Bobby Cramer

Stratford 2011 - Politically Incorrect

2011-08-12T07:23:00.003-04:00

As a part of my annual pilgrimage to the Stratford Shakespeare Festival, I put on my theatre scholar's cap to review the plays we're seeing.

Honesty may be the best policy, but it doesn't always work in politics and in affairs of the heart. At least that seems to be the point in Molière's brilliant and stylishly-produced comedy The Misanthrope at Stratford.

The story centers around Alceste, a man who has vowed to speak frankly about his opinions, foregoing the niceties of 18th century Paris society where politeness and social amenities are the Rule. It gets him into trouble with his friends as well as the woman he loves, and even when his honesty is put to the test both in court and in winning his love, he has to pay a price.

The timelessness of the play doesn't hurt, either. Today we seem to be awash in people offering their unvarnished opinions of everything, from (ahem) bloggers to the cult of personalities that develop around the folks on cable TV who claim to speak their mind and damn the consequences. Everyone from Glenn Beck to Rush Limbaugh to Keith Olbermann to presidential candidates hold forth and frequently get in trouble for their candor. And, as Molière proves in this play, it often becomes less about the moment of truth than it does about the person speaking it. Rather than "listen to what I'm saying," it becomes "listen to ME!" And when honesty becomes secondary to personality, both lose.

The production at Stratford is beautiful in all respects. The Festival stage is a gilded wedding cake of a Paris home at the hands of designer John Lee Beatty, and the costumes, by Robin Fraser Paye, are equally stunning. The translation is by Richard Wilbur, done in rhyming couplets, and it captures both the voice and the taste of the era in its wit and charm, and it is deftly directed by David Grindley.

The performances are all stand-out, including Ben Carlson as Alceste and Sarah Topham as Célimène, his love interest and exact opposite when it comes to social decorum. The pace is quick, the staging choreographed beautifully, and the points of the story are rapier-like, not cudgeled. Stratford may be renown for its productions of Shakespeare, but they know how to do comedy of manners as well.

Stratford 2011 - Falstaff 2.0

2011-08-11T08:30:00.001-04:00

As a part of my annual pilgrimage to the Stratford Shakespeare Festival, I put on my theatre scholar's cap to review the plays we're seeing.

Each year that we come to Stratford, we make an effort to see something we've never seen before. That's the case with Shakespeare's The Merry Wives of Windsor; it was a new one for me.

Legend has it that Queen Elizabeth commanded that Shakespeare write a play about Sir John Falstaff in love. According to scholarship, that's not exactly true, but it's a nice little legend, and it explains how a character from Henry IV can show up in England some 200 years after his death in Henry V. In this play, Falstaff has been rebooted from the hard-drinking rowdy confidante of Prince Hal to become a broke and dissipated sot without much of a touch of Harry in the night. The only connection between the two Falstaffs is the name. In this case, Falstaff is not so much in love as he is in lust and looking for money, and since both desires can lead a man to foolishness, the women he has set his sights on use him as their foil.

This play also serves as an outlier in Shakespeare's canon. It is the only play of his that takes place in Elizabethan England, in sync with Shakespeare's own life. The characters aren't named Antonio or Romeo, there's no magic spells or ancient curses to be fought or heeded, and the plot isn't based on a recycled story or rewrought history of English kings and dynasties (although it does contain elements of stories by translated by William Painter). It is, in many ways, a precursor to the comedies that would come along a hundred years later, after the time of Cromwell when public theatre was banned, and the stage was being restored and influenced by the Renaissance making its way to England from the continent. If you didn't know it was Shakespeare, you would think you were seeing something by such writers as William Wycherly or John Dryden.

The plot is not all that different than a lot of Shakespeare's previous comedies; there's mistaken identity, disguises, attempts at adultery, and strong women who pretend to be at the mercy of the menfolk but are really the ones in charge. Of course there are young lovers who are determined to marry against their parents' wishes, and of course it all ends happily, even if there are some loose ends left untied. (I guess even Shakespeare struggled with finding a good ending.)

The production on the Festival stage under the able direction of Frank Galanti is thoroughly enjoyable. Laura Condlin as Mistress Page and Lucy Peacock as Mistress Ford, are the nominal merry wives, and they have a great deal of fun. The plotting husbands are played to the hilt by Tom McCamus as Master Page and Tom Rooney as Master Ford. Geraint Wyn Davies hams it up well as Sir John Falstaff, who is treated more like the butt of jokes rather than the driver of the plot; he's painted almost like Malvolio in Twelfth Night and even has a couple of goofy companions to round out the company. The thankless roles of the young lovers, Fenton and Miss Ann Page, are played with winsome charm by Trent Pardy and Andrea Runge, but as in most of Shakespeare's comedies, they don't get to have as much fun as the rest of the intriguers.

This is not your Henry's Falstaff, but he's still a basketful of laughs.

Stratford 2011 - Harold Pinter's Comic Stylings

2011-08-10T09:47:00.003-04:00

As a part of my annual pilgrimage to the Stratford Shakespeare Festival, I put on my theatre scholar's cap to review the plays we're seeing.

I remember sitting through numerous graduate school seminars in theatre where we plumbed the depths of every line in a Harold Pinter play, trying to come up with the inner meanings of his long pauses and seemingly disconnected simple phrases. The plots were deceptively simple, we thought, because there had to be something more. How else could Pinter achieve the total heaviosity that we were told was there?

Even after working on two different productions of The Birthday Party, one under the direction of Emily Mann at the University of Minnesota, I was sure that there was some greater depth to Pinter's work than what we saw on the surface; maybe I had not achieved the elusive level of understanding, and all I saw was just the inane conversation between people I didn't care about. But all the wise and insightful articles and critiques of his work hinted that there was much, much more. And so I sought it out.

Well, I finally figured it out yesterday at the hands of a truly great production of The Homecoming here at Stratford: Harold Pinter was a comic genius. Not in the fashion of the Marx Brothers or Mel Brooks, but in crafting characters and situations that really are truly comic. Instead of being menacing, Brian Dennehy gives Max, the patriarch of his dysfunctional collection of sons and brothers, a blustery tone in an almost Homer Simpson way that lets you appreciate his ineffectualness. His in-home sons Lenny and Joey are echoes of their father; Lenny, the seething and conniving pimp, and Joey, the muscular, inarticulate, slightly goofy boxer who lives for the moment. All of them are perfect for playing off each other.

As in all Pinter plays, there is a menacing intruder who disrupts the flow. In this case it's the arrival of Max's son Teddy, a professor of philosophy who lives in the U.S, and his wife Ruth, who immediately sizes up the family dynamic and plays each of the men like a fine Stradivarius. It's all done in a claustrophobic set of a dingy home in London that cries out for more room, even after long-ago attempts to make the space bigger.

This production doesn't play for the broad laughs; director Jennifer Tarver and her cast knew just the right touches to bring about the laughter -- both broad and nervous -- in this production. The casting is perfect, and Mr. Dennehy, who has a presence on stage that is both vulnerable and menacing in everything I've seen him in, is the quintessential English working class dad. Stephen Ouimette is always a delight to watch for his understated archness, and Cara Ricketts as Ruth is just plain fascinating. Kudos also to Ian Lake as Joey and Mike Shara as the seemingly dense Teddy, the professor who appears to not know what is happening right under his nose, but really does get it.

I suppose it's rather Pinteresque that I learned more about Pinter's work in two hours yesterday than I did in all those seminars way back in grad school. Who knew?

Inge Festival 2011, Day 3 - Cool Times

2011-04-16T08:37:00.000-04:00

After the thunderstorms swept through Independence on Thursday night, the weather turned cold, windy, and rainy. It did not, however, put a damper on the festival.

Friday morning for me began with a discussion of Inge's relationship with the press and drama critics, always a dicey area for playwrights, and for Inge in particular. For some reason he was viewed by several critics as lucky; he seemingly came out of nowhere in 1952 to conquer Broadway with four hit plays in a row and elbow his way into the stratosphere of American theatre next to Tennessee Williams and Arthur Miller. Of course, he was not an overnight sensation; his ascendancy had been a long and winding trip, including stints teaching and other occupations and even spending a couple of years as the critic at large for a St. Louis newspaper. His first play, Come Back, Little Sheba, had taken years to get into shape and had endured a lot of rejection before getting to the stage. The same thing happened with Picnic, and when it finally made it to Broadway and won the Pulitzer Prize for drama, it had been through a lot, including a stormy relationship with the director, Joshua Logan, and the version of the play that we've come to know was despised by the author, who felt that he was bullied into making the play have a "happy ending."

It would be inevitable that Inge -- like his fellow playwrights of the era -- would hit the wall and produce unsuccessful plays. For some, they accepted this with a begrudging awareness that they have done their best work. But for Inge, the combination of flops and his internal demons of addiction and repression became too much and he committed suicide in 1973. The common practice -- especially with Inge -- is to blame the critics for sneering at his works as dated and sentimental. But it was more than just rejection by the press; it was Inge's own inability to believe in himself and shrug off the critics. It's not easy to do, but he seemed to let it -- along with his own demons -- lead him to the end. And it was a terrible loss.

Friday afternoon I presented my paper for the scholar's conference; "Plain Speaking - The Voices of William Inge". I examined Inge's use of everyday dialogue and the sometimes clumsy way his characters speak as the reflection of the true heart and soul of the characters, and how Inge often used the silences between the characters as powerful moments in his plays. It forces the actors to examine their roles with more precision and care, and to listen carefully to what the other characters are saying.

Last night was the gala dinner with performances by Elizabeth Wilson, Sheldon Harnick, Daisy Egan (the youngest person ever to win a Tony for her performance in The Secret Garden), and reminiscences of the last 30 years of Inge Festivals. I'm glad I've been here for twenty of them.

Inge Festival 2011, Day 2 - Another Opn'n', Another Show

2011-04-14T23:50:00.000-04:00

The 2011 William Inge Theatre Festival kicked off Wednesday night with a wonderful concert performance of A Doctor In Spite of Himself, a musical version of the play by Moliere. The entire production -- music, books, and lyrics -- were written by Sheldon Harnick, who, with the late Jerry Bock, gave us such theatre legends as Fiddler on the Roof, Fiorello!, and The Rothschilds. With a cast made up of local talent and guest artists John Schuck and Alan Safier, it was a delightful evening of great music and Moliere's humor and satire.

Today we had workshops and classes, including session on acting and auditioning for local high school students taught by working actors from New York and Los Angeles, including Barbara Dana, and a look at the critics process as envisioned by Dan Sullivan, the former drama critic of the Los Angeles Times.

Tonight we had a staged reading Horsedreams by Dael Orlandersmith, winner of the New Voices award presented annually by the Inge Festival. It was a collection of monologues; an interesting approach to theatre and not exactly what I envision a play to be. However, there were some interesting characters, and I think the play -- if I can call it that -- has some potential if it can overcome the limitation of having the characters address the audience and rarely interact with each other.

And on a purely shameless self-promotion note, copies of Can't Live Without You are selling.

Inge Festival 2011, Day 1 - Welcome to Independence

2011-04-13T16:20:00.003-04:00

Greetings from Independence, Kansas, home of the 30th annual William Inge Festival. This is my 20th trip here, starting in 1991, when Edward Albee was the guest of honor, and I've only missed one -- 2002 when I was directing a production of Grease (and would have been far happier to be here than doing that).

The flight from Albuquerque to Dallas and then on to Tulsa were uneventful (except for a child two rows behind me who was working her banshee audition), and the weather here is beautiful; clear and warm, and so likely to be for the rest of the week.

My first stop was at the William Inge Theatre on the campus of Independence Community College, which is the the host of the festival. There I dropped off the supply of Can't Live Without You scripts (on sale for the incredibly low price of $10) and greeting old friends. Tonight will be a performance of a new musical by Sheldon Harnick (Inge honoree in 2007), A Doctor In Spite of Himself.

Tomorrow begins the workshops and sessions with actors and guests. My big moment is Friday when I am at the Scholar's Conference.

Lanford Wilson -- 1937-2011

2011-03-26T10:54:00.000-04:00

There have been a lot of influential people in my life. My parents, of course, and my siblings, my former partner, caring teachers, good friends, and, not surprisingly, writers. I can think of several who shaped my views and helped me form my own voice as a writer. One of the most influential was -- and will always be -- Lanford Wilson. He died Thursday at the age of 73.

The first play of his that I read was Fifth of July. I was in grad school at the University of Colorado in 1983 and had not yet decided what I would write my thesis on. I was kicking around some ideas about the realistic theatre movement and not really excited about it. Then one day I happened to pick up a copy of the play that was lying on one of my office-mates' desk. I sat down and read the entire play in one sitting, completely absorbed in the world he had created of the Talley family -- Ken, the gay Vietnam vet who had lost both legs in the war; and his lover Jed; June, Ken's sister and her daughter Shirley; Aunt Sally, who carried around the ashes of her beloved husband Matt in a candy box, and all of them in this rambling old farmhouse in rural Missouri. The voices were so real I could hear them, and when I saw the play filmed with love by his longtime collaborator and director Marshall W. Mason, I knew I had found not just a kindred spirit as a writer, but someone who knew the same people I did and felt as deeply about them.

I immediately sought out as many of his plays as I could find; Talley's Folly, the Pulitzer Prize-winning play that tells of the romance between Matt and Sally in 1944; The Hot L Baltimore, an ensemble play about a run-down hotel and the characters who inhabit the lobby; Balm in Gilead; Serenading Louie; The Gingham Dog; The Rimers of Eldritch; The Mound Builders; Lemon Sky; Angels Fall; early one-acts from his days and nights at the Caffe Cino, scene studies and exercises for the Circle Repertory Company that he founded with Marshall W. Mason, Tanya Berezin, and Rob Thirkield in 1969. They ranged from wildly funny to scary dark and everything in between, all with his distinctive lyrical touch of wit, charm, and acidic bite when necessary. I never read a play of his that didn't instill a sense of wonder and enjoyment, even when he wrote characters that made me cringe. His world is not populated with grand heroes or dastardly villains; they're ordinary people learning to cope, love, care, and in many respects they are outsiders who know all too well that the world is not giving them some great reward. His plays deal with the dramas and traumas of life, but not on a grand scale; loss and sorrow as well as joy and love are expressed with a touch or a word, not with long heartfelt speeches, and that makes them all that much more powerful.

I knew almost immediately that I had found what I was looking for, and when I proposed to my doctoral committee a study of the collaboration of Lanford Wilson and Marshall W. Mason at the Circle Rep, it was accepted. I also knew I had to get in touch with him, so I wrote to his agent, Bridget Aschenberg, requesting to meet him and interview him. Ms. Aschenberg, who had a reputation for being terse, wrote back and said she would consider it but not to get my hopes up. I was disappointed, but then my adviser suggested that I simply go around the agent and contact Mr. Wilson directly through the theatre. I did, and within a week I had a hand-written response expressing delight that someone wanted to write about him and told me to let him know when I would be in New York and we could meet. In March 1985 I took the plunge and went to New York to begin my research and interview both Mr. Wilson and Mr. Mason. I remember distinctly walking up the flight of stairs to the offices of the Circle Rep, located in a slightly run-down Art Deco style building in Greenwich Village that also housed the rehearsal space. My appointment with Mr. Wilson was on the book, but -- oh no -- he was stuck out at his house on Long Island, laid up with sciatica. Sag Harbor was hours away and I was on a shoe-string budget. But then the phone rang. It was him. He apologized profusely for missing our appointment, and he said, "Please call me Lance; why don't we just chat for a while?" So we did, and we found out that we had a lot of things in common. We must have talked for an hour, and I stopped taking notes after the first five minutes because it was like talking to a friend.

Later that day I went to a local pub with Marshall W. Mason, who graciously answered all my questions into my little mini-recorder, and then invited me to watch a play reading of a new work the next afternoon. I got to watch him work as a director and learned more in one afternoon than all of the classes I'd taken on directing in my college career. I also took notes because back in Boulder I was in the middle of directing a production of Fifth of July. The notes were the first thing I unpacked when I got home.

Later that summer I drove all the way across country -- making a stop in Stratford, Ontario -- to see a performance of the final play in the Talley series, Talley & Son in Saratoga Springs, New York. It was the third of three and rounded out my studies of the Wilson/Mason collaboration. After the performance I sat up until two a.m. with them talking about their work, listening to their stories, meeting their company (including Helen Stenborg), and knowing that my doctoral thesis had now become a labor of love.

In 2001, with much prodding from me and several other fans of his work, the William Inge Theatre Festival honored Lanford Wilson with their Distinguished Achievement in American Theatre award. In one respect, Lance didn't want the award; he told me that he had a lot more to do and it was too early to be recognized for his work. Marshall Mason once said, "Lanford still hasn't written a play as good as [A] Streetcar [Named Desire]. He may not. Whatever. He will have written plays that no one else could have written... He'll find his own niche in history. We'll see."

"Matt didn’t believe in death and I don’t either.... There’s no such thing. It goes on and then it stops. You can’t worry about the stopping, you have to worry about the going on." – Sally Talley, Fifth of July.

Photo by Maxine Hicks.

Stratford 2010 - The Shaw Festival

2010-08-08T07:48:00.006-04:00

We added a side trip this year to Niagara-On-The-Lake, Ontario, and our first visit to the Shaw Festival. It's been going on for almost fifty years, and we've always talked about it, so we finally made our way from Stratford to NOTL -- about a three-hour drive -- and went to see Shaw's 1904 play John Bull's Other Island.

The town itself is very charming, with its Victorian-style homes and shops, more of a New England flavor than the Midwestern ambiance of Stratford's cornfields. It is also very popular; that is to say, the sidewalks were packed with tourists from all over, including, I'm sure, those making sidetrips from seeing Niagara Falls or weekenders from Toronto. We stayed at the Prince of Wales Hotel, smack dab in the middle of all of the tourism. It's a charming place, rambling over several buildings on the main street, and the rooms are lovely in that genially overstuffed Victorian way.

We had dinner at a very highly recommended Italian restaurant -- Ristorante Giardino -- and then went to the play at the Court Theatre, one of several venues for the festival, and the original space for the festival. The name is true to the place; the theatre is on the second floor of the city's old courthouse. It's a black-box space, three-quarters thrust, with room for about three hundred in the audience.

The play itself was new to me. I've seen or read most of Shaw's best-known works, but this comedy, written in 1904 at the urging of William Butler Yeats, was one I'd never read or seen. Frankly, I don't know why; it's funny, touching, and as is the case with most of Shaw's plays, loaded with political commentary and insight. His views of the relationship between England and Ireland are sharp and pointed; his characters -- both the English and the Irish -- are fully drawn, and in doing so, he manages to explode stereotypes and exploit them as well.

The plot is fairly straightforward. Two civil engineers from England come to Ireland to see about transforming a small village into a tourist resort, replete with a golf course and a hotel (a nod to NOTL?). Tom Broadbent (Benedict Campbell) is a typical English businessman of the time; exceedingly polite and an easy mark for the doubting and deliberate Irish hosts. He is accompanied by Larry Doyle (Graeme Somerville), his business partner, and an Irishman from the town they're going to develop. Naturally Mr. Doyle is torn between his roots, his ambitions, and his feelings -- pride mixed with shame -- about his family and his homeland. Along the way, in typical Shaw fashion, we get comic scenes and political lectures about the struggle for Ireland's identity, and Shaw, being an Irishman who himself moved to London, much like Larry Doyle, makes the outcome a true question. And it is amazing how prescient he would be about the resolution and the revolution in Ireland years before came to be. More than a hundred years later, it's still a question.

Stratford 2010 - Evita

2010-08-06T22:46:00.003-04:00

Day 3

Evita has been called a rock opera or, in the terms used here at Stratford, an "electric musical." But if we're going to go by the strict definition of what an opera is, then there's no need for an adjective. It's an opera in that it is all sung with only a few lines of spoken dialogue, and it certainly requires the talents of trained voices. That it uses contemporary musical forms -- or at least contemporary to the time it was written in 1976 -- doesn't disqualify it as an opera any more than the use of jazz does Porgy and Bess or Spanish folk music does in Carmen. (By the way, one of the other similarities Evita has with Carmen is that both of the composers were foreigners writing about other lands and cultures; Bizet was a Frenchman writing about Spanish workers, and Andrew Lloyd Weber is an Englishman writing about an Argentinian power couple.) So it's an opera. And I usually hate operas.

