The Home For Wayward Ladies (4 page)

I remember the way he would slap the pulpit as he confronted us sheep. “It says here in Leviticus that homosexuality is a detestable sin.” I looked up from my plush upholstered chair where I had been furrowing the weft of the fabric with the wheels of my Matchbox car. “For a man to lie down with another man as he would a woman is an offense that makes them both guilty of death.” It had not been but one week since he stood in that same spot carrying on about “judge not, lest ye be judged.” And you wonder why I grew up confused…

When he’d said that part about a man laying down with another man, I felt an inward rush of apprehension. I had just returned that morning from camping in the Blue Ridge Mountains with my aunt, uncle, and Cousin Jonathan, who was two years my senior. My parents thought the experience was a rite of passage, or as they put it, “a wonderful opportunity for our boy to develop some masculine wiles.” My parents strapped me in the back seat next to Cousin Jonathan and waved us on our way.

It was a thrill. You see, my folks had always kept me on a rather tight leash. Until then, the most adventure I’d been allowed was to build a fort out of pillows in the living room floor where I could pretend I was sailing to the moon. My experiences with nature were limited to the sandbox in our yard and the annual Church Easter Egg Roll. Camping, on the other hand, was a delightful surprise. It was the very essence of both free and real. I fished and hiked and swam and lit marshmallows on fire like I was the Statue of Liberty until Aunt Luella told me to blow them out before I hurt somebody. That night, my aunt and uncle tucked me into the same sleeping bag as Cousin Jonathan. The two of us slept soundly in a tent on a bluff overlooking the Shenandoah Valley. We were pressed up against each other like leftover hotdogs in saran wrap.

When Aunt Luella and Uncle Don delivered me back to my parents before church that Sunday morning, there was still dirt beneath my nails and my hair was still pasted to my forehead with sweat. I was filthy, but it was nothing a quick bath could not absolve. It wasn’t until I was propped up in church and the minister started shouting about Leviticus that I felt truly unclean. “For a man to lie down with another man as he would a woman is an offense that makes them both guilty of death,” he said. Why, only hours prior I had been sharing that sleeping bag with Cousin Jonathan. It came as quite a shock to my extremely nervous system to hear tell that our slumber was seen as sin in the eyes of an angry God.

But I was angry too, and rightfully so. My Aunt Luella and Uncle Don had coerced me into committing an act that they knew in their hearts was a damnable offense. I decided right then and there that my parents could never learn of that misdeed; I was to appear righteous before them, as it was their wont for me to be. That was the first secret I ever knew to keep. I was a sinner before I knew how to sin.   

The preacher on the subway is an unwelcome reminder of how many secrets I have had to maintain since. As soon as my sexuality blossomed, I came to realize that the church and I were not destined to be. That’s how I found the theater. There I was blessed with the company of many tempting fruits. For so many Sundays I had been told those homosexuals, my new friends, would burn in the fires of hell. Well, have I got news for Jesus Christ: those homosexuals are responsible for teaching me what it means to not cast stones. My new congregation preached the gospel according to Sondheim. The only true blasphemy was to call an Original Cast Recording a “Soundtrack” which, trust me, is a mistake you only make once when you travel in that circle. Under their tutelage, I worked relentlessly to forget everything I’d learned about a God that would condemn my capacity to love.

“Homosexuality is a choice,” the subway preacher screams, “made by those who take up company with the devil himself. The faggot used to walk among the shadows. But, now, my brothers, the homosexual gives off the illusion of light. Do not look at that light as if it were any heavenly glow. In the eyes of the homosexual, you will see the burning fires of hell. Look not, for it will blind you.”

