Master of Ceremonies: A Memoir (7 page)

CHAPTER THREE

Mother, all dressed up in a stylish suit and cloche—with faux grapes—that she had made the night before, was surrounded by a mountain of luggage and the Families Katz and Epstein. It was a brutal 10 degrees on that day in 1945 on the Union Terminal platform where she, Ronnie, and I (also all dressed up) waited to board a gigantic streamliner, but she was happy and excited. Like Rose from
Gypsy
who sang that she would “get my kids out,” Grace was getting out of Cleveland.

Mother’s expectation of a better, more glamorous life was finally coming true. My father had been hired to play with Spike Jones and His City Slickers; we were moving to Los Angeles. Hollywood, the land of her beloved movie stars!

This was Dad’s really big break, Mother explained to The Sisters, who were not only freezing but also dying of envy. Mickey Katz had first come to the attention of Spike, the popular bandleader and major recording star, because of his musical expertise and unique gift of the “glug”—a percussive sound made by swallowing air. It was something impossible to teach; you either had it or you didn’t. Spike was known for his satirical versions of famous pop and classical music using funny sounds such as horns, gunshots, and soon Dad’s glug. One of his biggest hits, “Cocktails for Two,” featured a chorus of hiccups and glugs. When Spike’s orchestra toured, Dad was given clarinet solos and comedy bits to do, so that by the time he went out to California ahead of us to find an apartment, he was no longer just a Cleveland musician but one getting a national reputation.

As we boarded the train, I was shut down and sad. I didn’t care about leaving school, friends, relatives, anything, or anyone in Cleveland—other than the Play House and Walter. I wondered if I would ever find another place where I seemed to belong as much. And as to the excitement, tenderness, and trust I shared with Walter, well, the thought of saying goodbye to that made me absolutely miserable. So I didn’t really say goodbye to Walter; instead I told him I’d be back, even though I didn’t know if I would.

I mourned privately as we pulled out of the station and Cleveland quickly receded into the distance. The novelty of the train trip—which included a dining car where anything you wanted was brought in silver service to tables covered in starched white tablecloths by elegant and smiling black gentlemen in full uniform—provided some distraction. Traveling more than 2,000 miles through Kansas and the Southwest, I watched America go by. Yet, no matter how deep the canyons or lovely the plains, I couldn’t shake the feeling that a big and very important part of my nearly fourteen years was receding into the distance, too.

Los Angeles was a balmy 75 degrees, as if by movie magic. From the moment we stepped onto the platform at LA’s fabled Union Station, where my teary, smiling father was waiting for us in a summer-weight suit, it was as if we had arrived in a foreign country. Together, the four of us click-clacked our way across the slippery terra-cotta-tiled floor, under a ceiling that seemed to reach the sky. We moved on past fountains, courtyards, and lush, enclosed garden patios. Things were growing everywhere, palms in the shape of giant fans, plants that looked like something out of the
Encyclopædia Britannica,
and flowers that were as red as Aunt Fritzi’s lipstick.

In the twilight, Dad drove west on Wilshire Boulevard. Ronnie and I craned our heads out the windows to look at the palm trees that lined the streets en route to our new apartment. My father proudly announced “6148½ Orange Street!” as if it were the Taj Mahal. But by that time, it was totally dark. The Spanish Colonial architecture that had just an hour earlier appeared magical and inviting now seemed shadowy and strange. I never liked arriving in new destinations at night. (I still don’t; the dark on top of unfamiliar rooms and furniture is doubly disorienting.) But after we had our Jell-O and milk, Ronnie and I went to our new room and fell asleep in our new twin beds.

I awoke at dawn to the most amazing, powerful, and sweet smell filling the entire room. Looking out the window, and through the filtered early-morning sunlight, I saw a real, live orange tree. The fruit dangled from a branch no more than a foot from my bed, so close that I couldn’t believe what I saw. I put my hand right through the open window and pulled one off before loudly whispering, “Ronnie! Wake up. Look at this!” I stuck my amazing find right under his nose. “You can’t do this in Cleveland!” I said as I tore the peel from the fruit and shared the prize with my baby brother.