I have sat through several of them and despised them for their convoluted plots, the imponderable language, and the exaggerated characters and vocalizations. But Evita puts it in a different perspective. The plot line is straightforward, there are five major roles, no subplots, the music is both well done and appropriate for both the time and the action. Chilina Kennedy was brilliant as Evita, as was Juan Chioran as Juan Peron. Josh Young, who sang Che, the narrator/commentator, was excellent as well, bringing just the right touch of cynicism to a character that stands in for the people of Argentina and the outside world watching the pageantry of forced enthusiasm for a dictator.

The theme of Evita is, as director Gary Griffin put it in his director's note, "...our need for icons. Why do we worship people like Eva Perón – or, more recently, Princess Diana and Michael Jackson? What is it about us (for we create our icons as much as they fashion themselves) that causes us to invest so deeply in people we know only as public figures?" It's probably a search for something in common with them; after all, the biggest sellers in the magazine racks are the People magazines or the National Enquirers when they show us pictures of celebrities without the make-up and the glitz; when we see Brad Pitt shopping at the grocery store. Evita and the story behind it is that on a scale that touched millions of lives in real ways in a real place in our living memory. And it provides a cautionary tale for our own political celebrities: how soon will someone come up with a version of "Don't Cry For Me, Wasilla"?

Stratford 2010 - Dangerous Liaisons and The Tempest

2010-08-05T23:24:00.009-04:00

Day 2

Every once in a while, just to prove they're like any other theatre company, Stratford will produce a clunker. I've seen lousy productions here, such as the 1973 Othello with an actor playing the title role whose accent was so thick that he was virtually unintelligible, and in the early 1980's they did Miss Julie by August Stridberg that set my teeth on edge. This year it is Dangerous Liaisons by Christopher Hampton.

It is the stage version of the novel Les liaisons dangereuses by Choderlos de Laclos that has been filmed several times, including a version in 1988 with John Malkovich and Glenn Close, and a hip 90's version called Cruel Intentions with Ryan Phillippe and Sarah Michelle Gellar. Whatever. What I saw today was a thoroughly unlikable production of a thoroughly unlikable play about thoroughly unlikable people. Even the glorious Martha Henry and the occasional flashes of humor from Tom McCamus as Valmont couldn't save this cold and jarring production. The settings on the Festival stage were a mixture of Rococo furniture and what appeared to be clear Lucite chairs in the Rococo style but see-through. I'm not sure whether this was done for effect or to give the audience a clearer view of the action. (They've been able to use non-transparent furniture on the thrust stage for as long as I've been going there without any ill effect.) The music was also a combination of period-style pieces interjected with what could only be called Queen on crack with harpsichords.

The plot revolves around a couple of bored rich French aristocrats on the eve of the French Revolution making bets that involve sexual conquest and deception. It includes rape, sexual assault, subjugation, denigration, and driving people to madness for sport. At the end when they are held accountable, the regret is less about realizing they did wrong then it does about preserving their good name, and while the epilogue hints at the doom that lies in wait for all the aristocracy of France in 1785, it's overly dramatic and therefore silly.

I'm sure there is some reason the good people of the Stratford Shakespeare Festival chose this work, and I'm sure they thought they could do a production that makes the point about how cruel the rich can be. This wasn't it.

*
On the other hand, tonight's production of The Tempest was what made me fall in love with theatre in general and what keeps me coming back to Stratford year after year. Starring Christopher Plummer as Prospero, it had all the ingredients that make the Stratford festival what it has always been for me: a stunning production with all the joy and staging that make you forget you're sitting in a theatre, acting that is so natural that it makes the poetry come alive. Even the rather cookie-cutter roles of Ferdinand and Miranda, the young lovers, were played to full effect by Gareth Potter and Trish Lindström. Ariel, the sprite, was magically done by Julyana Soelistyo to the degree that she was, in many ways, the soul of the play and on equal footing with the power and presence of Mr. Plummer. Caliban, the half-human slave of Prospero, becomes a sympathetic figure in the portrayal by Dion Johnstone, and the comic relief parts of Stephano (Geraint Wyn Davies) and Trinculo (Bruce Dow) were wonderfully done. The bad guys -- Prospero's brother and usurper and his fellow conspirators -- were done with the touch of evil that is required of such roles, but unlike previous productions where they are treated as pawns of Prospero, there was some depth and even some softness in their plight of being stranded by the storm that Prospero called forth to bring them to him for his vengeance.

Christopher Plummer had some mighty large shoes to fill. The last man to play the role of Prospero on the Festival Stage was William Hutt in his farewell performance in 2005. I saw that performance and thought it was masterful, but Mr. Plummer more than adequately honored both the role and the memory of Mr. Hutt. Bringing his own touch to the role and playing Prospero as a father to Miranda that had touches of a dad in it (the scene where he blesses the engagement of Ferdinand and Miranda has Dad-meets-Boyfriend all over it) proves -- again -- that Mr. Plummer is an actor that not just plays the role but takes the character to his heart in a way that few actors truly do. Rather than dominate the stage, he knows his part and his place as one of the ensemble.

Thanks to this production, The Tempest is becoming one of my favorite Shakespeare plays.

Stratford 2010 - Jacques Brel...

2010-08-04T23:18:00.006-04:00

The name of the show -- Jacques Brel Is Alive and Well and Living In Paris -- is sadly incorrect. The Flemish songwriter died in 1978. But that doesn't mean his works are gone, and the song cycle that was put together by Mort Shulman and Eric Blau when the title was true is still alive and doing very well at the Stratford Shakespeare Festival.

The original format -- two men, two women, and a small orchestra -- hasn't been changed since the first time it was staged in 1968 and it is still effective. The direction of Stafford Arima and the powerful voices of Jewelle Blackman, Brent Carver, Michael Nadajewski, and Robin Hutton (subbing for Nathalie Nadon) handled the music and the lyrics very well. The musical direction by Laura Burton, using new orchestrations by Rick Fox, were impeccable. The stage of the Tom Patterson Theatre, which is a converted curling rink, served the staging well; Brel is a production best served in an intimate venue, and since Stratford is a long way from Greenwich Village, this was as good a place as any to do it.

There is no through-line or plot to the song cycle; each one stands on its own. But the overall theme of Brel's songs -- cynical, poignant, and often dripping with acidic commentary on life and love -- combine to give you a somewhat sardonic look at life through his eyes. But just when you think he's dug the scalpel in, he pulls you in another direction; giddy, distraught, mocking, and sometimes cruel. But just when you think you've seen his life through the haze of cigarette smoke in a boozy nightclub on the Left Bank, the final song, "If We Only Have Love," is an anthem to uplifting hope and promise. Gotcha.

Pictures From The Inge

2010-05-01T08:33:00.009-04:00

I finally got around to downloading the rest of my pictures from the William Inge Festival... a week after. Here are just a few memories of good friends and good times.

Artistic Director Peter Ellenstein welcomes us to the Festival.

Tom Jones, lyricist of The Fantasticks and last year's honoree, teaches on the joy of writing great plays.

The Scholars Conference - Jef Petersen, Sue Abbottson, David Savran, Jackson Bryer, and host Lesley Simpson.

Marcel LaFlamme, curator of the Inge Collection at ICC, chats with Paula Vogel.

Barbara Dana entertains at the Gala Dinner.

See you in 2011.

From The Lobby of The Apple Tree Inn

2010-04-25T13:32:00.002-04:00

The 29th Inge Festival wrapped up last night, and I'll have some pictures and notes from the events on Saturday a little later. At this moment, I'm waiting for my ride to the Tulsa airport to catch my flight to Dallas and then on to Miami.

This lobby could tell stories from the Inge Festival of years past. I'm sitting in the exact place where I met Edward Albee in 1991 after he came back from his morning walk. He sat next to me and we introduced ourselves. I also remember sitting here and seeing Jim Lehrer, Frank Rich, Stephen Sondheim, Neil Simon and Arthur Miller check in at the desk; not all at the same time, but spread out over the years.

This is also the place where we spent many a late night/early morning after the events at the college with snacks and drinks -- lots of the latter. I have memories of August Wilson, Gordon Parks, and Pat Hingle swapping stories while sitting on this couch, and singing camp songs with Shirley Knight and her daughter Kaitlin Hopkins. Director Daniel Mann told many stories about the New York theatre history going back to the early part of the 20th century, and he could tell the best jokes: my favorite was the old man going into the rest home.

A lot of the people who were a part of this festival when I started coming 20 years ago are gone now: the playwrights we've honored such as Jerry Lawrence, John Patrick, Wendy Wasserstein, August Wilson, and Arthur Miller; and dear souls such as Jo Anne Kirchmaier, niece of William Inge, dear friend, and keeper of the Inge family flame; and Robert Anderson, playwright and friend. I still see them here on the couch or coming around the corner, dressed for the tribute, or first thing in the morning, padding out in slippers for an eye-opening cup of coffee. The friends I've made here are my inspiration as a writer and scholar, and knowing that this group of dedicated and devoted friends will become even wider is the reason I keep coming back.

It's not goodbye; it's just intermission.

Inge 2010 - Day 3

2010-04-23T23:17:00.005-04:00

This was a rich full day, beginning with an interview on stage with Paula Vogel, this year's honoree, followed by the scholar's conference where I delivered my paper to polite applause, and then the gala dinner at the Civic Auditorium. I'll update with pictures as soon as I download them.

So far it's been a lot of fun, and the best part is that the weather has cooperated fully. Over the last twenty years we've endured wind, rain, tornadoes, sleet, even a snow flurry or two. One year it rained so hard that my shoes got soaked through just from running from the college parking lot to the theatre. I had to go out to Wal-Mart and buy a new pair. (I still have them.)

One of the best parts of the festival is that we get the chance to mingle with people who know what it's like to work on a play or a piece of writing for weeks, months, or years and then try to get it produced... or even read. There's a lot of solidarity and commiseration, but there's also good advice and networking going on, too. I have already been asked for copies of Can't Live Without You from people who are interested in considering it for readings by their theatre group or even consideration for a full production. It's both gratifying and inspiring, because the next inevitable question is, "What else have you got?" So I am working on giving them more.

Tomorrow (Saturday) is the Picnic picnic, a master class with Paula Vogel, and the tribute to her.

Pictures from Friday:

Paula Vogel is interviewed by David Savran.

Mary Hanes shares ideas on playwriting.

I had some pictures of the gala dinner, but the quality isn't all that hot, so I'll see if I can nick some from the official photographer and post them. Suffice it to say that we all had a great time, and the program of songs put together by Tom Jones, last year's honoree, which included a tune from his work-in-progress, a musical version of the film Harold and Maude, was a delight.

Inge 2010 - Day 2

2010-04-22T18:04:00.005-04:00

I spent the morning listening to two good friends -- Elizabeth Wilson and Barbara Dana -- read a portion of a work-in-progress by Barbara. It's a play about two aging actors working to come up with a play that they can do for a benefit and touches on the friendships -- past and present -- that they share.

Elizabeth Wilson and Barbara Dana
After lunch I sat in on a lively panel discussion with agent Peter Franklin, Gigi Bolt, and Mary Hanes on the current state of theatre and promotion of new playwrights in America. The consensus was that there are innovative ways to get new playwrights out to the theatres that are looking for new works, and there should be a means of providing support for theatre programs that nurture new writers. After all, where would theatre be without playwrights?

Peter Franklin, Gigi Bolt, Mary Hanes
Later there was a session with Dan Sullivan, the former theatre critic of the Los Angeles Times, and his view of the state of dramatic criticism and how the critics treated William Inge.

Tonight is the concert reading of The Mountaintop by Katori Hall. I'll have some thoughts on it later.

Update: My thoughts on The Mountaintop.

The premise of the play is that it is the night of April 3, 1968 in Room 306 at the Lorraine Motel in Memphis, Tennessee. Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. retires to his room after giving a speech to a Memphis church congregation during the sanitation workers strike. When a mysterious young hotel maid comes to visit him during the night, King is forced to confront his mortality and the future of his people.

When you have a story that depicts an event in history where you know the outcome, it takes a bit of ingenuity to make it interesting to the audience, and when you're writing about a man whose history and life has been so well documented, it takes some imagination to put an additional dimension on the character. In this case, Ms. Hall has accomplished both with a degree of success. No small credit goes to Anika Noni Rose who played Camae, the hotel maid, who gave the role a depth that went beyond the stereotype of the hip black woman of the 1960's. (There is a twist to her character that made it more interesting; think Touched By An Angel.) Gilbert Glenn Brown played Dr. King, and he had the added burden of taking him to a level that goes beyond the historical footage that we remember of him from forty years ago. The problem with playing him is that for the most part the only record we have of Dr. King is his famous speeches, including the one he gave in Memphis the night before he was shot, and the one containing the line that gives the play its title.

The performance was done in a concert version, which means the actors were reading from scripts on music stands, so there was no blocking or interaction. It didn't seem to hinder their performances, though, and at the end of the play, the audience gave them a standing ovation.

The other problem with plays that deal with an historical event is that we have our own memories to compare it to. The death of Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. struck a number of white people as not only a tragedy for the country, but there was inherently a sense of white liberal guilt; as if there was something we could have done to prevent it or done more to advance civil rights so that Dr. King would not have had to take his campaign to the streets and to the South. Perhaps there was an echo in that tonight in the applause at the William Inge Theatre, but I also think that the reaction and the accolades that the playwright and the actors received was in genuine appreciation of their work. But I also think that political theatre requires a measure of both timelessness and inclusiveness: the message cannot be merely to reflect the moment, because the shelf-life of those plays can be measured with an egg timer. And in order to go beyond preaching to the choir, it has to do more than emphasize a point of view that can only be appreciated by one segment of the society. Playwrights do not get to choose their audiences, and it takes a deft hand to make a play on such a topic reach across the aisle... including the ones in a theatre.

Inge 2010 - Day 1

2010-04-22T00:37:00.004-04:00

Christmas in April

Last night we were treated to a staged reading of Paula Vogel's A Civil War Christmas. It's a combination of music and a very moving series of vignettes that depict, among other stories, a slave and her daughter slipping over the Potomac to escape to freedom, young soldiers dealing with being away from home during Christmas, assassins plotting against President Lincoln, and the Lincolns trying to find the perfect Christmas present for each other. They are all tied together at the end with happy endings and a harmonious blend of Christmas carols and battle hymns of the time.

Even though it was staged with actors reading from scripts, the performances were excellent, and the music, supplied by members of the Independence Community Chorus, was enchanting.

It was a great start to the Inge Festival, and a promise of good things to come.

Thursday's schedule includes workshops and the concert reading of The Mountaintop by Katori Hall, the Otis Guernsey New Voices winner.

Awakening...

2010-04-20T15:47:00.002-04:00

For those of you who stop by here, the news is that I will be posting here from the 2010 William Inge Theatre Festival taking place in Independence, Kansas, April 21-24.

This is a little break from the past in that normally I would be posting at Bark Bark Woof Woof, but since this blog is dedicated to my literary output, I thought I would use it for that purpose. After all, Bobby Cramer is a fictional character; what better place to write about theatre, creative writing, dramatic literature, and other artistic stuff than here?

So check in this week and see what's going on in Independence. I'll even have pictures, and if you're lucky, I'll post the paper I'm writing for the scholar's conference.

See you in Independence.

What's Going On Here?

2009-11-04T13:05:00.003-05:00

Seven months is a long time to go between anything.

Let me bring you up to date. Small Town Boys is on hiatus, in case you haven't guessed. It's not writer's block as much as it is other work -- including real life and my job -- have stepped in to put the story on hold. I do plan to get back to it, but for the time being, things are in stasis with Donny, Eric, Mike, Greg, and the rest of the STB gang. Meanwhile, another work in the form of a short novel has taken over my time. It began several years ago as a short story and, as is the case with a lot of my work, took off on its own. But it is drawing to a close and I hope to be able to get it done before the end of the month. It even has a tentative title -- Namesake.

I also plan to get back to writing here on a more regular basis and writing about writing. That's what this blog was intended to be about in the first place.

By the way, I'm still shilling Can't Live Without You, looking for a sophomore production or even a staged reading. I have hopes to get it done here in Florida -- after all, it does take place here -- but I will send it anywhere for consideration. If you or someone you know is interested, drop me a line.

Okay, enough chit-chat; back to work and back to writing.

Small Town Boys - Chapter 53

2009-04-19T17:02:00.002-04:00

Chapter Guide

These Are the Voyages…

“Are you coming in to the office tomorrow morning, or are you going straight to the airport?” Eric wanted to know.

It was a three weeks later and they were finalizing their plans for their trip to Fairview, Colorado. They, Rudy, and Vinnie and Jordan, two of the code talkers, were going to spend a week at the school district familiarizing themselves with the current setup and meeting the people who were going to determine what was needed to get the program running in order to begin to write the company’s response to the formal Request for Proposal. He had not heard from Danny, and he had almost forgotten about Tyler until he spotted a small item in the Times, picked up from the wire services from the Traverse City Record-Eagle, about the Herlingers asking for any information about their missing son.

“Well, since the flight’s at noon, there’s not a lot of point to coming in here just to turn around and go back,” Donny replied. “Matter of fact, why don’t you come over to my place and pick me up in the morning and we’ll go from there?”

“Sounds like a plan.”

Trish and Wanda were going to look after the house. Donny had had a meeting with them about Small Town Boys the week after New Year’s and looked at the resumes of some of the screenwriters that Aaron and Jack were “suggesting” he consider. Donny had the distinct impression that he had already been chosen and that this was just a formality. All of them had impressive credits, including one that had been nominated for an Emmy two years before. Samples of their writing were included, and Donny flipped through them. “So, which one does Gina want me to choose?” he said to Trish.

She laughed. “You learn quick.” She handed him the portfolio of Evan Gilmour. He was in his early thirties but already had been the head writer on several prime time series and had worked with Aaron on two projects. “And,” Trish added, “he’s also got a couple of off-Broadway credits. Plus he knows the subject matter.”

“He’s gay, then.”

“Um hm. Best part is he lives in Boulder when he’s not here or in New York, and so you can meet him when you’re in Colorado.”

“Like I’ll have time,” said Donny. “We’re going up there to work, not ‘take a meeting.’”

“Well, at least call him and maybe have dinner.”

“No promises,” said Donny curtly. He was already beginning to think that Small Town Boys was going to be shoved to the back burner as far as he was concerned. Trish and Jack were still working on rounding up investors, and that meant they were pushing back the start date for the pilot to May or June. Meanwhile, Starship Enterprise was beginning to grow almost exponentially. They had already decided to hire an outside consulting firm to handle the training of the school staff and merger with the old system, and the initial proposal had grown from a collection of file folders on Donny’s desk to a row of thick binders labeled Purchasing, Accounts Payable, Accounts Receivable, Grants, Budget, HR, Grades, and the thickest one that Eric had titled Everything Else. The binders spilled off the table and on to the floor, and as they grew, file folders and boxes were added.

“We’re gonna need a U-Haul to get all this stuff up to there,” Eric said as he looked over the pile of paper.

Donny held up a box of floppy discs. “We’ll only need these and a laptop for the RFP.”

“Yeah, okay.” Eric said. “You might as well plan on moving there if we get the job. Not permanently, but…”

“Fine with me,” replied Donny.

Eric looked at him. “Really? Had it with L.A.?”

Donny twiddled the pen he was writing notes with. “Nah, just…”

“Getting burned out,” said Eric, finishing his thought. “Yeah, I know. But hey, we’ll have a good time in Colorado. Do some skiing, maybe, see if there are any hot guys in Boulder…” He grinned mischievously. “Some of those mountain-climber and jogger types can be pretty hot.”

“Thought we were going there to work,” snorted Donny.

“Uh huh.”

Marc came in and dropped a large binder on Donny’s desk. “Here’s the projections you were asking for,” he said, and then caught Eric’s grin. “What’s up?”

“Oh, just teasing Donny about getting a little Rocky Mountain high, that’s all.”

Marc laughed. “Yeah a little motel sex is always fun,” he said. “I should know.” His demeanor had improved markedly since Christmas, and everyone in the office had noticed it. Eric had asked Donny if he knew what was making Marc so happy, not that he had any objections. Donny had shrugged and said it was probably because they’d had a thirty-seven percent increase in sales the last two quarters and Business Week had featured them in a story about business integration software. Eric had agreed, then added, “If you ask me, he also looks like he’s in love. You guys back together?”

“Nope,” Donny had replied.

“Well, whoever it is, maybe we should give him a bonus.”