Try as I may, life in this city requires more adjustment than wearing a thong on an elliptical. Why, I told Eli just the other day that I feel there are bad memories here. He looked at me like I had grown another nose and told me that could not possibly be true because we’d only just arrived. But when we showed up here five months ago with our U-haul full of furniture and our pockets full of dreams, I knew as much of New York City as Dorothy did when she landed in Oz. While Technicolor sparkles all around, I know nothing more than black and white, right and wrong. The Ladies continually remind me to let loose, that I am finally somewhere that I can live my life in living color. And, yet, the high definition only helps me see my faults more clearly. 

As we reach my stop, the college boys look to me with sympathy as if they should apologize on that preacher’s behalf. They know by my carriage exactly what I am and, even though my sexual proclivities are an unpleasant thought, they are a mostly modern set who have been taught by
Glee
to feel pity for the plight of the gays. While I am pleased to have their vote of solidarity against this false prophet, I would be far happier to be anything other than a refugee surfing the uptown A express, next stop: Gomorrah.

4

NICK

When my alarm clock rings at 5AM, I realize in an instant of staggering pain that I have been clenching my jaw for the last seven hours. The ache in my molars travels up through my skull and I beg to be granted an ice pick lobotomy. “Get the fuck up,” I say to my decomposing form. “You have to do the work.” After an extended sigh, I place both feet on the floor and force them to begin their daily shuffle.

First things first, I need to determine what shape my voice- “il voce”- is in. For a singer, negative results to such an inquiry can completely ruin your day. I have been smoking a lot of hash lately to keep the sads at bay, and when I force myself to cough into the sink, I spit out a loogie that’s got more reds and yellows and greens than the dreamcoat worn by Joseph. Also, it’s so thick it could double as caulk. I push it through the grate with my thumb and watch it swirl down the drain. 

“Fresh as a fucking daisy,” I hack. “Although some Mucinex wouldn’t hurt. And a dab of concealer, at least until they can Photoshop reality.”

Fortunately, picking out clothes isn’t much of a chore. Since Tilly took away the Amex, I can’t afford more than one professional looking ensemble. Anyway, I’m sure to be noticed in my khaki pants and fire engine red button down. It’s by far my favorite shirt. I can tell it brings me luck, even if it hasn’t worked for me yet. I grab my audition book and look at the overpriced headshot I’ve got tucked in the front cover. I try to match the intensity of my own smile. I fail. Miserably.

Instead of wallowing in the ennui like Eli would do, I try to shake a tail feather. I need to make it out the door by 5:45AM at the latest. What had happened was: last night I was holed up in my room contemplating how many days it would take until I starved to death, when my copy of Backstage caught my eye. I figured why not kill a minute perusing the audition notices. And then I saw it. Some non-equity dinner theater in Wisconsin was casting a production of
Fiddler on the Roof
. Wonder of wonder, miracle of miracles.

Being a Jew, I know
Fiddler
better than I do my own haftorah. I have already done the show twice- first time as Motel, the tailor, and later Mendel, the rabbi’s son (“We only have one rabbi and he only has one son. Why shouldn’t I want the best?”) Regardless of the fact that I need to book work to remember what it feels like to be alive, the prospect of going to that audition makes me want to hurl. It’s non-equity, oy vay iz mir. With no union to protect you, non-equity open calls are more lawless than the last 10 minutes of
West Side Story
. There are no rules, there is no protocol. No one is on your side.

The audition doesn’t start until 10AM, but there are bound to be at least a couple hundred people vying for a few choice roles. I’m out the door by 5:37. I stand, wrapped in my parka, waiting to cross Broadway so I can catch the downtown train. From the sidewalk grates I hear its doors chime below but a street sweeper truck has me lampooned. I listen as the train leaves the station and the sweeper truck whirs by.

In that moment of defeat, I think of turning back. But then I remember the last time I talked with my father wherein he delivered the news that I was an “embarrassment to the family” and how I’ve “had my fun,” that I should “move back to New Jersey” so he can “teach me how to sell advertising.” Mind you, I would rather wrap my face in a shower curtain liner and wait to turn blue. If becoming a household name is the only way to prove that jackass wrong, so be it. I can’t let him win, so I keep walking.  

