally depressed me. I thought of Sean living it up in Sunny LA, probably hanging out at the beach with David Lee Roth and all the California girls—and the bodybuilders…Lucky!

Down the block, I discovered a lovely little café,
Les Deux Gamins
. Not sure how that translates (The Two Somethings), but I decided to stop in, order a cappuccino and smoke a cigarette while I wrote out a quick note.

Later that evening, Christopher hailed us a cab and we headed uptown for dinner at this famous restaurant called Sardi’s on W. 44
^th
Street right off Times Square. You might remember it from
The Muppets Take Manhattan
when Kermit goes in, disguised as a famous producer or director or somebody, trying to generate some hype about his musical,
Manhattan Melodies
…’member?

All these caricatures of famous Theatre-types cover the walls. Fozzie takes down the one of Liza Minnelli, and replaces it with Kermit’s, causing the entire room to start buzzing about the famous producer or director or whoever they think Kermit is. Until the
real
Liza Minnelli shows up. Only to discover she’s been replaced by a frog…Boy, she’s pissed!

“So what advice can you give an aspiring actor?”

Over dinner, I decided to ask Christopher some questions. I figured since he’s been there and done it, he could offer an insider’s perspective I can’t get anywhere else on the Acting Biz…
Carpe diem
, and all that jazz.

“You want the honest truth?” He pushed his half-full plate of pasta aside in favor of a Merit Ultra Light. “It sucks.” He lit up, exhaled. “If there’s anything else you can think of doing, if there’s
anything
that’ll make you just as happy…Do it.”