It was snowing lightly the next afternoon when they arrived in Denver. It was a tight fit getting the five of them and their luggage into the Mitsubishi Galant, but with a little creative cramming, they got the trunk closed. The snow followed them all the way to the Marriott in Fairview. They checked in, and since the hotel was almost full because of a cross-country race, Rudy, Vinnie, and Jordan were in one room, and Donny and Eric were in another. Eric called Gordie Harwell. They were to meet him for dinner that evening at the Elkhorn, a well-known steak place in the middle of town.

Fairview was nestled in a valley in the Front Range of the Rockies, nearly seven thousand feet above sea level. The thin air was noticeable, and Vinnie, the code talker from New Jersey, got a nosebleed. He and his cohort, Jordan, decided to stay in the motel, order in a pizza, and put the finishing touches on the preliminary presentation.

Gordie was a tall, balding man with owl-like eyes and a bushy mustache, the color of which matched his sandy hair. Donny found it hard to believe that he and Eric had been in the same classes in college until Eric explained that Gordie had been in the Army for ten years before coming back to finish his degree and go on to get his Masters in education. Rudy nodded silently as he was introduced, and when they ordered drinks, he ordered iced tea. The waitress wasn’t sure if they had any, it being the end of January, but she said she’d look.

After some small talk, mainly catching up between Eric and Gordie, the conversation turned to the project, and Rudy, who had been silent up to then, started asking Gordie a number of intricate technical questions that left even Eric slightly breathless. But Gordie was able to answer most of them, and Rudy took extensive notes in his pocket notebook. When it came time to order dinner, Gordie recommended the New York cut, and Donny and Eric concurred. Rudy ordered a side salad and a baked potato.

The food was good and Donny had a glass and a half of wine. He was feeling pleasantly light-headed at the end of the meal, and walking out into the cold night air was a nice sharp contrast to the stuffy and smoky air of the restaurant. He took several deep gulps of air before lighting a cigarette. The smoke made him feel even more dizzy.

Eric noticed him swaying a little. “You okay?” he said with a grin.

“Yeah,” Donny muttered. “The altitude, I guess.” He took another drag on the cigarette then tossed it in the gutter.

Eric was a little glassy-eyed, too. He handed the car keys to Rudy. “Here you go; you’re driving.”

Donny felt a little better in the car, and by the time they got back to the hotel, he didn’t object when Eric stopped in front of the lounge and suggested a nightcap.

The bar was quiet except for some tinny piped-in Billy Joel instrumentals. They each ordered Scotch on the rocks and sat at a table under a large print of Longs Peak.

“So,” Eric said, “this is kind of cool.”

“What?”

“Here we are, nailing down a contract to basically re-write an entire government entity’s software system. This could be huge.”

“All we’re doing is plugging a whole lot of patches and modules into an already existing system using our software,” Donny said. “It’s not like we’re reinventing the wheel or coming up with a whole new language like those guys at FoxPro.”

“Yeah, but they don’t know that. ‘Sides, once we’ve got this going, a lot of other places will want to try it.” He smiled at the waitress who brought their drinks. “Thanks.”

“Yeah,” replied Donny, “unless we fuck it up.”

“We won’t. You won’t.” He raised his glass. “Here’s to Starship Enterprise…or whatever we call it.”

They clinked glasses and sipped their drinks. Eric smiled at Donny, and Donny felt warmth spreading through him, a pleasant tickle of horniness, made all the more immediate by Eric’s proximity and the faint scent of wool coming off his sweater. Donny gazed at Eric, the dim light from the bar making him look even more attractive, and he had to look away, over to where the bartender, a globular man in his mid-fifties was wiping down the bar and humming along flatly with the music, to try to take his mind off the tightness growing in his crotch.

Eric said something and Donny blinked. “Another?” Eric repeated.

Donny looked down at the empty glass, the ice cubes making little rainbows, and he shook his head. “Nah,” he muttered.

“’Kay, we’d better hit the rack; ‘morrow’s gonna be a long day.” He put a ten on the table, waved off Donny’s offer of cash, and they made their way to the elevator.

The room was dark, and Donny fumbled around until he found the light next to his bed. They wordlessly got undressed, each taking off their sweaters, shirts, and pants at the same time until they were both standing at the end of their beds facing each other in nothing but their underwear.

Eric caught Donny’s eyes and held them, a small smile making his lips part just a little, and Donny felt a roaring surge of passion, nearly making him groan, the thud of blood pounding in his ears and his cock. Eric leaned in a little and put out his hand for a moment, and said, “Man, I gotta take a gnarly piss.”

Donny nodded silently, and Eric brushed by him and went into the bathroom, closing the door. Donny got into bed and was asleep before Eric came back to his own bed.

*

They had an early breakfast and arrived at the school before 8:30, joining in the wave of students who were making their way to their lockers and first classes. Donny had a moment of flashback as the universal scent of high school – a combination of floor wax, pencil shavings, bathroom disinfectant, and the scent of teenagers: hairspray, gym sweat, bubble gum, and sneakers.

There was a large conference room behind the principal’s office and someone had put a large white power strip on the floor next to the movie screen. Donny set up the projector and the laptop while Eric, wearing a sports coat and tie, was introduced to the members of the school administration and two of the school board members. The locals all reminded Donny of people back home; middle-aged, very Republican-looking, the clothes all very business-like with faint hints of western wear: a turquoise brooch here, piping on the shoulder seams there, and all of them looking like they spent a lot of time outdoors. Everyone was very polite as the team was introduced, and then Eric went to the end of the table and flicked on the projector. A picture of a smiling little girl, her hands plastered with red, blue and orange finger-paints framing her face filled the screen. The title at the bottom said, “Making It Work for Her.” One of the ladies let out and audible “aw…”

Eric’s pitch was gentle and off-the-cuff even though Donny knew he had written it, revised it, and rehearsed it for a week. He took the approach that everything that the school system did in the office, be it ordering supplies, reconciling the budget, running the payroll, or even printing out the labels for file folders, was geared towards the kids. “The only reason you and your teachers and everyone else comes to work every day,” he said, “is for her and all the other kids in this school district. That’s it. Anything we can do to make it easier for her to learn and grow up is our goal.”

Donny was watching both Eric and the audience around the table, and he could see some heads nodding, some more vigorously than others, and several people taking notes. Eric paused, then started to go through the slides that outlined very simply what ERP was and how it could accomplish that goal. “In the first place, it would simplify things. That means less confusion, and making the process easier makes things go smoother. You are already using Pelican for some of the work, so all we would be doing is making it available to everyone: teachers, accountants, food service, and maintenance, all under one umbrella that many on your staff already know how to use. There would be very little change in what is already being done. Or,” Eric grinned, “there wouldn’t be much moving of the food dish.” That got a laugh from everyone, and Eric went through the rest of the introductory slides, showing the connections between offices and procedures, until he came back to the little girl. “And,” he said as he put down the remote, “I’d be glad to answer any questions you might have.”

The chairman of the school board, Walt Lyle, raised his hand. He was a solidly built man in his early seventies, his full head of silver hair combed neatly into a small pompadour, his expression and bearing that of a solid Ronald Reagan Republican. He cleared his throat with a deep rumble and said, “It all looks very good, and God knows anything we can do to cut down on the red tape is a good idea. But I would like to know how much this is going to cost.”

Eric grinned slightly and shot Donny a quick look and nod. The week before as they were putting together the presentation, they had both agreed that this would be the first question asked, and so they had come up with an answer, which Eric had honed and practiced as he had the rest of the presentation. He put his hands in his pockets and said, “Mr. Lyle, it will cost as much or as little as you want it to. We’re not proposing to do sell you anything you don’t want or need.” Mr. Lyle nodded but still looked a tad skeptical, which meant he was thinking something along the lines of “But we don’t know what we need, and therefore we don’t know what you’re proposing will be what we need…or just a waste of money.” He looked as if he was on the verge of saying that, so Eric jumped in before he spoke again and answered the question before it was asked. “The reason we are here this week – at no cost to you or the school district – is to find out exactly what it is you want and what you need.” That seemed to mollify Mr. Lyle, and after a few more questions, Gordie stepped in and said he had set up meetings for Vince, Jordan, and Rudy to meet with the people who were currently using Pelican, and Donny and Eric would be meeting with the IT staff. The members of the school board, including Mr. Lyle, smiled and shook hands all around, and when they had left, Eric let out a big sigh and said, “Okay, we made it past the first hurdle: they didn’t throw us out on our ass.”

At 11:30 they broke for lunch and Gordie took them to the school cafeteria where they stood in line with the rest of the faculty and students to get trays and plates of meatloaf, carrots, and mashed potatoes. Donny grinned inwardly at the sense of déjà vu; the cafeteria at this high school was not much different than the one he’d spent his countless lunch periods in back in high school, right down to the elderly ladies in white smocks and hats that ladled out the food. The kids didn’t seem that much different, either; all shapes and sizes – tall, short, big, small, most of them wearing the current fashions of t-shirts and loose pants under hooded sweatshirts or letter jackets. He wondered what they thought this group of strangers were doing in their midst, but if they did, they gave no sign; they probably thought they were new teachers or administrators and therefore not worthy of attention. Donny caught a girl looking at him for an instant. She was wearing a letter jacket that was a few sizes too large for her with “95” on the sleeve, so it must have been her boyfriend’s jacket; the boyfriend, a tall, gangly but athletic-looking kid with longish sideburns and curly hair stood behind her in just a CU Boulder football t-shirt and grey cargo pants. She cast an appraising eye over Donny’s button-down shirt, wool sweater, and khaki pants, then looked right through him as if he wasn’t there. Ten years ago, as a freshman, Donny had gotten the same look from the senior girls.

Gordie led them to a separate part of the dining room set aside for teachers and he introduced them to some of the faculty that were already there. If he didn’t remember the names, Donny remembered the types: the matronly English teacher, the frazzled-looking science teacher, the calm but stern-looking math master, and the art teacher who looked as if she had just gotten back from Woodstock, complete with the peasant blouse, granny glasses, and breathy voice that sounded as if she was always reading poetry. They ate quietly, and Donny looked across the cafeteria, seeing more proof that no matter where or when, the dynamics of the caste system of high school society were alive and well. The tables were clearly designated by groups: the Jocks, the Nerds, the Goths, the Heathers, the Snobs, the Hipsters, the Preps, even the Drama Queens, which consisted of both boys and girls. Donny wondered what it must be like to be gay in a small mountain community surrounded by big trucks, guns, and all the other symbols of masculinity that seemed as natural and as old as the mountains and glaciers that towered over the school. It was probably not much different than what it was like when he was in school, he thought. Anyone suspected of being gay or who did not conform to the stereotype of the average teenage boy was either invisible or preyed on by the bullies like Stan Tasker who lived by the axiom that any boy who didn’t demonstrate full heterosexuality was a threat to them and their way of life. Donny knew that no one questioned his apparent straightness; his years of football and his larger than average build, plus the fact that he had sat at the Jocks table during football season and never said anything was his own acknowledgment of his obeisance to the strict and inviolate culture of being a teenager in high school.

The impression was reinforced an hour or so later when Donny took a bathroom break. The nearest men’s room was down the hall from the administration office where he and Eric were discussing network capacity with Gordie. There was no door; just a tiled entrance that turned sharply to the left and led into an open space lined with sinks on one side, a row of urinals on the other, and two stalls. He didn’t hear anything as he approached, but when he walked into the room he saw three boys by the sinks. A skinny boy with long blond hair parted in the middle, thick dark eyebrows, and a “Les Miserables” t-shirt, was backed into the corner. The other two boys, one whom Donny recognized from the cafeteria by the CU Boulder shirt, towered over him menacingly. They all looked to see who was coming in, and when Donny returned the look, the bigger boys backed away casually, and one went to run water in the sink to wash his hands. Donny went to the urinal, and by the time he had finished, the two had gone, but not before one had hissed, “Such a fag, Whitzler.”

The boy was now at the sink washing his hands, making as much lather as he could with the thin liquid green soap that spurted out of the little plastic globe mounted on the wall. Donny glanced at him for a second and suppressed a desire to say something such as, “You okay?” because he knew what the answer would be: a terse nod of the head and silence. But the boy had a look of defiance on his face, and when they traded glances, he nodded at him as if nothing was wrong. He dried his hands quickly and scurried out of the room, leaving Donny rinsing his hands under the tepid water and thinking how much the boy reminded him of kids he knew in high school, and of Tyler.

*

Donny spent the rest of the afternoon with Bev, the school treasurer, a plump middle-aged woman with tinted hair and a wheezy giggle. She was an expert at Pelican, but when Donny admitted that he had been one of the people who had designed it, she beamed appreciatively and glanced at the pictures of her family that were lined up on her wall, including an Olan Mills glamour portrait of a girl in her early twenties. Donny smiled inwardly, knowing that Bev was sizing him up as husband material for her daughter Kim. Donny didn’t tell her that he was more interested in the picture of her son Will, a well-built redhead about his age, in a cowboy hat and tight jeans leaning against a split-rail fence.

He took pages of notes as Bev went through her routines of record keeping, including accounting and purchasing, and he saw how she used other programs to complement the database. He gently made some suggestions and showed her some built-in tools that she wasn’t aware of – “Well, I’ll be darned!” she said several times – and he wrote down all of her complaints about the program. By the time they had worked through all of his questions and seen the scope of the work she did, the office was empty and it was already dusk. Donny thanked Bev, and she grinned widely. “Come back any time,” she said.

He found Eric in Gordie’s office. “Oh, good,” he said. “Gordie has an idea he’d like to run by you.” Donny sat down, and Gordie steepled his fingers.

“The committee was very impressed with your presentation, and they wanted to know how soon you could start.”

Donny looked at Eric, then back at Gordie. “Start, as in design, build, and go live?”

“Yeah, pretty much. We were going to put off the decision until June, but there’s a huge technology grant out there that we’re up for, and if we can tell the funder that we’ve got a design ready to go, that will go a long way towards us getting the grant and start spending it in July. The grant’s for a year, so go-live would have to be by July of ’96.”

“A year and a half,” said Eric, “to basically build and implement an entire system. I’ve already talked to Rudy and the boys. What do you think?”

Donny flipped through a couple of pages of notes as he gathered his thoughts. Finally he said, “Think I need a beer and something to eat.”

Gordie laughed. “If you say yes, I’ll buy both.”

They went to a small Mexican restaurant on the edge of town. The food was good and the conversation between Eric and Gordie was lively, but Donny paid little attention to any of it. The thousands of details started running through his head, everything from using Pelican to redesigning most of it to finding out how to connect all the systems and upgrading the computers. If any of these thoughts were running through Eric’s mind, he didn’t say anything, and when Gordie dropped them off at the hotel, Eric said, “We’ll give you the answer in the morning, but right now it looks good, doesn’t it, Donny?” Donny nodded silently.

He was heading for the elevator when the desk clerk waved him down and handed him a pink message slip. It said, Please call Evan Gilmour before 8. It took him a few moments to remember who he was, then it came to him: the screenwriter Trish was recommending to take over the writing on Small Town Boys. He had completely put that part of his life out of his head.

Donny looked at his watch. It was 7:35, so he shrugged, found an outside line phone and dialed the number.

A woman answered, but when Donny asked for Evan Gilmour she said “Just a sec,” and put the phone down. He could hear distant water running into a sink, then a voice said “Thanks,” and the phone was picked up. “Hello?” said the baritone voice.”

“Hi, it’s Don Hollenbeck, returning your call?”

“Oh, hi! Hey, sorry to bother you while you’re working, but I’m here in Fairview visiting my sister – she and her husband just got back from a trip – and I wondered if we might, y’know, get together and just, y’know, chat?”

“Sure,” said Donny, thinking that a little chat about the fantasy world of TV shows might take his mind off the spinning universe of functional specs and conversion tables.

“Great. I can be at the hotel in about fifteen minutes; is that okay?”

“Sure. I’ll be there.”

Donny went up to the room to drop off his briefcase and put on a sweater. Eric was standing in the hall carrying on a quiet but intense conversation with Rudy, who responded by barely nodding his head. They didn’t even notice Donny as he went by.

He found a copy of the local newspaper on one of the tables in the lobby and was reading about the local high school sports team when a tall man wearing a well-worn Carhart coat came into the lobby. He looked at Donny, smiled, and strode over to him.

“Hi, I’m Evan,” he said. His grip was firm, and Donny was reminded of the actor Treat Williams. He was clean-shaven with a ruddy, wind-burned face, bright eyes, and thick brown hair over heavy eyebrows. He shrugged off the coat to reveal a grey flannel shirt over faded jeans and work-boots. He had a solid build, and as he sat down, Donny caught a faint whiff of a barnyard. Evan seemed to know he was giving off the scent and he chuckled ruefully. “Sorry about that; I spent most of this morning repairing the fence in the corral, and goats can be odiferous.”

“You raise goats?”

“Yeah, my partner and I have about fifteen or so. We sell them for their wool, and occasionally for other things. Once you get the smell in your clothes, though, nothing gets it out.”

“No problem,” said Donny. “I’m from Ohio and I know all about farms.”

“Good.” Evan smiled. “Well, it’s nice to meet you. He pulled a folded piece of paper out of his back pocket. “Look, I took the liberty of jotting down a few notes…y’know, some questions I had about the script. You mind if we go over them?”

Donny glanced around the lobby. Other than the desk clerk, it was empty. “Sure, no problem.

“Okay.” Evan smoothed the paper out and then put on some glasses. “Yeah, in the scene where Bobby is in the kitchen….”

It turned out that Evan’s questions were more about the interaction of the characters rather than Donny’s script-writing abilities, and Donny had to think back to what he was thinking about as he wrote them. There were a few questions he couldn’t answer, so he just shook his head and said, “I don’t remember what I was thinking about then,” to which Evan nodded solemnly and went on to the next one. He offered no suggestions as to how he would have written it, nor did he make any kind of indication as to whether or not he agreed with Donny’s answers. Finally he slowly folded the paper, took off his glasses, and looked at Donny with a sober expression.

“Well, I think you’ve a workable idea here, Don.” He paused and Donny wondered if he was supposed to say something, but as he was getting ready to reply with a simple “thanks,” Evan said, “I’m sure you’ve gotten a lot of feedback from people like your agent and stuff, but I gotta tell ya, as one writer to another, I think you’ve given us something to work with. Your dialogue’s great, the characters are believable and likable, and you don’t get into a lot of soap opera drama.”

Now Donny said “Thanks.”

Evan shrugged. “That may be your biggest problem, though. Aaron’s instinct – write what will sell – has proven to be true. People want edge-of-the-seat drama; they want to know what choices the character will make and make them tough enough to stick it out through the commercial break. I think it’s a great idea, treating gay guys as just guys, y’know, with all the usual stuff that people go through every day – work, friends, family – just normal people, that’s all, with all the usual dramas. Get rid of the stereotypes, the flamers, the queens, the disco babies….” Evan shrugged. “Hell, do we really know anyone who really fits into that category?” He stopped himself and grinned. “Well, yeah, actually, I do. But do you want to see them on TV?”

Donny nodded. “No, and that’s why I wrote it instead of Aaron.”

Evan shook his head. “Aaron wrote what he did because he thought he was writing what Jeremy Dixon would do. I hear that’s all over, though. Your deal with getting Jeremy to do the pilot, I mean.” Evan glanced at him. “I hear you had something to do with that.”

“Yep,” Donny said softly, flashing back to the afternoon in the conference room overlooking downtown Los Angeles.

Evan smiled a little. “Good. I hate that prick,” he said, meaning Jeremy. “But the tough part is turning this” – he tapped the paper – “into something that people will watch without turning it into that,” and he pointed to the large TV in the other part of the lobby that was silently showing a car chase from a rerun of The Rockford Files.

“Yeah,” Donny said, “so I’ve been told.”

“So, tell me where you went to school.”

“You mean college? Bowling Green.”

“In Kentucky?”

“Ohio. Bowling Green State University.”

“Huh. Didn’t know they had a film school there.”

Donny shook his head. “They don’t, as far as I know. I took a couple of English and computer classes a few years ago.”

Evan looked puzzled. “So where’d you learn to write film scripts?”

Donny told him about helping Mike out with the scripts for Return to Sender and writing Small Town Boys by following Silver Star from the shooting script. Evan listened silently, then shook his head. “Jesus,” he muttered, “if word ever got out….”

“What?”

Evan looked at him with bemused wonder. “Well, here are all these people who spend all these years in college and grad school learning about how to write the perfect film, and then hustle their ass off just to get a synopsis read at a studio, and you bat out a script in a weekend and are about to start shooting with Jack Magahee’s money.”