As I push through the turnstile and onto the platform, there’s a homeless man with no shoes sleeping on a bench. If it weren’t so frickin’ cold, I’d envy him; he looks almost serene covered in his blanket of yesterday’s Times, clutching his copy of the Holy Bible like that’s all the warmth he needs. I’ve seen him more than once before and, every time I do, it’s obvious that winter is aging years by the hour. The rotting stench he emits is as a powerful appetite suppressant. For that, I am grateful. Funds are low and heaven forbid I wind up as thick around the middle as Eli, so it’s safe to say I can’t afford breakfast either financially or calorically. When I hear my train approach the station, I take off my gloves to search my coat pockets for loose change. “It’ll do you more good,” I say, placing a few coins gently in the man’s cup. The jangling does not cause him stir. “Maybe he’s dead,” I think, as if that would be some tender mercy.

The warmth of my commute gives me the chance to review my audition song. Looking at all the little black dots on the staff reminds me how difficult this accompaniment is to play. I use up the majority of my time between stations considering an appropriate way to tell the pianist how to not fuck it up. It’s either that or change my song, and that ain’t gonna happen. I sound killer on this tune and, if the pianist blows it for me, I’ll make sure to roll my eyes real big so the director knows it wasn’t my fault.   

The train pulls into the 23
rd
Street Station with an irritating shriek. I empathize when I’m assaulted by a rush of air so cold it makes my skin feel hot. After a sojourn through the tundra like I’m Dr. Zhivago, I find the building where the audition is to be held. It’s so early that the doors are not yet open. Small favor, at least I know I’m in the right place- there’s a sizable crowd shivering in a clump by the front door. I quarantine myself on a frozen slab of sidewalk. From there, I get to work downsizing my competition. There are a number of familiar faces, but no one worthy of me taking my hands out of my pockets to wave. Some girl by the door gets a list going. She writes her name on a sheet of loose-leaf paper as #1 and hands it backwards. By the time the paper makes it’s way to me, I write my name as #34 and continue to freeze and wait.

And wait.

And freeze.

When a security guard with keys finally appears through the glare on the revolving door, we all stand at attention like extras on an episode of
Meerkat Manor.
The guard leads the group inside and leaves us in a holding room. It stinks of curried feet. Within minutes, there are so many hopefuls singing scales that I can’t hear myself think. I re-tense my jaw. I offer myself the same advice that Big Dick Rick whispered in my ear last week when was taking me from behind: “Unclench.”

I find it’s a lot easier to release tension when I’m surrounded by cute boys. At this particular audition, I happen to be in luck. Some of them are almost tasteable. One of them in particular is right on the tip of my tongue. He’s this Aryan looking number who was in front of me in line all morning. Ever since I caught whiff of him, my engine’s been idling to make him turn my way. He hasn’t, but I don’t give up easy. We’ve nothing to do but wait around, yet still he manages to look busy. He’s wearing his too-cool-for-school leather jacket and chatting up some floozy who can barely fit her chest inside the overcrowded room. What I wouldn’t give to push her face into a blender and pull my dream man into a bathroom stall where I’d let him spit on it before he shoves it in.

The monitor— a person designated by the production to occasionally yell things at the people about to audition —shatters my concentration. She and her disastrous hair push their way into the room and tell us in a shrill scream to shut up. “There are too many people here for you all to be seen. We’re going to have to start typing”. What that means for those of you not in the know is that they’re going to judge us by who looks good enough to be in their show. If your punim looks right for a role, you “type in”. From there they let you sing. And if you’ve got a busted face, they tell you “no” and send you back to whatever bridge you crawled out from under.

From the first group of twenty that are led into the hall, fourteen come back to collect their shit before showing themselves the door. I get escorted out in the second group and am put against the wall like Mata Hari. There is no air moving as the adjudication begins. I smile like I’m auditioning for Crest and wait for them to tell me that I’m pretty enough to sing.