We were all completely seduced by California: the sun, the flowers, the food. The
food
! The legendary Farmers Market, a bazaar of delicious and unusual things to eat at the corner of Third and Fairfax, was only six blocks north of us. The market was big enough for us to get lost in and brimming with produce. Mother picked, plucked, and prodded; since she was Grandpa Epstein’s favorite daughter, fresh fruits and vegetables were nothing new. The real adventure was the stalls along the whole perimeter of the market, which served every kind of exotic cuisine.

Seated at outdoor picnic tables, we tasted so many new things. Mother, being the daring cook that she was, always encouraged Ronnie and me to try food that other kids wouldn’t go near. We discovered cellophane noodles and sheer dumplings filled with juicy shrimp and pork; house-made hams and salamis piled atop buttered dark brown bread from the Danish stall; and Mexican tacos of pork butt that was both tender and crispy inside warm white flour tortillas, topped with a mixture of cilantro, onions, and lime. Nobody had ever heard of tacos in Cleveland, let alone tasted them.

The most electrifying aspect to our new life, however, was the fact that in LA the movies were
it
. They were the local pastime and industry. After seeing
Till the Clouds Roll By
, a big musical with June Allyson, Judy Garland, and Lena Horne, I became a huge fan of MGM’s musicals and wanted to know all things Metro Goldwyn Mayer. I would always noodge my mom to take me to its Culver City lot. There, after telling her she had to park out of sight and stay in the car, I would stand by the big drive-in gate waiting with my autograph book for any stars exiting the lot. When we eventually moved into a house of our own, I covered the walls of my bedroom with photographs cut out from
Photoplay
of the biggest movie stars of the day—Gene Kelly, Fred Astaire, Mickey Rooney, Esther Williams, and Judy Garland.

Even school, with lunch eaten outdoors, had an air of glamour. When we arrived in LA, in the middle of the semester, it was more than a little intimidating, all that sizing-you-up stuff, and having my baby brother in tow did little to help my confidence. I was short and didn’t play sports—and I now no longer had the Play House as a second home. Trying to figure out who I was in this new place, I remained quiet and careful until I better understood the lay of the land.

As I entered ninth grade at Alexander Hamilton High, confusion over my sexual identity only grew. I always liked girls a lot—and high school was no different. In many ways, I was more comfortable in their company than I was with boys. Girls were cute and fun—and they weren’t competitive. Plus, they really liked me back. When I was little they liked me because I was good at jump rope. When I got older it was because I was a pretty good dancer. I had always danced with Mother (“You know your mother loves to dance”) at home, to the radio, or whenever we went to see my father play. Whether I wanted to or not, I was her partner. I could do all the dances of the day, the rumba, the fox-trot, and the waltz, but the jitterbug, specifically swing dancing, was my favorite. Over the next two years, more and more of the girls of Hami High wanted to be around me because I could dance. It was what they had in mind besides dancing that I wasn’t prepared for.

Things with girls always seemed to be started by them, even as far back as age seven when little Mary Ann from next door suggested I touch her somewhere I knew I shouldn’t, and then put her hand in my pants (afterward, she told her mother, who called my mother, who gave me a boarding-school-level beating). Whether I was trying to prove something or simply be friendly, I always felt obligated to respond to advances made by girls I liked. That was definitely the case with Francine, the first girl I ever had sex with.

The feelings I had for Francine were that of compassion bordering on pity. I felt bad for her because her parents couldn’t take care of her so she lived in a facility in Culver City run by Jewish services. She wasn’t particularly pretty, but she had a big crush on me and never stopped calling my house.

As if it were an inevitability, Francine and I went out on a date. I picked her up in my father’s new Hudson, drove along the coast—the grown-up thing to do—and parked in an abandoned lot by the beach, where we moved to the backseat. Without a word, she took all her clothes off; I didn’t. When we began necking, perhaps the most powerful sensation I experienced was the smell of her acne medicine.

We had sex a couple of times back then, but it always felt dutiful. All of my experiences with girls lacked the passion, pleasure, and reciprocity I had had with Jerry and Walter. I was being a good sport and doing what was expected of me when her advances made the situation clear. Boys were supposed to want to have sex with girls. Everybody knew that. I had to prove that I was normal. To whom? I don’t know. I guess myself.