Donny replied, “I’ve heard that,” thinking back to the evening in Paul’s office with Aaron in Palm Springs.

“Well, I was all set to give you a hard time as to why – at least according to my agent – I shouldn’t be considering working for a low-budget pilot that’s going to end up on the ass-end of cable TV. But now that I’ve actually read the script….” Evan leaned back a little. “So when do you actually think you’ll get going on this?”

“I’m leaving that all up to Trish,” Donny replied. “I’ve got something a little more involved going on.” He gave Evan a brief outline of what he was doing for the school system and what the future looked like for him as far as Small Town Boys was concerned. “So,” Donny concluded, “for the next year or so, I’m going to be up to my neck in work doing my real job.” He glanced at Evan and added apologetically, “Not that what you do isn’t a real job. It’s just that…”

“No, I get it,” said Evan. “No offense taken. Frankly, I’m a little envious; I could use a steady paycheck rather than what this business pays you. The last steady gig I had got cancelled halfway through the third season because the co-star needed to go into rehab. Not what you call job security. Fortunately I still get royalty checks and I have a partner who comes from a rich family.” He stood up and started to pull on his coat. “Well, if you’re still interested, I’d like to give it a shot.”

Donny stood up and nodded. “Yeah, I’ll let Trish know. She kinda had decided anyway, but….”

Evan grinned a little. “My people will call your people, right?”

“Something like that.”

Evan handed him a business card. “Keep in touch.” He gave Donny an appreciative look. “I gotta say, you’re not exactly what I pictured when I heard about what you do for a living. I had this whole computer nerd thing going; y’know, skinny, geeky, glasses….”

“Yeah, I guess I’m sorta the exception that proves the rule,” Donny replied. He thought of Rudy, Vince, and Jordan. “But hey, we’ve got a couple of them with us….”

Evan laughed. “No, thanks. Listen, if you’re going to be in the area, maybe you could come down to my place for dinner or something.”

"Yeah, sure," he said. "Thanks.

Evan shook his hand, patted him on the shoulder, and said, "Talk to you soon." Donny watched him stride out of the lobby, and a moment later a rather battered Chevy pick-up truck pulled out of the parking lot. He was pretty sure he had just been hit on.

Donny watched him stride out of the lobby, and a moment later a rather battered Chevy pick-up truck pulled out of the parking lot. He was pretty sure he had just been hit on.

Eric was lying on his bed, talking on the phone. The TV was on, but the sound was muted. He had taken off his shirt and pants and was wearing only a t-shirt and boxers. He laughed as Donny came into the room, and said, “Oh, I think they’ll go for that. We can write it into the contract as part of the conversion.” He looked at Donny, pointed at the receiver, and mouthed “Greg.” “Oh, here’s F. Scott McStudly now. Yeah, he spent all day charming the staff. Yeah, sure,” Eric continued, then handed the receiver to Donny. “He wants to know when you can move up here.”

Donny took the phone and told Greg about his day with the administrative staff. Meanwhile, Eric took off the rest of his clothes and went to the bathroom to take a shower.

“So,” said Greg, “it’s up to you, Donny. The boys think we can do it and make the deadline. What say you?”

Donny heard the shower start up and Eric started humming, a little off-key. He sat on the bed, still fingering Evan’s card, glanced at the TV with the same episode of The Rockford Files, and said, “Sure.”

Robert Anderson -- 1917-2009

2009-02-10T15:49:00.001-05:00

"Years from now, when you talk of this -- and you will -- be kind." - Tea and Sympathy by Robert Anderson.

Robert Anderson, a playwright whose intimate emotional dramas like “Tea and Sympathy” and “I Never Sang for My Father” attracted big names to the Broadway stage if not always substantial audiences to Broadway theaters, died Monday at home in Manhattan. He was 91.

The cause was complications of Alzheimer’s disease, said Nevin Terence Busch, Mr. Anderson’s stepson.

Mr. Anderson was a contemporary of Arthur Miller and Tennessee Williams, and though his reputation never ascended to the artistic heights that theirs did — his plays often walked a tightrope between realism and sentimentality — he was among the theater’s most visible, serious playwrights of the 1950s and ’60s.

Mr. Anderson also wrote screenplays, including those for “The Sand Pebbles” (1966), with Steve McQueen, and “The Nun’s Story” (1959), with Audrey Hepburn. But he thought of himself as a playwright who wrote movies for money.

I was standing on the terrace of a house called Glencliff in Independence, Kansas. It was the first evening of my first William Inge Theatre Festival in April 1991. I was at a dinner for invited guests, and I was there because I was friends of the Inge family. I walked up to the little bar set up on the patio and asked the bartender, a dapper man in a blue blazer and tie, for a drink. He promptly poured it out for me, smiled, and handed it over. A moment later, the real bartender, a college kid in the appropriate white coat, came back carrying a bag of ice, and thanked the other man, who turned to me and said, "Hi, I'm Bob." It was Robert Anderson, and as it slowly dawned on me that I had been served my first drink at the Inge Festival by one of its first honorees, I stammered my apology for assuming that he was the bartender. He laughed, patted me on the shoulder, and said, "I'd probably make a better living doing that."

I had read all of his plays -- Tea and Sympathy; I Never Sang for My Father; You Know I Can't Hear You When the Water's Running; Silent Night, Lonely Night -- and as we chatted I felt like I was talking to kindred spirit. I knew exactly how Tom Lee felt in Tea and Sympathy, being an "off horse" at a boarding school (although I didn't have the outcome he did during my miserable year), and as I spoke to him about his occasionally tempestuous relationship with his father, I saw how he turned that into a story -- I Never Sang for My Father-- that anyone, even someone who is very close to his father, could understand in the most intimate way.

Bob and I became friends at that first Inge Festival, and we kept in touch by mail during the months between each festival. He came back every year -- something very few of the honorees do after their time in the spotlight -- and he participated in all the panel discussions. He took an active interest in my work as well, and when he asked for a copy of one of my plays, I was beyond flattered. A month later I received a five-page letter telling me how much he enjoyed the play, complimented my characters, my dialogue, my use of space, the depth of the relationships between the characters, and then with gentle guidance he told me what he thought didn't work. He urged me to explore the characters with even more depth -- "I know you can" -- and asked me to keep working on it and let him see what developed. I had never had such a detailed critique of my work, not even in grad school, and he inspired me to keep writing.

Bob became a devoted friend. His letters, always either typed on his old manual typewriter or written in his nearly indecipherable handwriting, were full of stories about his life in Connecticut and his tennis games at the court he shared with his neighbor, Arthur Miller. And when he said, "If you're ever in New York, let me know," he meant it. In February 1993 I went to New York for a teacher's conference, and when I wrote him and suggested we meet up for lunch, he called me immediately and set the date. True to form, at the appointed hour, he was waiting for me in the lobby of the New York Hilton, nattily dressed in a suit and tie. He had walked from his apartment up on Sutton Place. After lunch I offered to get him a cab for the trip back, but he smiled and said, "No, I love to walk." And so we did, up to Central Park, talking about all sorts of things.

Bob never won the Pulitzer Prize or a Tony for his work, and in some ways I think it rankled him that other playwrights that he knew -- and sometimes competed with for production space -- did. But his attitude about it seemed to be philosophical, and his quip, "You can't make a living in theatre, but you can make a killing," pretty much summarized his feeling about those who became famous beyond their worth. Above all, he was always a gentleman and a gentle man.

The last time I saw him was at the Inge Festival in 2001. It was apparent that he was beginning to fade into the long night of Alzheimer's; he remembered me, but did not remember reading a book I'd written and that he had written detailed notes on several years before. I said goodbye to him in the lobby of the hotel that Sunday morning in April 2001 with the sense that we were parting for good. I heard from friends who saw him over the years that he was slipping away, and I was sorry that I would not be able to sit with him in the shade of the trees at the 4-H picnic grounds in Independence and just talk one more time.

I'll keep a place for you at the table in April, Bob.

PS: Can't Live Without You is dedicated to Bob.

Small Town Boys - Chapter 52

2009-02-07T19:01:00.002-05:00

Chapter Guide

Gone

It took a lot of phone calls to the airlines and the authorities in several states, but by Thursday they were able to piece together what had happened.

Tyler had arrived in Chicago and was met by an airline agent who was assigned to escort him to the departure gate for the flight to Traverse City. There was a long layover and the airport was having one of the busiest days of the year, so once the agent got Tyler checked in, he was left in the care of the agent at the gate who was already busy with taking care of the passengers who were already there. By the time the plane was ready for boarding, Tyler had vanished. The plane was held for a few minutes while the P.A. system paged him again and again, then the flight left.

In the meantime, a skinny blond kid in a green ski parka with a small blue American Tourister carryon bought an open-return ticket for a flight to Seattle on another airline. The ticket, paid for in cash, was sold to a Mike Lankowski who gave his address as Hinsdale, Illinois, and since he was under sixteen, he was not required to show any form of identification. Mike charmed the youthful male ticket agent out of a free upgrade to first class. The next morning the open-return ticket was exchanged for a flight to LAX. By the time police and the airlines had been notified, he had vanished. The ticket agent in Chicago was put on suspension pending a review.

Mike stopped by the house on his way back from Palm Springs Thursday afternoon after Donny called him and told him what had happened. He spent a over an hour on the phone with Tyler’s father, trying to assure him that they would do everything they could to find him and trying to talk him out of flying out there to look for him. “Clark, I have a lot of people who have a lot of connections with the authorities out here, and I’ll make sure that the word gets out. The only thing you can do out here is sit and worry, and you can do that in Maple City and save yourself a thousand bucks.”

“Who do you know with a lot of connections with the authorities?” Danny asked Mike after he hung up.

He smirked and shook his head. “What did you want me to say, that the kid’s disappeared and is probably hustling in West Hollywood?” He looked at his watch. “I gotta get going; Jason’s meeting me in an hour. We might have something on this sci-fi flick.”

After Mike left, Donny said, “I might know someone.”

An hour later Marc joined them on the patio. He was still in his work clothes, except he had taken off his tie. Donny handed him the pictures that Tyler had sent him with the Christmas card. “Cute kid,” Marc said. “He’ll probably do all right in terms of attracting guys who are into chicken.”

“What’s ‘chicken’?” Danny said.

“Underage guys. Twinks. Old enough to screw but under eighteen. Some guys are into it,” Marc said with a scowl. “Problem is, a lot of the older guys are into rough stuff, too, and it goes without saying there’s a lot of drugs going on, too. Fuckin’ scary.”

“So,” said Donny hesitantly, “do you know…?”

Marc grimaced. “Do I know my way around this trade?”

“Well, yeah.”

“I still get older guys looking for one more trick with young Rusty,” said Marc, looking at Danny as if he was expecting a negative reaction. But Danny just nodded. He picked up the pictures. “Can I hang on to these?”

“Sure. What are you gonna do?”

“Check out the usual hangouts.”

“You want us to go with you?” Danny offered.

“Nah. I’m better off doing this by myself, and if I meet him, he won’t know me.” Marc grinned a little. “Besides, neither of you look like hustlers. No offense.”

“None taken, I think,” replied Danny.

“When are you gonna look for him?”

Marc glanced at his watch. “I’ll go by the bars on the way home. If he’s as enterprising as you say he is, he might be there. Or he might be hanging out on Venice Beach for all I know. Don’t get your hopes up; I doubt we’ll find this kid right away. Chances are he’s gonna hook up with some sugar daddy with a lot of money and a passion for screwing kids. Once he gets tired of him he’ll toss his ass out and get the next number off the bus from Ohio or wherever. That’s probably how Jeremy got his start. Don’t expect me to find him tonight, ‘cause even if the people I know have seen him, they know I’m out of the business and they’re not gonna confide in me. It’s a tight community.” He got up, then looked at Donny solemnly. “You got a minute?”

Danny got the hint. “Good to see you, Marc, and thanks for the help. I need to hit the books.” They shook hands and Danny went into the house.

“What’s going on?” asked Donny.

Marc bit his lip and looked away. “Look, I’ll do everything I can to help you find this kid, but I sure hope that every time you think of a teenage hustler I’m not the first person who comes to mind.”

“Oh, shit. No, Marc. I didn’t mean it like that. I just thought….”

“Yeah, I know. You thought I might know some people. The fact is, Donny, I’d really rather forget about that part of my life.”

“I’m really sorry,” Donny said, feeling the guilt running through him like a knife.

Marc shrugged. “It’s okay, Donny.” He looked back at him. “Speaking of teenage hustlers…”

“What?”

“Barry Kessler,” Marc said simply.

“Barry Kessler…your teacher? What about him? Did he get busted again?”

Marc smiled wanly. “No. He’s teaching in a school outside Simi Valley.”

“Jesus,” replied Donny. “They hired him after all the…?”

“He was acquitted, remember? Besides, he’s old friends with the headmaster there. They take care of each other. And he’s not coaching football.”

“How’d you know all this?”

“He called me up over Thanksgiving. We had coffee. We talked. We….” Marc’s voice trailed off.

“So…”

“Yeah.”

“I thought you hated him.”

Marc shook his head. “I was pissed at him for dragging me into that lawsuit, and I told him that. But…”

“So is that what you were gonna tell me back after Thanksgiving?”

Marc looked at him quizzically.

“The morning we came back to work,” Donny reminded him. “Having coffee. ‘Look, um….’ You don’t remember.”

Marc smiled a little. “There was so much going on with Starship Enterprise and year-end. But… yeah, I wanted to tell you that Barry and I were seeing each other.”

“Is it serious?”

“You mean are we gonna live together?”

“Yeah.”

“I don’t know. I’m… He’s got a lot of things to deal with. Beth is bleeding him dry over alimony, he’s barely making thirty-five grand a year and having to live here isn’t cheap. And he’s a little touchy about moving in with a guy.”

“Yeah, I can understand that,” replied Donny drily.

“I just wanted you to know, y’know, so… you and me….”

“Yeah, I get it,” said Donny quickly.

Marc nodded and then said, “Well, if I’m gonna find this kid I guess I’d better be going.”

They walked out to the driveway. “By the way,” Marc said as he got in his car, “what should I do if I spot him?”

Donny stopped in his tracks. “I don’t know; I never thought of that.”

“I’ll play it by ear,” Marc said as he started the engine. “I’ll call you when I get home.”

Donny watched until the car was out of sight down the street. He stood at the end of the driveway staring after it, feeling a sudden sense of loss, regret, and not a little twinge of envy for Barry Kessler.

Marc called as Donny was getting ready for bed. “Nothing,” he said simply. “No sign of him. And I asked at all the usual places.” He chuckled slightly. “I think my bartender buddies must think I’m hot for teenagers now, but screw ‘em.”

“Okay,” replied Donny. “Look,” he began, hesitated, then plunged ahead. “I think it’s great about you and Barry. I mean, as long as you’re happy…”

Marc sighed a little. “Yeah. I shoulda told you earlier, I guess.”

“Nah, that’s okay…you don’t…”

“Well, yeah, I know…but you and me…we were….”

“No problem, Marc. It was … fun.”

“This isn’t gonna get uncomfortable at work, is it?” Marc asked tentatively.

“Huh? Oh hell no,” Donny replied quickly. “We’re good.”

“Okay. Um… I’ll do what I can to help you find Tyler. But L.A.’s a big city. How old did you say he is?”

“Fifteen, sixteen.”

“Damn,” said Marc sadly. “Things must really be rough for him at home.”

Danny was back in the guest room, lying in bed reading out of a black notebook when Donny tapped on the door. Danny shut the book, and Donny told him what Marc had said. He also told him about Barry.

Danny put his hands behind his head and leaned back. “Damn, twin, it’s been an interesting couple of days.”

“Yeah.”

“Well, you ready for some more news?”

Donny raised an eyebrow. “You’ve been drafted by the Dodgers?”

“Close. I’ve got orders.”

“Where to?”

“Can’t say. And I mean that literally. I don’t know. All I know is that I report to the base tomorrow night with all my stuff and that it will be for an indeterminate length.”

“Any guesses?”

“Even if I had an idea, I couldn’t tell you.”

“Yeah, I got that. So, you want me to keep an eye on the Jeep?”

Danny shrugged. “Maybe I should just sell it. I didn’t need it at the last place, and I can’t see any point in paying insurance and shit on something that’s just taking up space in your garage. Why don’t we just go down to your Chevy dealer and see what they’ll give me for it?”

“I don’t mind keeping it for you. But…” He shrugged. “If that’s what you want.”

His brother looked at him with a knowing smile. “Yeah, I know. Cutting the last tie. But we kinda knew this was gonna happen.”

They looked at each other in silence for a moment, then Danny got up and hugged his brother. They held each other silently, neither of them wanting to let go until finally Donny heard Danny gasp back a sob.

“C’mon,” Donny whispered, and without a word they went into the master bedroom and just as they had done when they were five years old and a thunderstorm had roared outside their bedroom window, they held each other until they both finished crying and fell asleep on top of the covers.

Promptly at six the next evening an Air Force sedan pulled up to the curb in front of the house and a young corporal trotted up to the door and rang the bell. Danny smartly returned the salute and handed his bags to the soldier. He turned to Donny.

“Well, twin, this is it,” he said, his bright eyes peering out from under the brim of his hat. “I’ll be in touch with you as soon as I’m allowed, but I wouldn’t count on hearing from me for a while.”

“Right,” Donny said. They shook hands quickly, and Danny followed the corporal down to the car. He didn’t look back as he got in the back seat, and the car drove off down the street. Donny went in the house and closed the door.

He was used to the silence of the house, but as he went into the guest room to close the blinds and turn off the light, he could almost feel it. Danny, in his military fashion, had left the room neat and tidy. The bed was made with clean sheets, the towels folded with military precision, even the dresser top dusted. The only remnant of his visit was a single crumpled piece of paper in the waste basket. It was a Post-It note with firm handwriting on it: HOLLENBECK D.E. 1LT. He went around the rest of the house collecting the trash and took the bag out to the garage.

The empty space where the Jeep used to be parked made a noticeable hole in the garage, even though it meant that Donny could now get into the Mustang without having to back the Tahoe out first. The dealer had offered Danny a low-ball price and it took a little firm wrangling to him to come around, but after an hour they left the dealership with a check. Danny didn’t look back at the Jeep parked off to the side of the lot, and promptly deposited the check into his account. He had taken one last swim, ate a sandwich, packed quickly, dressed in his Class A uniform, and then he and Donny had sat on the patio, waiting for his ride. They said little out loud, but they didn’t need to.

There was nothing on TV, and he was thinking about going out to Blockbuster to rent a movie when the phone rang. It was Mike.

“Hey, how are you?” Donny said.

“Okay. Just wanted you to know that I talked to Clark again. Still no word on Tyler, I guess.”

“Nope.”

“Yeah,” said Mike, sounding somber. “I guess the cops put out his picture, but….” He let the words drift away, then changed the subject. “Hey, Jason got me a guest star part on Law & Order.”

“Hey, great,” Donny replied. “When do you start?”

“Leave for New York tomorrow afternoon. Not exactly a starring role in a feature, but it’s work and if they like me, it might turn out to be a permanent gig. They’re talking about doing some spinoffs.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. Hey, you go with what you got, right? Your thing’s still in pre-production, right?”

“Yeah…”

“Yeah, so…anyway, what’re you guys doing?”

“Nothing. Danny’s been called up for duty. Left about an hour ago. Thinking about renting a movie.”

“Want some company?”

Donny knew what Mike meant, and in spite of himself, he grinned a little and felt his crotch swell a little.

“Sure.”

Mike spent the night, falling asleep on his left side, his back to Donny like he always had, his gentle snoring a reminder to Donny of the first night they had spent together in the same bed in the same house but what seemed like a lifetime ago. The alarm woke them and Mike left while it was still dark, giving Donny a quick coffee-flavored kiss before going back to his own place to get ready for his trip east. “Happy New Year,” he said softly. “Got any plans?”

“Nah,” replied Donny. “Maybe hang out with Eric and Greg. Seen one, seen ‘em all. You gonna do the Times Square thing?”

“Maybe. If I do, I’ll wave to you on the TV.”

Donny chuckled. “I’ll be sure to look for it.”

“See ya.” Mike waved, strode out to his car, and was gone. Donny closed the door, and went back to make the bed. It still had the faint scent of Mike’s cologne, and it lingered as he put the pillows in place and drew the comforter up.

What's Going On...

2008-12-13T09:54:00.003-05:00

I haven't fallen off the face of the earth.

I have, however, given Small Town Boys a rest for a little while. I am not suffering from writer's block; in fact, I have outlined the rest of the story. But as often happens with me, I have been interrupted by another character who has gently worked his way into my consciousness. His name is Paul Engstrom, and he's telling me about himself, his friends, and his grandfather, Papa Paul. At the moment the story is untitled, but I hope that I will soon finish it and then pick up with Donny and the rest of the gang at Small Town Boys.

It doesn't take a literary genius to figure out the recurring theme in my writing; the exploration of growing up and figuring out things about life and relationships, and Paul is another facet of that exploration. In some ways, Paul is a version of Donny, who is a version of Bobby, and if I really wanted to, I guess I could link them all together with the other characters that have populated by writing from the first stories I wrote forty years ago.

A lot of writers do this. Not to compare myself favorably with the likes of Arthur Miller, Tennessee Williams, William Inge, or Eugene O'Neill, but even a cursory glance at their work reveals that they also wrote different versions of a character throughout their writing. That's not a criticism by any means; I think it is shows that there is more to a character and a person than just the one side that may be seen in the tale being told. So it is with Bobby, Donny, and now Paul. And if I gain a reputation as the guy who wrote all those coming-of-age stories, then that's fine with me. It's the characters who are telling their stories; I'm just the guy who wrote them down.

Anyway, I have set aside some serious time in the next few weeks to finish up the untitled story, and then finish the latest chapter of the adventures of Donny, Danny, Eric, and what happened to Tyler. And when I do, you'll be the first to know.

Don't Worry...

2008-08-01T04:49:00.002-04:00

I'm working on the latest chapter of Small Town Boys, but it's not quite ready for posting just yet. I've also had a recent flurry of non-creative writing activity (moving to a new house, changing jobs, etc.) that have given Donny and the gang time off.

But fear not...they'll be back in a little while.

Small Town Boys - Chapter 51

2008-05-03T09:57:00.002-04:00

Chapter Guide

Tyler’s Big Adventure

“Whoa,” said Danny. “Kid’s got some stones.”

Donny had the phone muffled against his chest. “His folks must be freaked,” he said.

“No doubt.” Danny grabbed his keys. “I’ll go pick him up. Meanwhile, you get hold of his parental units and let’em know where he is and that he’s okay.” He glanced at the roast on the counter. “Good thing we’ve got enough to feed him.”

Donny told Tyler that Danny was on his way. “He’s driving a dark green Jeep Wrangler with Colorado plates. What airline did you come in on?”

“United,” Tyler said.

“Okay. Meet him at the arrivals level of Terminal Seven. He should be there in about a half-hour or so. Have you called your folks and let them know where you are?”

There was a long pause. Donny could hear the P.A. in the background paging Mr. Lopez. Then Tyler said, “I’ll be outside looking for the Jeep. I’m wearing a green parka.” The line went dead.

Donny put the phone down. “He’s wearing a green parka. Sounds like he didn’t call his folks.”

“Well,” said Danny, “you do it, then. Meanwhile, I’ll get him back here.”

“You remember what he looks like? From the pictures?”

“Skinny blond kid with a green ski parka. Not too hard to spot.”

The Jeep roared out of the driveway. Donny called directory assistance to get the number of Clark Herlinger in Maple City, Michigan, but the number he got was for the clinic: “Merry Christmas and thank you for calling the Northview Veterinary Hospital. At the present time our office is closed. If this is an emergency, please call the Cherryland Emergency Vet Clinic at…” Donny hung up and thought for a moment. If he couldn’t reach Tyler’s parents directly, he could try getting the number from Mike’s parents. He remembered the card that Mike had given him with the Lankowski’s number on it, and then remembered that he had neatly placed it in his Rolodex at the office. He cursed under his breath, called directory assistance again and asked for Eugene Lankowski, and got the same number for the clinic. Well, he thought, the last resort is to try to get in touch with Mike. He found the number for the Villa on a card in his wallet. The phone was answered on the second ring. “Villa Castelfranco di Sopra,” said a smooth male voice.

“I’m trying to get in touch with, uh, Lance Michaels.”

“I’m sorry, sir, but there’s no one here by that name.”

“Um, how about Michael Lankowski?”

“I’m sorry, sir,” replied the voice and hung up.

Donny then remembered that guests were issued passwords when they checked in so that incoming calls wouldn’t be blocked, but Mike had not called to give it to him. He cursed again, then tried calling Paul Jeffries. There was no answer; he too was probably out at the Villa. He thought about calling the Villa again and explaining that it was an emergency, but he knew that the staff was well-trained and wouldn’t put any call through without the password.

Momentarily stymied, he went into the kitchen and started to get the roast ready, all the while wracking his brains about who he could call. Marc? He wouldn’t know the password, and he was in Santa Barbara. He peeled the carrots and chopped them up and was quartering the potatoes and had decided that the only solution was to try the Villa again when the phone rang. It was Trish calling to wish him a merry Christmas.

“Same to you, Trish. Hey, maybe you can help…” He explained the situation, and smiled to himself when Trish had virtually the same response that Danny had had: “Wow, that takes balls.”

“Yeah, so I’ve heard. I need to get in touch with Mike. He knows how to get in touch with the kid’s parents, but he’s out at the Villa and I don’t know the password, so…”

“The guardians at the gate won’t let you in. How ‘Dungeons and Dragons’ can you get?”

“Yeah, right. Can you help me out here?”

“Hey, I’m your producer.”

“And…?”

“I’ll call you back with it in a few.”

“Perfect.”

Trish was as good as her word. Donny had just put the roast in when she called back. “The magic word is ‘wassail.’”

“Wassail?”

“It’s Christmas. What did you expect; ‘gay apparel’?”

“How’d you get it?”

“If I told you, I’d have to kill you. Merry Christmas, Donny. I hope the kid gets home all right.”

Donny called the Villa again and gave the password. “Yes sir, how may I direct your call?”

There was no answer in Mike’s room, and after ten rings the operator came back on and said he could take a message. “Ask him to call Donny at home, please.”

Nearly an hour later and as the aroma of the cooking roast was filling the house, the Jeep pulled into the driveway. Tyler had taken off the parka, but he was still wearing a sweater. He looked tired and a little overwhelmed, as if he had nothing to do with what had happened to him. Danny carried in his small light-blue American Tourister suitcase.

“Hello, Ty,” said Donny. “So, what’s going on?” he added trying not to sound judgmental or hostile.

“Hi, Don,” the boy replied, sounding tired, and noticing the smell of the food, looked around the kitchen.

Donny held out the cordless phone. “Call your parents. Now.” Tyler shook his head, and Donny started to say, “Either you do it or I will,” but Danny interrupted. “Why don’t we get you settled in, Ty? I’ll show you where the guest room is, then you can get cleaned up and we’ll get some chow.”

“Okay.”

Danny glanced at his twin, and Donny nodded reluctantly. A few minutes later Danny came back alone and leaned against the counter in the kitchen. “He’s gonna take a shower. Were you able to get in touch with his ‘rents?”

Donny told him about the phone calls.

“Take it easy on him for now, okay?” Danny said, munching on a stray carrot slice, “He’s carrying around a real bagful of pissed off, and for the moment he doesn’t need to get it from anyone else. Something really heavy’s going on for a kid to run away like that.”

“Did he say what?”

“No, but the first thing he said to me was ‘I’m not going back,’ and he was quite proud of how he pulled off his escape.”

“How’d he do it?”

“His parents are away this weekend a Christian Christmas retreat. They belong to a church that doesn’t go overboard with celebrating the holiday, I guess. They’re supposed to be back tonight, but while they were gone, Ty was spending the time with his aunt and uncle in Traverse City. Yesterday afternoon he told them he was going to do some shopping at the mall, but instead he got on a bus to Grand Rapids, spent the night in the airport, and got on an early flight this morning to Chicago connecting to Los Angeles.”

“Just like that.”

Danny shook his head. “Nope. He bought the ticket three weeks ago with his birthday money and allowance. He knew enough to buy the ticket when it was still discounted. My experience with AWOL’s is that they don’t do it on the spur of the moment; it’s timed out to the last detail like The Great Escape. He got his cousin to cover for him, and my guess is that nobody noticed he was gone until sometime this morning when he was halfway here. And unless the cousin breaks under interrogation, they won’t know where to look for him until he wants them to know.”

“Yeah, well, as soon as Mike calls back, they’re gonna know,” said Donny firmly.

A few minutes later the phone rang. It was Mike. He sounded cheerful until Donny told him why he’d called, at which time his tone changed to all business. “I’ll make the call. You don’t know Clark, and getting a phone call like that from a stranger will only make it worse. For them and for Ty.”

Tyler came into the kitchen wearing clean jeans and a Traverse Bay Christian Academy shirt. His hair was still damp from the shower. Danny went to set the dining table in the sunroom while Donny finished the last of the meal preparations. Tyler offered to help, so Donny had him mix the salad dressing.

“So you guys are twins,” Tyler said, looking out to the sunroom.

“Yep,” replied Donny, preparing the standard answers to the usual questions. But Tyler said, “Wish I had a brother.”

“Only child, huh?”

“I had a sister, but she died,” he said simply, shaking the cruet.

“Oh, sorry to hear that.”

Tyler shrugged. “She was only a couple of month old when it happened. Mom said the Lord needed her in heaven.”

Donny looked at him to see if he was being cynical, but his expression was unreadable. The oven timer went off.

Donny opened a bottle of wine. Tyler had a Coke, and before they ate, Donny raised his glass, much like his father did, and said, “A Merry Christmas to all near and far. Good to have you here, Danny. You too, Ty.” Tyler nodded, then folded his hands together in prayer and murmured a sotto voce grace. The twins waited respectfully until the boy looked up again and smiled a little. “Thanks for…having me,” he said.

They ate slowly, the conversation a little strained because Danny couldn’t talk about what he was doing other than to say he was a first lieutenant in the Air Force, and Donny’s work on the Starship Enterprise project wasn’t really that interesting to anyone outside of the business, and he decided not to bring up Small Town Boys, fairly certain that he didn’t want Tyler going back home and telling his parents that he had spent his time in L.A. with the executive producer of a TV program about gay men.

They were just finishing up when the phone rang. Tyler looked stricken. Donny got up from the table and took the call on the cordless in the living room. It was Mike. He had spoken with his parents, who had gotten in touch with the retreat center where the Herlingers were staying in Houghton Lake. They would be home at six o’clock Eastern Time. Donny looked at his watch; that wasn’t for another couple of hours at least. “Call your folks back and give them my cell phone,” Donny said, “just in case, okay?”

“I already did,” Mike said. “I know how this town works.”

Donny went back to the table and told a visibly relieved Tyler that his parents weren’t home yet. “So, before they get there, whaddaya say we give you a little tour of Southern California while you’re here. I don’t think we’ve got time to go to Disneyland, but we can at least see some of the sights.”

They cleared the table and cleaned up the kitchen quickly. Donny backed the Mustang out of the garage. It was a nice sunny afternoon, so he put the top down.

There wasn’t much traffic on Christmas Day, so they went up Santa Monica Boulevard to Beverly Hills, past some of the more notable mansions, then east to Hollywood. They stopped in front of the Chinese theatre and walked along several blocks of the Walk of Fame. Tyler seemed to enjoy it, but he admitted that he hadn’t seen a lot of movies since his parents didn’t approve of most of what came out of Hollywood.

“Where’s your gym?” Tyler asked.

“We can drive by there, but it’s closed today,” Donny replied.

“Oh, okay,” Tyler said, sounding disappointed.

They drove back to the house, and Tyler asked if he could go in the pool. “I brought my trunks.”

“Sure,” Donny said. “We’ll join you.”

Tyler emerged from the guest room in faded shorts that hung almost to his knees. Danny pulled on his AFA suit and sweatshirt and Donny put on his most modest surfer jams. The air was still cool, but sitting in the sun took the edge off. Donny swam some laps at first, then Danny found an old nerf ball left over from a previous tenant and they played a rousing game of keep-away, Tyler diving and plunging for the ball, at one time nearly climbing on Donny’s back to get it away from him.

When he finally tired of the game, Tyler sat on the steps in the shallow end, the water lapping around his chest. “I can’t believe I’m in an outdoor swimming pool on Christmas Day,” he said. “I can’t believe I’m in California.” All Donny could say was, “Yeah, well.”

It was almost dark when Clark Herlinger called. Tyler was in the living room watching TV. His voice was measured, almost cheerful, and he thanked Donny for taking care of Tyler. “I can’t fault him for getting in touch with you as soon as he got there,” Clark said.

Donny walked out to the patio, leaving Tyler in the living room. “Not a problem. I’ll make the arrangements to get him back as soon as possible.”

“Let me give you my credit card number,” said Clark.

“Don’t worry about it. That’s the least of your worries. I guess you want to talk to him,” said Donny, looking through the sunroom into the living room. Tyler was staring back at him.

“Yes, please,” he replied, and Donny beckoned to Tyler. He came outside to the patio, but before Donny handed him the phone Tyler said, “Is he mad?”

Donny covered the phone. “I don’t know, Ty. He’s your dad.” He handed him the phone. “Talk to him.”

Tyler took the phone reluctantly and sat down in one of the plastic chairs by the patio table. “Hi, Dad,” he said almost mournfully. Donny went back into the house and made a point of not looking back. He went into the office where Danny was setting up his new computer. Twenty minutes later, Donny looked out to the patio. The lights were on in the bushes and in the pool. Tyler was still sitting in the chair, his back to the house, but Donny could see that his shoulders were shaking, and as he approached the door he could hear him talking. Donny went into the kitchen, got a couple of beers, and went back to the office.

A few minutes later Tyler came in, holding out the phone to Donny. “He wants to talk to you again,” he said. He had wiped his face, but it was obvious that he had been crying.

“Hello, Dr. Herlinger,” Donny began.

“Please call me Clark. I just wanted to say again how grateful Stephanie and I are for you taking care of him, and it goes without saying that I’ll reimburse you for any expenses, including the airfare.”

“Don’t worry about it,” said Donny. He wrote down the Herlinger’s home number. He felt an overwhelming urge to say something, anything, hoping to let Clark know that he hoped they wouldn’t go too hard on their son when he got home, but he knew it wouldn’t mean anything coming from him. So all he said was, “I’ll call you in the morning with the flight information.”

“Thank you, Don. Good bye.”

He had no sooner hung up the phone when it rang. It was Eric. “So are we still on for tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow?” said Donny.

“Twins day out. Remember?”

“Oh, shit, that’s right.” Donny took the phone into the office and closed the door. He quickly explained the situation.

“Holy shit. That explains why your line’s been busy forever,” said Eric. “Well, if you don’t want to do it…”

“No, it’s cool. We gotta keep him entertained until we ship him back Tuesday morning; might as well make a day of it.”

“Sure, what the hell,” replied Eric. “Wow, the kid ran away all the way from Michigan. What’s up with that?”

“I have no idea,” said Donny. “He’s definitely got some problems at home, though. So tomorrow let’s just be cool and not give him the third degree.”

“Say no more,” said Eric. “See you in the morning.”

Donny went back to the living room. Tyler had the TV on again, flipping through all the channels on the cable. “I guess you don’t get as many channels up in Michigan,” he said.

Tyler shook his head. “We don’t have cable.” He scanned past a few more, including ESPN, Univision, and the Weather Channel.

“I don’t watch that many,” Donny said. “Mainly the networks and HBO.”

Tyler turned off the TV. “I have to go back,” he said, as if there was any doubt.

“I know. I’m going to get on the phone to the airlines in a few minutes and see what we can do about that.”

Danny came into the room and leaned against the doorjamb into the kitchen, his arms folded across his chest, looking at Tyler with studied interest, the way a teacher watches a student taking a test. “Well, Ty,” he said casually, “you told me how you got here… So you want to tell us why?”

“They’re gonna send me to a boarding school.”

“Your folks?”

“Yeah.”

“When?”

“I’m supposed to start right after New Year’s.”

“Where is it?” Donny asked.

“Somewhere in Tennessee. It’s run by the church.”

“Well,” replied Donny, not sure what to say. “What’s…?”

“Any reason that they’re doing that?” Danny interrupted.

“They want me to spend more time on my schoolwork and serving the Lord,” Tyler said hollowly.

“What’s wrong with the school you go to now?” said Danny, indicating the shirt.

“It’s…nothing. I like it there. Got a lot of friends.”

“Grades okay?”

Tyler shrugged. “Not bad. B’s, mostly.”

“So why send you away?”

Tyler was silent for a moment. “My mom thinks there are too many… distractions. Too many temptations that lead away from …”

“And sticking you in a boarding school will put an end to that.”

Tyler nodded and whispered, “Yeah, I guess so.”

“Well, I can think of a couple of hundred ways of dealing with the situation better than how you did it,” Donny said.

“I just… I just don’t want to go to that school. I don’t know anyone there and it’s…so far away.”

“Los Angeles is a lot further than Tennessee, and you don’t know anyone here, either.”

“I know you,” Tyler said, looking at Donny hopefully.

“So,” Danny said, “what’s your plan?”

“My plan?”

“Sure. You got to L.A. Now what? What are you gonna do?”

Tyler shrugged. “I dunno…”

Danny looked at Donny. “See, twin, that’s the trouble guys with going AWOL. They plan the escape down to the last detail, but once they’re over the wall, they haven’t a clue what to do next, so they usually get caught pretty quick because they don’t have a plan. The MP’s know this, so they look in the most obvious places; a local bar or cat house or back home. Back on base and into the brig in less than twelve hours; forty-eight if they’re especially resourceful.”

Tyler looked stricken. “I don’t want to go back.”

“What choice have you got? What are you going to do out here? How old are you?”

“Fifteen, almost sixteen.”

Danny looked at Donny. “You’re the expert in H.R. Can a fifteen year old kid get a job here in California?”

“Flipping burgers, maybe,” Donny replied.

“I’ll do it.”

“The minimum wage is $4.25 an hour, Tyler,” Donny said. “That’s eight grand a year. You can’t live on that. Hell, you can’t live in Michigan on that, let alone L.A.”

“I could work for you. I know stuff about computers.”

Danny snorted. “Tyler, you’re not going to work for him. That’s not gonna happen. You’re gonna get back on a plane tomorrow or the next day and go back to Michigan, and if you’re lucky, your parents won’t send you off to one of those schools where they put ankle monitors on you and lock the windows at night.”

Tyler ducked his head and whispered, “I know.”

Donny looked at his brother, knowing that it was his turn in this impromptu good cop – bad cop routine. “You never really told me why your parents decided to send you off to this school.”

“Yeah, I just did.”

“Well, no. You said your mother wanted you to avoid ‘temptation.’ What exactly did she mean by that?”

Tyler stared at the blank TV screen, glanced at the twins, then bowed his head. “She found my magazines,” he said quietly.

“What magazines?” said Donny.

“Playboy? Girlie stuff?” said Danny.

Tyler shook his head vigorously, his head still down. “No. Weightlifting stuff. Muscle and Fitness. Stuff like that”

“What’s wrong with…?” Donny started to say, but Danny interrupted. “She doesn’t want you working out?”

Tyler shook his head again. “She says it’s vain and ungodly. I tried to tell her that a lot of guys who work out are Christians and that they’re trying to live up to their potential and that working out tests your resolve to sacrifice for the Lord, but…” He put his hands over his eyes for a moment, then continued. “She says it leads to ‘unnatural thoughts’ and sin.”

“Unnatural thoughts?”

“She says that looking at men like that leads to….” He struggled with the word for a moment, twisting his mouth, biting his lip, and finally whispering, “homosexuality.”

Donny shifted in his chair and said, “Look, Ty, there’s nothing in those magazines you can’t learn from just working out with your coach or what I wrote out for you, so there’s no sense in forking over all that money when you don’t need to. Trash ‘em; you’ll make your mom happy and you’ll save a few bucks.” He got up suddenly. “So, anybody want a sandwich or something?”

Donny spent over an hour on the phone trying to book a flight for Tyler out the next morning, but every airline was booked solid through every connection out of every airport within the Los Angeles area. The earliest direct flight was 9:15 Tuesday morning. “I’ll take him,” Danny offered. “I need to go out to the base anyway.”

“You can’t take me?” Tyler said to Donny.

“I have to be at work first thing Tuesday.” Donny saw the disappointment on Tyler’s face, so he tried to cheer him up a little. “Hey, tomorrow some of my friends are coming over. We’ll go check out some more sights, okay?”