All of my high school sexual experiences had a similar air of compliance even when the girl was a real knockout, such as Janet. She was a cheerleader all the jocks were crazy to date, but I was the one with whom she went out on a few dates. One day I stopped by her house to see if she wanted to go to Tom Crumplar’s in Westwood Village for a malt, but she wasn’t home. Still, her mother asked me if I wanted to come in. She looked more like her gorgeous older sister than like her mom. “Would you like something to drink?” she asked. “Lemonade, a Coke. Or a beer?”

A beer. Wow.

“Sure, I’ll take a beer,” I said coolly.

She smelled really good as she sat down next to me on the couch. We chatted for a couple of minutes while I sipped the beer. She moved her hand on my leg. Inwardly, I was alarmed. This was Janet’s mom and I wasn’t even an upperclassman! But the people-pleaser in me wasn’t going to embarrass her by removing her hand. And the performer, the one who responded to almost any dare, took the situation a step further, moving in for a kiss.

I have always had an attraction to danger—furtive fumblings in the elevator, a secret rendezvous above the butcher shop—that translates easily into sexual provocation. Janet’s mom clearly picked up on this vibe. Having a beer and sex with a beautiful and experienced older woman, who also happened to be my girlfriend’s mother, was thrilling. What I did with Janet’s mom, however, wasn’t as intense as anything I did with Walter.

My self-doubt became acute. The notion that some people might be attracted to both boys and girls was totally outside the bounds of anything I had ever heard. The ambiguity I felt didn’t seem like a choice. I definitely didn’t want to face the idea that what really made me feel connected and truly sexually alive was sleeping with men, which was definitely not OK. And so I felt forced to hide in the uncertainty of it all. I knew that absolutely no one would understand.

I had found a comfortable place for myself in the scene at Hami High, which from the outside looked like the perfect brick high school in an MGM musical, even though it was in an iffy neighborhood. Ironically enough, my best friends were the jocks. These handsome, popular, athletic lettermen turned me into their mascot. They kept an eye out for me against bullies (because of my small size and the conspicuous clothes Mother always made sure I wore, I was an easy target). The jocks liked having me around, because I knew how to entertain. The performing instinct—the one that brought me attention from Mr. Lowe at the Play House or walking down the aisle of my aunt’s wedding—served me well in high school. I understood that people had expectations of me, and not only did I comply, I amplified it.

I made the lettermen laugh with my impressions of teachers and other students just like my dad amusing his bandmates back at the Palace. I was voted vice president of my class and became a member of the debate team. But I was no angel. When the occasion required it, I had no trouble being provocative. I pushed the limits, sometimes dangerously.

When Mrs. Mabel Montague, my drama teacher, who thought I had
something
, gave me carte blanche to direct a play of my own choice, I picked
The Lady of Larkspur Lotion
. This gritty one-act play centers on a woman who, having fallen on hard times, is living in a squalid boardinghouse, where she is reduced to prostitution as a way of avoiding eviction. The play, however well written and performed, was out-there and, as such, it stirred up a fair bit of controversy, shocking those who saw it—especially the school principal. My artistic efforts earned me a trip to his office, where he angrily asked, “Mr. Katz, what is this?”

My reply—“It’s Tennessee Williams, one of our greatest playwrights”—got me sent home.

I was basically a show-off, and occasionally it got me into really big trouble. When everybody stopped to watch my stunning date Shirley Scharf and me do the jitterbug at a school dance that we had with Venice High, I felt like we were Judy Garland and Mickey Rooney. But as soon as the number was over, a tough-looking Mexican kid from the other school approached me on the dance floor to say, “I hear you called me a son of a bitch.”

“No, I never said that.”

“Are you saying my friend’s a liar?”

“No. I’m not saying that. I just…”

“You want to come outside?”

“No. I don’t want to come outside. I didn’t say anything. Honest.”

My exuberance on the dance floor with a beautiful blonde had enraged him.

I took Shirley’s hand and slowly walked us to one of the exits, where we were blocked by two of his friends. We turned and walked, quickly now, to another exit, where we found two more guys closing in. There was no way out. I was sweating. I turned around for a second, but too late—the guy threw a punch and knocked me out. I awoke in Shirley’s arms with a real shiner. Just like in the movies.