They said good night in the hall, Donny making sure the guest room door was closed, then went into the master bedroom and closed the door. Danny was in the bathroom brushing his teeth. He undressed slowly and settled in to the left side of his bed, leaving enough room for Danny. “When was the last time we bunked together like this?” Danny said as he pulled the covers up.

“Boynton Beach, I think,” said Donny quietly.

“Oh, right, the Sea Breeze,” he chuckled softly. “Sand, sun, and Lucy…what was her name?”

“McMillan. From St. Louis.”

“Wow, you remember.”

“Yeah,” replied Donny, wondering what happened to Benji Rubenstein, the well-built boy from Great Neck.

Danny flicked off the light, the curtains letting in only the faint glow from the outside lights around the pool. “Well, this was an interesting Christmas,” he murmured. “You know that kid has a major league crush on you, don’t you.”

“Gee, ya think?” said Donny sarcastically. “You do realize that he was bullshitting us on the reason he ran away, too. No way he’d take off just because his mom found some muscle mags. There’s gotta be more to it than that.”

“Like what?”

“I don’t know. But it’s something serious and he’s not telling us.”

“Think he’s gay?”

Donny let out a deep breath. “He’s a kid. Kids get crushes on older guys; teachers, coaches, that sort of shit all the time. You saw that in the academy, right?”

“I see it all the time with new recruits and their CO’s.”

“Well, there you go. Doesn’t mean they’re gay.”

“Doesn’t mean they’re not” replied Danny. “How old were you when you started messing around with Craig?”

“Fifteen.”

“Did you know you were gay?”

“Hell, I just knew I liked getting off. Didn’t think about it being gay or anything.”

“Well, whatever, gay or not, that kid has it bad for you. You’re gonna have to find a way to let him down slowly. And gently.”

“I know,” Donny sighed.

Danny settled his head against his pillow. “G’night, twin. Merry Christmas.” It wasn’t long before Danny was asleep, his breathing settling into the pattern that Donny knew like his own heartbeat.

*

Eric and Greg arrived the next morning a little after eight. Donny introduced Tyler to them as a friend from Michigan, and neither Eric nor Greg raised an eyebrow. After some good-natured arguing about what to do, Danny turned to Tyler. “Hey, ever seen the ocean?”

“No. Well, except for when we were coming in for the landing.”

“That settles it,” said Eric. “To quote the immortal Brian Wilson, ‘if everybody had an ocean….’ Good thing I packed my swimsuit.”

It took them a few minutes to gather up the beach stuff, but soon they piled into Donny’s Tahoe and found a parking spot near Venice Beach. It was not very crowded for the day after a holiday, but there were still people jogging, roller-blading, and even some brave surfers in wetsuits were paddling around waiting for the waves.

Tyler, his hands plunged in his jeans pockets, plodded across the grayish sand, his sneakers making small craters. They followed him down to the edge of the water. The sunlight was a little watery from the haze, but the sky was mostly clear and the air smelled of salt with a touch of smoke from the hot dog stand up the beach.

“Next stop, Hawaii,” said Danny, pointing off to the southwest.

“Wow,” said Tyler.

“Yeah, it’s a little bigger than Lake Michigan,” said Donny. He looked back up the beach to where he had first sat and chatted with Mike and where he and Eric had sat and watched Greg and Danny play football with the high school kids. This time there were some boys flipping a Frisbee back and forth while their dog – in violation of beach rules – ran back and forth between them.

“You come here a lot?” Tyler asked.

Donny thought back to the last time he’d been to the beach. It had been almost two years since he and Eric had come down here and sat on the sand. “No, not really. When you live here, you kinda forget that you live this close to it. It’s mostly for the tourists.”

They walked up the beach past the lifeguard stand. “Sorry,” said Eric, “I guess they gave Pamela Anderson the day off.” Tyler nodded as if he got the joke, but Donny doubted that he was familiar with the cast of Baywatch.

They set up camp close to their favorite spot, and Eric peeled off his shirt, revealing his lean but muscular torso and six-pack abs. Tyler looked at him and said, “You work out a lot?”

Eric grinned a little as he undid his belt and dropped his jeans, revealing his faded Ocean Pacifics. “Yeah, some,” he replied and then nodded at Donny. “Nothing like Schwarzenegger over there, but, y’know, enough to stay in shape.”

“I’m working out, too,” said Tyler, self-consciously plucking at his t-shirt.

“Good for you. Start early and you’ll be huge by the time you’re twenty or so.”

“Hope so,” said Tyler, “but I’d settle for looking as hot as you.”

Eric chuckled. “Thanks, kid,” he replied and shot Donny a quick look.” Danny nudged Donny privately and muttered, “Uh huh.”

They sat in the sun for a while, then Eric announced he was going to see how cold the water was. “Any other takers?”

“I’ll go,” said Tyler promptly.

“You’ll freeze your nuts off,” said Greg, who had already ventured down to the waterline and waded in up to his ankles.

“Nah,” he replied. “C’mon, Donny, you wanna go?”

He shrugged, snubbed out his cigarette, and followed them down to the edge of the water. It was not cold, but as he waded in, Donny didn’t feel like going in all the way, so he just went as far as his knees. Eric, however, took a running start and plunged in with a whoop, then jumped up and clutched his elbows. “Wow! Man, that’s…wild!” After a moment of hesitation, Tyler waded in up to his knees, then took a deep breath and dove in, coming up immediately and shoving his fists in his eyes. “Ow!” he exclaimed, “that stings!”

“Yeah,” laughed Eric, “salt water’ll do that to ya!” He splashed some water at Donny. “C’mon in, you big goof!”

Donny went back up to the waterline. “Nah, this is fine. You guys have fun, okay?”

“Wuss,” Eric snorted, then dove again like a porpoise, coming up a few yards further out.

He went back to his chair. Danny was telling Greg about Tyler’s adventure.

“Jesus,” Greg said, looking at Tyler splashing in the water with Eric. “You think there’s some serious shit happening at home?”

“Has to be. Teenage rebellion is one thing, but…”

Greg said to Donny, “You think he’s gay and his parents found out?”

Donny was watching Tyler and Eric horsing around in the waves. Tyler had grabbed Eric around the shoulders and was trying to climb on his back, practically mounting him from behind. “Something like that,” Donny mused. “Who knows.”

For lunch they got some very overpriced tacos and nachos, then joined in a game of ultimate Frisbee with some other people down the beach. By four o’clock they were all sticky and gritty from the sun and the sand and Donny suggested they go back to the house, clean up, and then go get some dinner. Eric and Tyler went off to the public restroom down the beach to change out of their swim suits. When they came back, Greg said to Tyler, “A little different than Michigan, huh?”

“Yeah,” said Tyler with a grin. “I like it here.”

They got ice cream cones and walked back to the car. “’Course,” Donny said, “you’ve only seen the good side of L.A. There are parts of it that pretty much resemble a war zone.”

“And the people are basically crazy,” said Danny.

“That too.”

“So why did you move here?” Tyler asked, licking the vanilla runner off the side of the cone.

“I got tired of the cold,” Donny said. “I really didn’t plan on staying. A month, tops. But I got the job and…”

“I could do that,” said Tyler.

“Yeah, but I was twenty-one, Tyler. I could sign a lease on a rental agreement. I had some money saved up. I had some marketable skills. And my parents knew where I was going when I left.” Donny started the car, made a sharp U-turn, and they drove back to the house.

They ordered take-out from the Great Wall and ate quietly on the patio. Donny noticed that Eric was mostly silent throughout the meal, and when they were done he helped Donny clear the table, leaving Danny, Greg, and Tyler chewing on their fortune cookies.

As he was dumping the boxes into the trash, Eric looked out to the patio. “So Tyler’s going home in the morning,” he said quietly.

“That’s the plan.”

“Good.” Eric closed the lid on the trashcan.

“Why do you say that?” Donny asked.

“’Cause he tried to hit on me.”

“He what?”

“He came on to me, Donny. When we were changing clothes at the beach in the restroom. He pulled off his trunks, whipped out his cock and asked me if I wanted to suck him off.”

“Holy shit.”

“Or he could do me. Either way.”

“What did you do?”

Eric glared at him. “I fucked him in the stall, Donny,” he said sarcastically. “What the hell do you think I did? I laughed it off, said no thanks, and got the hell outta there.” Eric looked out to the patio again. Tyler was sitting with his back to the house. He was talking about snowmobiling. “He was sending out vibes all day, Donny. When we were swimming, I swear he tried to grab my balls, and when he kept tackling me in the water, he kept pressing himself against me. That kid looks all sweet and innocent, but I’ve seen kids like that before, usually hanging around bars or pickup spots in West Hollywood. Get him home, Donny. He’s trouble.”

Eric and Greg left a little while later, and Donny told Eric he’d be in the office a little late; he was taking Tyler to the airport. Eric said he understood, said a perfunctory “nice to meet you” to Tyler, and waved to Danny as they backed out of the driveway.

It was still early, so they watched some TV, Tyler flipping through the channels until he found a movie on HBO. The three of them watched it in silence, and when it was over, he said, “Okay, time for bed. You’ve got an early flight.” He glanced at his brother. “And change of plans; I’m taking you to the airport.”

Tyler shrugged. “Cool.” He got up and went into the guest room and closed the door. Donny turned off the lights and set the alarm from the inside.

Danny was already in his shorts and getting into bed. “Something you want to tell me?” he said quietly. Donny told him what Eric had said. Danny shook his head. “I had a feeling about that little bastard. I’ll go with you and make sure he gets on that plane. We’ll walk him to the gate if we have to.” He plumped his pillow, rolled over and was asleep in a moment. Donny turned out the light and stared up at the ceiling.

He was at the quarry. The sun was blazing hot, and after an hour of catching sunfish and letting them go, Craig tilted his head wordlessly toward the sheep shelter. The air was a little cooler but still stifling under the splintered roof, and after they smoked a cigarette apiece Craig pulled down his jeans, fumbled with the zipper on Donny’s cutoffs, and buried his face in the damp cotton of his jockeys.

Danny was motionless in his sleep, probably from years of sleeping in barracks and close quarters with other men. Donny looked at the alarm clock. Nearly twenty minutes had passed since lights out, but sleep was no closer. He closed his eyes and tried to clear his mind, thinking of sitting on a beach and watching the clouds, but nothing worked. He thought about getting up and taking a couple of aspirin; his mom had said that was what helped her.

He quietly got out of bed and went to the bathroom, closing the door behind him. He found the Bufferin and shook out a couple of pills, washing them down with a sip or two of water. He was halfway across the room when he heard the faint click of the guest room door opening. Soft footsteps padded down the hall to the other bathroom. Donny listened by the door. A little later he heard the toilet flush, then the footsteps went down the hall, but past the guest room. Donny opened the door a crack. The hall was dark, but the lights from the back came in through the sunroom and showed Tyler in silhouette standing by the couch. After a moment, the TV came on, the glow filling the room. The sound was instantly muted, and Tyler sat on the couch, the cushions wheezing slightly.

Donny made sure that he made a little noise as he came out of his room so as not to startle the boy. The TV went off, but Tyler did not move. “Couldn’t sleep?” he asked, his voice just above a whisper. Tyler shook his head. “Me neither.” He turned on the light on the end table. Tyler was wearing a t-shirt and jockey shorts. Donny sat on the other end of the couch, leaving an empty cushion between them. The only light in the room came from the lights in the yard coming in through the sunroom, leaving them in semi-darkness. Donny turned on the lamp to the lowest setting, and Tyler blinked several times.

“Where’s your brother?”

“Asleep.”

Tyler nodded. “So, does he know you’re gay?”

Donny looked sharply at the boy. Tyler’s expression was unchanged, but there was an edge to it, almost a smirk. “Yeah,” Donny replied cautiously, “of course.”

Tyler nodded. “Yeah, I kinda figured, you being twins and all.” He absently drew a line down his thigh with his index finger, then looked at Donny again. “’Course, I knew, too.”

Donny shrugged. “It’s no big secret. Not like I’m in the closet.”

Tyler shook his head and smirked. “Yeah, and I pretty much had you pegged when you showed up at Mike’s house for Thanksgiving, ‘cause we all know about him, too.” Donny glared at him, and Tyler held up his hand. “Hey, it’s cool. I mean…” Once again he drew his finger up his thigh, this time resting his hand on his crotch. He looked at Donny and grinned broadly. That said it all, and in an instant Donny got up from the couch and didn’t know where to go. He looked at Tyler again, who had now spread his legs, his hand on the pouch of his briefs, slowly massaging it. Donny paced over to the sliding patio door, staring intently through the glass out to the pool. “Eric told me you came on to him.”

“Yeah, he’s hot, isn’t he? Ever do him?”

“No,” replied, Donny, not turning around.

“You know how I got the money to come out here?”

“Danny said you saved up your birthday money and stuff.”

Tyler chuckled. “Yeah, that’s what I tell people. I earned it. You wanna know how I really got it?”

“Not really.”

“Guys pay to suck me off,” Tyler continued as if he hadn’t heard. “First time it happened I was in a store in the mall. I went into the GNC looking for vitamins and this guy was telling me what to take and stuff, and then he says he’s got some other stuff in the back room. So he takes me in there and says he’ll give me twenty bucks if he can do me. He was about your age; big like you. So I let him, and then he says he’s got some friends, and…” Tyler grinned slyly. “They’re all straight – so they say – but they like young dick.”

Donny did not move; he felt frozen in place. “Why are you telling me this?”

Tyler shifted a little on the couch, leaning back, stretching his body. “Well, I thought…”

“No way,” Donny said firmly.

Tyler sat up. “All right, that’s cool.”

For a moment Donny stared into the dim light of the lamp. Neither of them moved, and then Tyler got off the couch and started to go back to his room. Donny said, “Is that why you took off? Your parents found out?”

Tyler snorted. “Fuck no. If they knew…. No, I just had to get outta that place. I hate it there with all their church bullshit and holy rolling. They’re all so fuckin’ boring, and….” He leaned against the wall. “I just had to leave.”

“Are you gay?” Donny asked.

“What difference does that make?” He looked at Donny, his expression softening a little. “Straight or not, my folks’d kill me if they knew.”

“So why me? Why here? You didn’t think I’d call your folks the minute you showed up here?”

Tyler shrugged and blinked a couple of times. “I thought you’d know what I was going through. I thought you might…understand.”

For a moment Donny almost believed him, and then he smiled wanly and shook his head. “Nice try, kiddo. I’m not buying it. You probably thought you could sponge off me, maybe even try to blackmail me into not calling your folks because you would tell them that I tried to seduce you or something, and then… well, I don’t know what you’d try next, and neither do you. All you thought about was getting out here.” Tyler gave him a wicked grin, his expression completely devoid of his boyish innocence, and Donny had a flashback to his last encounter with Jeremy Dixon. “Tomorrow you’re getting on that plane, and you can sell your story to your folks. And to be perfectly honest, Ty, I don’t care if you tell them I fucked your brains out. They’ll know who to believe.”

Tyler gave him an icy scowl and went back to his room, slamming the door. Donny let out a long breath, and then went to the front door to make sure the alarm was set from the inside so that any opening of a door or window would set it off, just in case Tyler got the idea he could run away again. But the rest of the night passed in silence, and at six-thirty when Donny rapped on the guest room door, Tyler responded with a polite “Come in.” He was dressed in his TBCA t-shirt, clean jeans, and he had his parka out ready to put on when he got back to cold weather.

“Breakfast in a few,” Donny said curtly.

“Okay. Listen, sorry about last night.”

Donny shook his head. “Yeah, okay. Get your stuff out to the car. Traffic’s gonna be hell getting to the airport.”

The ride to the airport was silent, the morning rush hour slowing to a crawl in some places, but they got to the airport and parked with time to spare. Danny, in his blue Air Force uniform, hefted Tyler’s suitcase and strode ahead of them into the terminal. By the time they caught up with him, he was already at the ticket counter, and Donny saw him pull out his wallet with his military ID. The ticket agent was nodding, and then she pointed in the direction of the concourse. Danny stood up at attention for a second, said a curt “Thank you, ma’am,” and then led Donny and Tyler along the concourse to the security area.

“All right, here’s the deal. I convinced the airline to take Tyler as an unaccompanied minor, and I got permission for us to escort him to the gate and make sure he gets on the plane.” He showed Tyler his ticket and boarding pass. “Once you’re in Chicago, the airline will escort you to the connecting flight to Traverse City. Once you’re there, you’re in the hands of your parents. You got that?” Tyler nodded sullenly. “All right. Forward march.”

The ticket agent had contacted airport security, and once they showed their ID’s and Tyler’s boarding pass, they were passed through the metal detectors without any questions. When they got to the gate, Danny presented the boarding pass to the agent.

Donny had been watching Tyler the whole time. He looked tired and resigned to his fate, and as they waited for the boarding to begin, he slumped in his seat, his long legs sticking out into the aisle, tapping the toes of his large white basketball sneakers absent-mindedly.

The agent opened the boarding gate and Tyler got up. “Well,” he said softly, “I guess this is it.” He put out his hand to Donny. “Thanks. I’m…sorry. I didn’t mean…”

“Tell it to your parents,” Donny interrupted. “They’re the ones you need to talk to.”

Tyler shuddered a little, then shuffled to the gate.

“Good luck,” said Danny.

Tyler lifted his hand in a half-hearted wave and gave his ticket to the agent. Another agent, a tall man with a serious expression, escorted Tyler down the jet bridge, and the last Donny saw of him was as he gave a quick glance and a grin back at him as he made the turn to get on the plane.

They waited until the door was closed and the jet bridge was pulled back.

“Good luck, kid,” Danny repeated. “You’re gonna need it.”

Danny dropped Donny off at the office, telling him to call him when he was ready to be picked up. Donny called Dr. Herlinger and told him what flights Tyler was on. After he hung up he thought about telling Marc about Tyler, but Marc was buried in getting ready for year-end, and Donny had enough work to occupy him. It wasn’t until he took a quick lunch break with Eric at two that he thought of Tyler again, and only because Eric asked him if he’d gotten him to the airport.

Donny called Danny at six, telling him to come get him, and they had cold roast beef leftovers for dinner. They were finishing off the last of the pie when the phone rang.

“Hello?”

“Don? It’s Clark Herlinger.”

“Oh, hi,” Donny replied, looking at his watch. It was almost eight-thirty; plenty of time for Tyler to have gotten home. “Tyler get there okay?”

“Well, that’s why I’m calling,” Clark replied, his voice sounding tight and on the verge of panic. “What flight did you say he was supposed to be on?”

Scenes from the Play

2008-03-03T06:56:00.019-05:00

I received over 300 photos of the Manhattan Repertory Theatre's production of Can't Live Without You in January and February. Here are just a few of them.

The cast of characters:

Will Poston as Bobby and Tom Pilutik as Donny

Gary Mahmoud as Nick and Rachel Charlop-Powers as Anna

Mary Fassino as Barbara

Moments:

Barbara tells Donny he can make a fortune by turning his romance novels into movies.

Bobby asks Donny how he can write "romance literature" and leave him in the bottom of the desk drawer.

Nick shares his pride and joy with Anna.

"Lance" and "Miranda" live out the fantasy of romance novel readers everywhere.

Bobby forces Donny to come to terms with his true self as a writer.

"I can't live without you."

Donny gets back to work on Small Town Boys

Donny tells Anna about his choice and their future.

Anna looks for a happy ending...

...and makes her choice.

Bobby Cramer ponders his future.

Photos by Tamas Szalczer and Web Begole.

Small Town Boys - Chapter 50

2008-02-03T17:27:00.000-05:00

Chapter Guide

Christmas Presence

“Trish Owens on Line 1.”

Donny picked up the phone, holding up his hand to Rudy, who was in the middle of explaining why all the security protocols in Pelican would have to be rewritten. It was a little after ten the next morning.

“Nice to finally talk to you. Lunch?”

“It’ll have to be quick,” he replied.

“I’ll brown-bag something. See you around noon.”

Trish’s idea of “brown-bagging” turned out to be avocado and bean sprout sandwiches on whole wheat bread, a side of cole slaw each, and bottles of Orangina from the local natural foods store. They sat at Donny’s conference table, shoving aside the stacks of papers and binders. By the time Donny had finished his first half of his sandwich he had told her about his meetings with Eric and Gina.

“Christ,” Trish said, wiping her hands on one of the brown-paper napkins from the bag, “this is what you get for going out of town for a week. Do you ever check your cell phone for messages?”

“What?”

Trish held out her hand. “Gimme your cell phone.” Donny handed it to her. She glanced at it and pushed a few buttons. “What’s your password?”

“1-9-7-0”

She keyed it in. A tinny little voice said, “You have four new messages. To listen to your messages, press 7.” Trish played them back; they were all from her, all increasing in urgency, asking him to call her. She erased them, handed the phone back to Donny, and glared at him. “For someone who works in the computer business, you’re a fucking idiot.”

“I don’t get it. When did you call?”

“The day after Thanksgiving, then the next day and the next. I thought you were avoiding me. See that little envelope icon? That means ‘you’ve got mail.’” Donny looked at the little screen on the cell phone. He had never paid attention to it before. “I set the ringer so that it goes off when you get a message.” She shook her head.

“So why were you calling me?”

“Because I was trying to tell you that I am the producer of Small Town Boys.”

While Donny gaped at her, she explained that Jack had wanted to appoint one of this regular producers to oversee the project, but they were either all too busy with other things or weren’t interested. Trish had volunteered, and over the last two weeks she had secured commitments from several other backers and had begun laying the groundwork with a studio and several casting directors. “I’ve been doing this out of Jack’s office, but it’s all the way downtown. I’ve been thinking about renting a small space closer to home.” She looked at him and raised an eyebrow.

“Here?” Donny said. “We don’t have any empty spaces, and besides, I don’t think it’d be all that good an idea to mix my moonlighting with my real job.”

Trish shrugged. “Well, then, how about that little office you’ve set up in your house? All I need is a desk and a phone, and besides, you could probably write it off on your taxes as a business expense. And it’s perfectly located; it’s half-way between my place and downtown and I don’t have to fight the traffic. Oh, and the production company will pay rent, too. So you actually will make something off it besides what you’ll be making as the executive producer.”

“Is this how it works?”

“Are you kidding? Some of the best movies in Hollywood have been produced out of someone’s empty bedroom. Oh, we need to come up with a name.”

“A name?”

“For the production company.”

“I thought it was Magahee Associates.”

Trish shook her head. “No, Jack’s company never appears on the production credits. Every project gets set up as a corporation for the purposes of making the project. That makes it separate from the main corporation and shields them – and you – from personal liability. That way if anyone sues you, you’re not personally on the hook. Once the production is finished, the corporation is liquidated. That’s why you see all those cute little names at the end of a TV show or the beginning of a movie; ‘Birdbath Productions,’ or ‘The Samantha Corporation,’ named after the executive producer’s kid or their cat. So whaddaya want to call it?”

Donny shrugged. “You can call it ‘Old Potato Productions,’ for all I care.”

Trish chuckled. “I think we can do better than that.” She finished her sandwich. “Well, okay, then. I’ll call the phone company and get a line set up, and I’ll stop by your place after work and drop some stuff off.”

“I’m probably going to be working late, and then I’m going to the gym. But Mike’ll be there.”

Trish’s eyes widened. “Mike’s living with you?”

“Just until his condo’s ready. Then Danny’ll be back for Christmas in a couple of weeks.”

“Your brother in the Air Force?”

“Yeah. He’s got a little leave; gonna come in and pick up his Jeep.” Trish started to gather up the remains of the lunch. “So,” Donny asked, “if you’re doing all the producing work and hiring all the people, what exactly is my job as executive producer?”

“Well, you’ll see. It’s more like an honorary position, but you do have some power; f’r instance, you can fire people. Of course, you won’t do that unless we – the rest of the producers and the director and everybody else – think you should. But you’re the one who gets to do it. And you’ll make a lot of money.” She hitched her purse over her shoulder and grinned. “Not to worry, Donny. We’ll go over it all.” She held out her hand. Donny, unsure what she meant, shook it tentatively. Trish laughed. “Okay, if that means we’re formally in business, fine, but what I really need is the spare key to the house and the alarm code.”

Donny went back to work, and it wasn’t until he was pulling in the driveway after going to the gym that he remembered his lunch with Trish; her car and another behind it were parked out front. It was a little after eight, long past sunset, and the Christmas lights on the house down the street were lit. Even after all this time, it still seemed funny to him to see twinkling lights in a palm tree. Mike’s Range Rover was not there.

A long phone extension cord ran from the table in the living room into the office, and Trish was on the phone. Another woman was with her, standing next to the desk and writing things down on a pad. Trish nodded at him and ended the call. “Hi honey, how was work?” she said with a giggle. Donny played along. “Fine; where’s my dinner?” he replied, and they all laughed. Trish introduced him to Wanda. “She’s on loan from Jack. She’s going to be the production associate, which means she will be the one who really does all the work around here.” They shook hands. Wanda was an attractive Latina with large brown eyes, a nice smile, and as they exchanged pleasantries, Donny learned that she had worked for some very big names in the industry. He was impressed that she would take a job on such a small production, and said so.

Wanda smiled and nodded. “There are no small productions; just short pay.”

Trish got up from the desk. “The phone company will be here tomorrow to install the two extra lines, and we’re having another desk and stuff sent over from Jack’s so Wanda will have a place to work.” She pointed at the empty corner. “Should fit there, don’t you think?”

“You got the phone company to come tomorrow?” said Donny with amazement. “It took us a week to get them to set up an appointment for us.”

Wanda smiled knowingly. “I know people,” she said.

Trish nodded. “She does. Anyway, we’re off to take care of some stuff, but we’ll be back first thing in the morning. What time do you leave for the office?”

“’Round seven-thirty,” Donny said. “Say, has Mike shown up?”

“No, but he called about ten minutes ago,” Trish said. “Kinda surprised him when I answered. He said he was going out to meet with some people and wouldn’t be home ‘til late. Hope you don’t mind me answering, but I was expecting a call.”

Donny shrugged.

“Oh, and just so you know, I’m meeting with Aaron tomorrow to interview some writers. Be nice if you could join us.”

“Writers?”

“Yeah. Just to polish up your script and make it film-ready, and besides, if it becomes a series, you can’t be expected to write every episode.”

“When?”

“I’ll let you know.”

“It’ll have to be after work and after the gym if you want me there.”

Mike came home around ten. Donny was already in bed, on the verge of sleep, when he heard the back door open and Mike’s “whoops” as he caught his foot on the phone cord. Donny opened his bedroom door and blinked in the bright light in the hall.

“Hey,” said Mike. He looked a little glassy-eyed but not falling-down drunk. “So what’s up with…?” He indicated the office.

“Trish is setting up a production office here. She’s the real producer for the project.”

“Cool,” Mike murmured. “Makes it easy for you, doesn’t it?”

“Yeah, since I’m ass-deep at work.”

“Hope she’s better than the idiot Paul hired for Back Home Again. Which, by the way, will be on in two weeks.”

“Yeah, I know.”

“There’s talk of making it a series if it does well. Jason’s really pushing that.”

“Would you do it?”

“Sure, why not?”

“Well, I thought you were tired of ‘that shit.’”

“Work’s work.” Mike turned on the light in the guest room and clumsily kicked off his shoes.

“So, how’s it going?” Donny ventured. He really hadn’t spoken much to Mike in the last couple of days.

“’S’kay. Lotsa stuff out there, all I gotta do is … y’know….” He tugged off his shirt and tossed it on the bed. “Meeting tomorrow with some more people. Casting directors and shit. By the way, haven’t heard from your people yet.”

“I’ll tell Trish.”

Mike undid his belt and carefully pulled off his pants. “By the way,” he said again, “when does Danny get here?”

“Right before Christmas; why?”

“Just want to know when I need to get outta here. If there’s nothing shakin’ after Back Home Again goes on, I might just take off for Idyll-weird and stay there.” He waved at the bed. “Unless you get another bed in here, ‘cause much as it would be fun, I don’t think Danny’ll want to sleep with me.”

“No, I don’t think you’d be his first choice,” Donny replied. “Well, you’re welcome to stay here as long as you like.” He looked at Mike, standing there in his underwear, and in spite of his slightly inebriated state, his tousled hair, and the fact that he might be hiring him to work on his project, he felt the warmth growing in his chest, leading down to his groin. “G’night,” he said and went back to his room. “G’night,” Mike replied distantly.

*

Donny’s days at work became twelve to fourteen hours long, and Friday, the day of the board meeting, he left the house at six-thirty to help collate the preliminary presentation on Starship Enterprise, finally wrapping it up at ten-thirty that night. Other than the little reminders of something else going on in his house when he was gone – a Dunkin Donuts bag in the trash in the kitchen, the door to the office slightly ajar – it was like there was nothing else going on except dizzying long hours working with Rudy, Eric, Ellie, and the three new “code talkers,” as Eric called them. Donny barely remembered their names; they spent all their days in the war room with Steve and Brany. Marc spent most of the days working on the finances element with Cathy. Donny hardly had a chance to even say hello to him, and the brief “look, um…” was forgotten.

The only pause came on the Saturday night before Back Home Again was shown. Paul had gotten a video of it and invited Donny, Eric, Mike, Aaron, and some other people – twenty in all – to watch it on his big-screen TV. Cocktails and snacks were served in the living room, and Donny garnered some attention as the executive producer of, as someone called it, “the next big thing.”

Paul herded them into the little theatre and dimmed the lights. The score, a solo piano variation on “Simple Gifts” and “Back Home Again in Indiana,” led to an establishing shot of a bucolic view of a farm and a wheat field, and the title, in simple script, faded in. The audience applauded politely, and since Jeremy Dixon was not there, when his name appeared in the credits, someone in the room chuckled ruefully. Donny couldn’t see who it was. When the writing credits rolled, it said “Screenplay by Aaron White,” which got a smattering of applause, as did the producing credit for “Eric McKay.” He was sitting next to Donny, and he whispered, “I’d like to thank the Academy….”

Donny watched the film with a new-found critical eye, having read the script as it was being filmed. It was pretty much as he remembered it, but Aaron, who was sitting behind him, kept whispering to himself and scratching notes on a copy of the script. At one point both Jeremy and Mike appeared shirtless as they baled hay with their father, their muscles highlighted by the sweat and dirt, and this got an appreciative murmur from the audience. Mike, who was sitting next to Donny, chuckled self-consciously and slumped a little in his seat.

As the final credits rolled over the freeze-frame of the brothers hugging each other in the “snow” in front of the family home at Christmas, the audience applauded long and loudly. Paul stood up and beckoned to Mike, Aaron, and Milo to come forward and take their bows, and they did, Aaron nearly tripping over his feet as he walked down the aisle. The audience rose to their feet and gave them a standing ovation.

As they were getting ready to leave, Aaron came up to Donny and nervously plucked at his sleeve. “I’ve, uh, I’ve been talking to, uh, Trish, and she wants me to meet with you as soon as possible. About the writer.”

“Okay,” replied Donny. “I’m really in the weeds at the office, but I think lunch or something sometime.”

“We’ll call you,” replied Aaron, adjusting his glasses.

“Hey, good job on this,” said Donny, nodding at the theatre. “Turned out great.”

Aaron shrugged. “Oh, well, you know… good people and all that.”

Donny looked around to see if anyone was in earshot. “And you were right about Mike,” he said quietly. “He blew Jeremy off the screen, so to speak.”

Aaron nodded tightly. “Right. Is he going to be in yours?”

“Don’t know yet. The casting people haven’t gotten back to us,” he replied, slipping into the plural and suddenly conscious of it. “We should know in a couple of days. Trish’ll let you know, I guess.”

Aaron nodded again. “You’ll like the writer I’m lining up.”

“Tell me again why you’re not working on it?”

Aaron gulped and smiled mechanically. “Well, I don’t really have a whole lot of insight to the kind of things… the world… you’re writing about. I suppose I could, y’know, fake it, but I think what it needs is… well, the real touch, that’s all.”

“You didn’t know a whole hell of a lot about growing up on a farm in Indiana, either.”

Aaron nodded as if he hadn’t heard that and went to get his coat.

Mike came over to Donny. “Hey, you think you can snag a ride with Donny or someone? I’m gonna hang out here for a while, y’know… touch base.” He nodded in the direction of Paul and some of the other producers.

“Sure, no prob,” Donny replied.

It wasn’t too far out of the way for Eric to drop him off and then head back to Greg’s. “That was pretty good,” said Eric, talking about the movie. “So, is Mike gonna be in your project?”

“Don’t know yet. He might be.”

“So that’s why he’s sleeping in the guest room?”

Donny looked at Eric, who was grinning broadly. “That was subtle,” he deadpanned.

“Well, hell, Donny, I figure the only reason you’re not sleeping with him is because he might end up working for you. Make things awkward, y’know, in case you have to fire him or something.”

“That’s not it.” Or was it? Donny wondered to himself.

“I just wondered, ‘cause, y’know, you flew across country at the drop of a hat and then drove all the way back with him.” They came to red light and Eric looked at him. “C’mon, Donny, what’s up with you two?”

“What’s it to you?” he replied genially.

Eric tapped his thumbs on the wheel. “Well, maybe I want to invest in your little project, too. Maybe I want to be sure that I’m not betting on a bad deal.” The light changed. “And maybe I just want to know if you’re getting laid on a regular basis.”

“You serious?”

“About which, the investing or getting laid?”

“Investing, you horn dog.”

“Yeah, I might be. That Magahee guy called me while you were out of town, told me to talk to you or Trish about it. She’s, what, the producer now?”

“Yeah. She’s also Jack’s niece.”

Eric chuckled. “Damn, this town. Fucking incestuous.”

“So you think you will?”

“I might buy a share or two. Bart Blumberg called the other day about something else and managed to let me know that Jim McGruder was going in on it. But you knew that, right?”

“Right,” replied Donny. He made a mental note to ask Trish the names of all the investors.

They got to Donny’s house a little before eleven. They went out to the pool and Eric pulled a small joint out of his pocket. The pot smelled good in the cool night air. “So,” Eric said as he took a short toke, “tell me about your trip.”

Donny told him everything, even down to describing what they had for dinner at the Mexican restaurant in Perrysburg, and Eric listened attentively. When he was done, he lit a cigarette, the tobacco a harsh taste compared to Sky’s golden leaf.

“Wow,” said Eric. “His dad, your dad, Scott…. Hell of a week.”

“Yep.”

“So, you think you’ve got his dad’s blessing to marry him?”

Donny snorted a little. “Naw. Just be his friend …”

They lapsed into silence. Finally Eric said, “You love him, though, don’tcha?”

Donny thought for a while. “Guess so.”

Eric nodded. “That’s good. We all need that.”

“What about you?”

“Me?”

“Yeah, Eric, you. You need somebody to love.”

Eric smirked. “Thank you, Jefferson Airplane.”

“I mean it.”

“I’m good. I got my…”

“Your what?”

He held up his hand. Donny snorted. “Not good enough.”

Eric leaned back in his chair and stared up into the night sky. “Yeah, well, until we get this ERP thing launched and until you get your…”

“My what?”

“…movie done, I guess neither of us is gonna get any action.” He slowly sat up. “Okay, I’m tired, so…I guess I’d better get going.”

“You okay to drive?”

“Oh, sure. I had one drink at Paul’s and a joint here. I’m fine.”

They walked together slowly out to the garage door, and in the darkness Eric gave Donny a hug, lightly brushing his groin against his thigh. It was hard. Eric grinned a little, waved, got in his Suburban, and was gone before Donny had the door closed.

Mike came home a little after midnight and was gone the next morning before Donny got up, leaving a note that said “Breakfast mtg w/ Jason C-ya.” The entertainment section of the Sunday Times had a picture and a blurb about Back Home Again, and the pre-review called it a “potential holiday classic.”

*

That was the last weekend of relative calm. Donny hardly saw Mike the next week. Back Home Again had won the time slot and Jason was sending him a ton of scripts, so he was out at casting interviews and meetings nearly every day. Donny hardly noticed, though; the war room became his second home, and he got used to getting up in the dark and coming home after ten. He remembered ruefully the cold January mornings working for Frank where he would be driving across the frozen fields to a jobsite, the heater in his truck droning at full blast, the radio weatherman cheerfully talking about highs in the mid-twenties and snow flurries. At least, he thought, here in California it’s warmer than that in the pre-dawn darkness.

It was suddenly Friday, December 23. Danny’s plane arrived at noon, the holiday rush traffic clogging the approach to the arrivals level so that Donny had to wave and honk at his brother who was standing at nearly attention next to the Super Shuttle with his green duffel bag at his feet.

He had gotten his hair cut very short and it looked as if he had bulked up, his shoulders bulging out of his dark blue sweater. They hugged each other powerfully, then Donny tossed the duffel into the way-back.

“Damn, you’re almost as big as me,” Donny said, admiring his brother’s arms.

“Whaddaya mean, almost? I’m benchin’ 225 now.”

Donny grinned. “Two-forty.”

“Shit. I’ll catch up.”

They went back to the office and everyone came out to greet Danny; Ellie gave him a lingering hug, which Donny noticed with interest. Marc shook his hand and smiled, asking how things were going, and Danny nodded and said things were good. He was introduced to the new people, including Rudy, who seemed fascinated by the idea of identical twins; Donny noticed that he was looking closely at each of them in turn as if he was trying to discern the difference between them on a molecular level.

They had arrived just in time for the informal potluck that Irene, Lily and Cathy had put together, and for the first time in three weeks they all sat together and listened to music, ate, and talked about nothing that had anything to do with work. Danny deflected all questions about his duty with a modest “just your average duty assignments for a junior grade Air Force officer,” and let it go at that.

They closed the office early, everybody lugging leftovers out to their cars. Donny asked Marc when he was going to Santa Barbara with the intention of inviting him for dinner that night, but Marc said he was leaving that afternoon, but thanks. “I’ll call you when I get back on Tuesday,” he said. “Good to see you, Dan.”

“You too,” Danny replied. After Marc had left Donny’s office, he said, “What’s up with him? He’s barely said two words since I got here. Still freaked about Jeremy?”

Donny shook his head. “Nah, I don’t think so. We’ve been slammed since this whole Starship Enterprise thing started, and most of it’s on him. And me.”

“Huh. Come up with a better name than ‘Starship Enterprise’ yet?”

“Nope. Nominations are still being accepted, and the winner gets a free ham.” Eric rapped on the door jamb. “We still on for twins day out on Monday?”

“Sure. Whatcha got planned?”

“Beach if it’s nice, wing it if it’s not,” Eric replied breezily. “I’ll call you. Good to see you, Dan.”

“You too.”

Donny was going through his mail. He came across a handwritten card-sized envelope. The return address was a post office box in Maple City. He slit it open. Inside was a Hallmark Christmas card with the nativity scene from, a folded note, and several photographs. It was from Tyler.

Dear Don: Thanks for the advice on weightlifting. I’ve started the program you showed me and it’s helping. Here are some pics of me. Merry Christmas see you soon, Your friend, Tyler.

The pictures were Polaroids of Tyler, trying to strike a muscle-flexing pose. He was standing in front of what appeared to be a bookshelf in his wood-paneled bedroom, his shirt off, his long basketball shorts hanging on his narrow hips, the cuffs below his knees, the flash washing out his skin to a pale pink with little contrast and giving him a bad case of red-eye. He was awkwardly flexing his right biceps, making little more than a slight swelling, his fist balled up like a knot, the hair in his armpit barely more than light fuzz. The other picture was from a slightly different angle, trying to pump up his chest, his eyes looking away from the camera, a study in adolescent awkwardness. Donny showed them to his twin.

“This the kid you told me about? What is he, fifteen?”

“Something like that.”

“Gotta start somewhere.”

“Were we ever that scrawny?” Donny asked.

“You were, twin. Not me.”

They drove home, the traffic thick with last-minute shoppers. Mike’s truck was in the driveway. The reunion was quick; Jason had gotten Mike an interview with the casting director for the Emmerich/Devlin sci-fi movie as a last-minute replacement for one of the second-tier stars playing an Air Force officer, and he was in Palm Springs for the holidays. “So, I’m heading out there right now,” he said as he stuffed his suitcase. “Perfect timing for you, Dan; you get the bedroom all to yourself.”

“For once,” Danny replied. “If you get the part, let me know and I’ll tell you what the script got wrong.”

“It’s a deal.” He zipped up his bag. “Well, I’ll see ya.”

“Where are you spending Christmas?” Donny asked.

Mike smirked. “At the Villa. I hear they have a hell of a Christmas buffet.”

Donny handed him a small package. “Merry Christmas.”

Mike hugged him. “Yours is on the couch, since you didn’t bother to set up a tree or anything.”

Donny shrugged. “What’s the point? It’s not like when we were kids and my mom and dad went completely nuts over the holidays, putting up wreaths and lights and roping and making Toledo Edison rich.”

Donny showed Danny the office, the two desks side by side, the floor stacked neatly with cardboard boxes serving as makeshift filing cabinets. Trish and Wanda had left before they had gotten home, but there was a stack of resumes and headshots that bore a pink Post-It that said “Plz revue thx T.O. Merry Xmas See you Tue.” “Hooray for Hollywood,” Danny said.

They spent Christmas Eve day getting the Jeep running, changing the oil and rotating the tires, going to the gym, and relaxing by the pool. Donny started to ask his brother what he was doing now, but Danny held up his hand and said, “Twin, I can’t talk about it, and I have to report any questions anyone asks me about it, so get me another beer and shut up.”

They had Christmas Eve dinner with their Aunt Barbara and Uncle Ron in Whittier, and Ron, who had served in the Navy, knew what Danny was talking about when he said he was under strict orders. “Say no more.” They called their parents on the speakerphone in the den before it got too late, their voices sounding hollow and tinny.

Christmas Day was quiet. They slept in, opened their presents, taking turns in the family tradition. Donny got Danny a portable CD player that would fit in his BOQ bookshelf and a laptop computer. “You can get e-mail,” Donny said. “I called Colonel Brownwen, your old commanding officer, and checked.”

Danny handed his brother a small box. “Not a computer or even a microchip.” Donny opened it. It was a signet ring with DFH on it. Inside it was inscribed Together Forever. “Yeah,” shrugged Danny, “it’s corny, but it fits. You shoulda seen the look the jeweler gave me when I told him what to put on it. I had to show him our picture to reassure him that he wasn’t asking and I wasn’t telling.” The ring fit perfectly. “Well, it should. I had ‘em size it to my Academy ring.” Danny glanced at his new stereo and laptop, “Look, I know…” but Donny cut him off, knowing what he was going to say.

“Forget it,” he said, looking at the ring. “Based on our comparative incomes, you spent more than I did.” He hugged his twin tightly, tears prickling his eyes.

Their parents called at ten, and the twins assured them that the shirts and sweaters fit fine and thanks again for the traditional stocking-stuffers – candies, little toys, and funny pictures – had arrived safely. They thanked him for the dozen grapefruit and the avocados, and said they were going to have a great feast that night.

Donny had planned to make a roast for their Christmas dinner; it was easy to do and he could watch the football game that afternoon while it cooked. He was in the kitchen getting it ready when the phone rang. He grabbed it, thinking it was his mom calling about something she’d forgotten to say. “H’lo,” he said tersely.

“Uh, is this Don? Don Hollenbeck?” said a young voice.

“Yeah, who’s this?”

“Ty. Tyler Herlinger. From Thanksgiving…?”

“Oh, yeah, hi. Hey, thanks for your card.”

“Sure. Um, merry Christmas.” Tyler’s voice sounded hollow and distant, and there was a lot of background noise, like he was calling from a shopping mall.

“Same to you. How’s things up there in Michigan?”

“Um, okay, I guess. But… I’m not there.”

“No? Where are you?”

“At the airport.”

“The airport? Which one?”

“The one here. In Los Angeles.”

“Oh, you and your folks out here for Christmas?”

“Uh, no. I…I’m here by myself.”

“Yourself?”

“Yeah.” There was a long pause, and then Tyler said, “I ran away.”

Small Town Boys - Chapter 49

2008-01-09T19:17:00.000-05:00

Chapter Guide

The Next Big Thing

Eleven and a half hours after leaving the Gateway, Donny pulled into his driveway. He had driven all the way from Needles and Mike had been asleep since Barstow. Donny nudged him. “We’re home.”

Art, the neighbor from across the street, had collected his mail and put it in a bundle inside the screen door; it was mostly bills and grocery coupons. The light on the phone machine was blinking. There were four messages; three hang-ups and one from Trish. “Donny, it’s Trish. Call me when you get back. Bye.” He dialed her number, got her machine, and said, “It’s Donny. Phone tag, and you’re it.”

They ordered a pizza and went to bed, Mike taking the guest room. The next morning he left before seven to meet with Jason. “I’ll call you this afternoon,” he said as he gave Donny a quick hug. “Thanks for everything.”

“No problem.”

“I mean it. It was… really sweet of you.”

“Any time. You spending tonight here?”

“If I can. The condo might not be ready yet.”

“Sure. See you after work, then.”

“Just like old times.”

“Yeah.”

Donny got to the office before anyone else. Lily had piled the mail on his desk; mostly applications for the warehouse job. He went through them quickly, sorting the possibilities from the no-chances until he heard a knock on the door. It was Marc.

“Hey,” he said, “how was it?”

“Had a good time.”

“How’s Mike?”

“Fine. Meeting with his agent as we speak.”

They went to the break room and waited for the coffee maker to finish. Marc looked like he’d gotten some sun and he’d gotten his hair cut practically down to a crew cut. He looked preoccupied, so Donny asked, “So how was your holiday?”

“Nothing special,” Marc said as he rinsed out his mug. “Mom had some friends over, I hung out with some of them, and…oh, yeah, I took Monday as a personal day ‘cause I decided not to fight the Sunday night traffic. Slip’s on your desk.”

“Okay,” Donny replied, catching a hint of something forced in Marc’s voice. “I’ll find it under all the rest of the crap that’s piled up.” He sipped his coffee. “So, I got a call from Eric the other night. What’s goin’ on?”

Marc put a finger over his lips. “I’m sworn to secrecy, and even what he’s told me doesn’t tell me a lot. We’ll find out soon enough, I guess, at the pep rally.”

That was what Greg was calling this year’s annual staff get-together. Eric had driven down with the staff from Palo Alto on Monday and put them up at a nearby hotel. The annual party for the whole company, including wives and children, was going to be held there, and then the board meeting would be held on Friday.

Marc poured his coffee slowly, then looked at Donny. “Look, um…” he said, but before he could say anything more, Margaret came in with a watering can. She said good morning, asked Donny about his trip and told them about her weekend with relatives, all while she bustled around filling the watering can with plant food and pouring a cup of coffee. Donny looked at Marc at one point during all of this; he was grinning tightly and sipping his coffee. The rest of the office staff drifted in and Donny went back to his office where Lily presented him with a stack of phone slips. Two were from Gina, and one was from Trish.

A moment later Eric and Greg came in together. Eric strode into Donny’s office, full of energy and grinning like he’d just won the lottery. He clapped him on the shoulder. “Donny! Great to see you! How was Michigan?”

“Good,” Donny, almost laughing himself.

“Great. Listen, we gotta talk. I’ll call you in a few.”

“Talk about what?”

Eric grinned broadly. “You’ll see.”

“Sure…” He was going to ask more, but Eric was already gone. He could hear him talking excitedly to someone in the hall, then his door closed.

He spent the next twenty minutes returning phone calls. He put the notes from Gina and Trish aside, deciding that he would call them back over lunch or after work. He was down to the last three when the intercom buzzed. “C’mon in,” said Eric, hanging up before Donny could reply. He went into Eric’s office. “Close the door,” Eric said.

Fifteen minutes later Eric opened the door and Donny went back to his desk. He stared out the window for a good five minutes before Lily buzzed him and said the meeting was starting.

The whole software development team was gathered in the war room. Sky, in his trademark Hawaiian shirt, looked a little greyer, but the life in Palo Alto obviously agreed with him; he’d lost some weight and even added a little muscle. Brany, who was in the last weeks of his doctoral program, looked like he hadn’t slept for a while, but he was smiling and sipping coffee as if coming into the office actually was a break for him. Steve and Diego were hunched over a notepad and discussing something in geekspeak, and Ellie, who had just returned from two weeks of training in Seattle, came over to Donny and asked him if Danny was coming to L.A. for Christmas. “Last I heard, yeah,” he told her, and wondered to himself why she cared.

Eric rapped on the table. “Where’s Rudy?”

Diego looked puzzled. “Last I saw he was having breakfast at the hotel. He said he’d get a cab and come by himself.”

Sky chuckled. “Good luck. You know how directionally challenged he is.”

Eric shook his head. “I shoulda picked him up myself.” He grabbed a phone and dialed a number but before it rang through the door opened and Rudy came in, looking a little flustered but trying not to look it.

It was the first time Donny had seen him, but Eric’s one-time description wasn’t far off: “Spock – the Teenage Years.” He was tall and thin with a bowl-like haircut, wispy pointed sideburns, a sharp nose, and prominent ears. He was dressed in a plain black suit with a plain white shirt underneath and a grey tie. His fingers were long and thin, and he moved slowly and deliberately, taking a seat at the end of the table. He opened a portfolio and took a pen out of his coat pocket, examining it carefully before setting it down on the pad and folding his hands in front of him. His face was expressionless as he looked around the room, his dark eyes taking everyone in as Eric introduced him. His eyes rested on Donny for a moment, and he returned the look with a nod. Rudy nodded back, and looked away.

Eric grinned a little and said, “Okay, so…here’s the plan.”

*

“Three months,” repeated Donny, sipping his beer.

“That’s the plan,” said Eric. “First week of April we finish it up here, smoke test it, and then on June 1 we make the presentation, seal the deal and….” he shrugged blithely, “we’re off on a whole new adventure.”

They were sitting on his patio, the remains of take-out from the Great Wall scattered about. “You sound so fucking sure of yourself,” Donny muttered. He ran his eyes over the thick binder that was on the table. Inside it was the specifications, schematics, and overview of what had been tentatively dubbed the Starship Enterprise. It was, as Rudy had so calmly pronounced it, perhaps the most ambitious undertaking that a software company could propose. Or, as Greg had called it, the biggest gamble since Lady Godiva put everything she had on one horse.

Starship Enterprise was McKay-Gemini’s first attempt at enterprise resource planning. It meant that all aspects of a customer’s operations would be channeled through one software package, combining everything from personnel, inventory, finances and accounting, supply chain, sales, customer service, even building operations and maintenance.

“This is everything we’ve been working for, Donny, for the last three years. This is what we do. And you can do it. I have no doubts at all.”

Donny snorted genially. He thought back to the meeting in Eric’s office that morning. After the door had closed, Eric had uncharacteristically come right to the point. He had tossed the binder on his desk and said, “Did I ever tell you about Gordie Harwell?”

“No, who’s he?”

“Guy I went to college with. He was a grad student, actually. Smart as hell. He’s now the head of the computer systems for a school district in Colorado. He’s been using Pelican since the day we launched it to run their business office, and now he wants us to come up with an ERP system to run the entire school district.”

Donny had picked up the binder and leafed through it. “How big is it?”

“Around a thousand students in three schools and a central administration, plus the usual stuff like food service, transportation, and maintenance. Not a lot bigger than some of the companies we’ve set up and linked up over the last year or so. But this will be everything, not just inventory or finance. Everything, Donny. We’re gonna integrate it all.” He paused for a moment. “And we need someone to run it.”

“Okay,” Donny had said, “I’ll get on the horn to Brickner and see if they can head-hunt us someone with that kind of experience.”

Eric had laughed. “Forget it. We’ve already got the guy.”

“Who?”

“You.”

It was at that point that Eric’s phone rang and Donny had gone back to his office to stare out the window until the meeting began.

It had lasted all day. Lily had ordered in sandwiches and they never left except for quick trips to the bathroom. Marc had come in for a couple of hours of intense discussion about the financial program. Donny had glanced at him occasionally, wondering what his “look, um” that morning in the break room was leading up to, but Marc was all business, and when he was done he left the room without any extraneous comments or looks to anyone else in the room. The meeting broke up after the secretaries had left and the cleaning crew was going around picking up the trash. Eric had come by Donny’s office. It was already dark outside.

“So, you wanna grab a bite and…?”

“And…see what my answer is?”

“Well, no, but…yeah.”

Donny flipped through the new phone messages that had piled up during the day. “I was thinking about going to the gym; I haven’t been in like a week and I’m feeling like I’m getting outta shape. ‘Sides, aren’t you supposed to go with the gang and have dinner at the hotel?”

Eric laughed scornfully. “I’ve spent the last six month with them, plus last night and all day today. I haven’t seen you since Santa Barbara. So how about I pick up some Great Wall and meet you at your place when you’re done slammin’ the grams?”

“Sure,” he had replied, and looked at the three new messages from Gina. He did not return them.

Donny finished his beer. The soreness from working out was beginning to creep into his arms and legs and he grunted slightly as he got up to clear the table. He had gone straight to the gym from the office and mercilessly piled on the weights as if the sweat and the strain could block out the dizzying array of flowcharts and pages of code that he and the rest of the team had spent all afternoon deciphering and sometimes arguing over.

Eric followed him in to the kitchen. “Y’know, we’re gonna need to hire some more people, including someone to replace you in HR. And fast; we need to get this going like yesterday.”

“Do you want me to move to Palo Alto?”

“Nah. In fact, I’m thinking about coming back here and leaving just the sales people up there. Sky doesn’t care where he lives and Rudy wouldn’t know the difference.” Eric sat on the edge of the kitchen table. “Y’know, you still haven’t answered the question.”

Donny noisily dumped the cartons and beer bottles into the trash. “You mean, will I do it?”

“Yeah.”

“Do you have to ask?”

“Apparently,” Eric replied with a note of frustration. “So far all you’ve done is ask if you’d have to move and stuff like that. I haven’t heard you say, ‘Wow, this is a really great chance for my company to make a name for itself among the big boys and – oh by the way – I’m gonna get a huge promotion and make a shitload of money doing it.’”

“Do you really think that’s gonna happen?”

Eric looked at him intently. “Yeah, Donny, I do. I believe in what we’re doing and I believe in the people I work with. I really think that if we make this work, this is it. We’re gonna be the ones. And you’re the natural choice to run it, too.” Eric counted off on his fingers. “You’ve worked in every department, you know how the company works, you know how to write the code, and most of all, we all trust you.”

A car pulled into the driveway. It was Mike. Donny let him in the back door, and he smiled when he saw Eric. They gave each other quick hugs, and Donny noticed that both of them looked at him as they exchanged greetings.

“So, you got the place?”

“Oh, yeah,” said Mike. “Jason’s got me this really nice place, completely furnished right down to the cereal in the cupboard in the kitchen. All I gotta do is hang up my clothes. Except there was a screw-up on the timing and the people in there won’t be out until the end of the month, so….” He raised his eyebrows, and Donny knew what he was asking.

“Oh, yeah, sure, that’s cool. You can stay here,” he said, and Mike grinned. “Thanks. And Jason’s meeting with Jack’s people tomorrow to talk about your script, and apparently they’ve lined up some people…but you know all that, right?”

“Well, actually, I haven’t had the chance to talk to anyone about it since I got back…we’ve been pretty busy at the office.”

“Well, it looks like they’re ready to get things rolling. So, what’s going on down at McKay-Gemini?”

Eric gave him a brief synopsis, ending it by saying that Donny was the new captain of the Starship Enterprise. “Except we’re not gonna call it that when we come out with it. Paramount Pictures probably has that under trademark, so we’ll get some marketing guru to come up with something appropriately catchy.”

Mike looked at Donny with interest. “So you’re really moving up in the world? Well, great.” He nodded his head vigorously. “Cool. Well, listen, it’s been a long day for me, so I’m gonna crash, okay?”

“Sure.”

Mike gave Donny a quick kiss on the cheek – he caught a whiff of Scotch on his breath – and said, “G’night. Good to see you, Eric.”

“You too,” Eric said.

Mike went down the hall to the guest room and closed the door. Eric looked at Donny. “So, you guys…?”

“Just friends,” said Donny. The last time they had slept together had been the motel in Joplin.

They went back out to the patio. The lights were on, but it was dark enough that when Donny clicked his lighter, the brightness made him blink. Eric waited until Donny had smoked most of the cigarette before he spoke. “That’s it, isn’t it,” he said quietly.

“What?”

“Small Town Boys. That’s what’s bugging you.”

Donny snubbed out the cigarette and leaned back in the chair, making the plastic creak.

“Y’know,” Eric said quietly, “it’s your choice, but you’re a partner in the company, Donny. You can’t just decide for yourself now. This is the big league and a lot of people are counting on you to be a part of this venture. What you do affects all of us.” He leaned forward and looked at Donny intently. “So we need to know.”

Donny found himself looking deeply into Eric’s eyes, holding his gaze, remembering the first time they met, the long nights working on Pelican and getting dizzy from the dry-cleaning fumes that seeped up from downstairs, the days working in the cramped offices and the hundreds of little daily crises that came across their desks every day; the little victories and the jokes, the lunches and the nights like this at the old house when it was just them before Danny moved in or the earthquake or Marc spent the night or Mike came back; he thought of all the times he’d walked past Eric’s empty office since last summer, and how he leaped to grab the phone when the direct line from the Palo Alto office rang to his desk and he knew it was him calling; the weekend in Santa Barbara when they shared the room and Eric had stumbled into his bed and the warmth of him lying next to him. His cock tingled, and Donny snapped out of it. He blinked, grinned a little, then looked around for a second. “Yeah, I’m in.”

Eric leaned back and let out a sigh and a chuckle at the same time. “You had me going there for a second.”

He left a few minutes later, giving Donny a tight hug as he left. Donny picked up the phone. It was a little before nine, which meant it was just before midnight in Florida, but he knew Danny was still awake.

*

Donny called Gina the next morning.

“So I hear you’re busy,” she said.

“Yeah.”

“Well, while you were gone, things have taken off. That’s why I need to talk to you.”

“Taken off how?”

“Jack Magahee’s word is gold in this town, and don’t ask me why or how, but word about your little kerfuffle with Jeremy Dixon has gotten out and people are saying that this Don Hollenbeck guy is not to be fucked with. Jack has put together enough money and technical support to get this script into the hands of some very important people, and I got a call yesterday morning from HBO. Even network hacks are starting to talk about this as being the gay version of Beverly Hills 90210.”

“Gina…” Donny started to say.

“Listen, doll,” Gina interrupted, “that doesn’t matter. What does matter is that people are talking about it at all. Look, have a drink with me after work and we’ll go over all of this. What time is good for you?”

Donny shuffled through the papers on his desk looking for the Enterprise calendar that Lily had handed him when he walked in. It was buried under the resumes for the interviews he had scheduled. He finally found it and saw that he had a sketch-out meeting with Sky at four, followed by another with Greg at five. “Six, six thirty, maybe,” he said, wondering if he could get to the gym after.

“I’ll pick you up at six.” As was customary, she hung up without saying goodbye.

She took him to the Cantina. It was still warm enough that they could sit on the back patio. She ordered a scotch rocks. Donny asked for a draft. Gina had asked him about his trip on the ride over, but once their drinks arrived, the small talk was over.

People were lining up around the block to get in on this project. Big names, too. So the most important thing was to get the backing lined up, get the production people signed up, get the cast signed, and get the script into shape. “This all has to happen in the next six weeks,” Gina said as she stirred her drink. “So we’ve got a lot of work to do.”

Donny was about to speak, but Gina’s cell phone chirped, and she held up her hand. “Just a sec. Yeah,” she said the phone. The caller went on for a few seconds, the voice barely audible, before Gina cut him off. “Doll, it sounds great, but I gotta call you back.” She ended the call. “So anyway….” She took a sizeable gulp of her drink.

Donny took a deep breath. He’d been dreading this since he’d hung up the phone with her earlier, and it had been in the back of his mind all day, including the first team meeting that morning in the war room, through the screening of the new applicants, and even through the crisis in the office when the copier ran out of toner and the guy from the supply company showed up with the wrong replacement cartridge. “Look, Gina, I have a job at McKay-Gemini. In fact, I just got handed a huge project that’s gonna take over my life for the next six months, maybe even longer.”

“So what are you telling me?”

“What I’m saying is that I have a commitment to my partners and the job I have that is paying me. I can’t just drop everything for the next six weeks.” He felt a shiver run through him and he stared at the dark ring of condensation that was spreading out from his beer glass onto the little green cocktail napkin.

Gina blinked twice, then slowly lifted her glass and took a sip. When she spoke her voice was calm but almost brittle. “So what you’re saying is that you don’t want to do the project anymore.”

Donny tried to reply as calmly. “No, I’m saying I can’t spend the next six weeks doing all those things you just told me I have to do. And besides, I don’t know how to do any of that stuff. I don’t even know where to begin.”

Gina took another sip. “Don, I’m not sure you understand what is happening here. Small Town Boys has become the buzz of this town. There are people who are turning down parts in other projects because they are hoping to get a shot at it. Directors, writers, everybody. Gay is very hot now, and you’ve got the property. It’s all yours. You just can’t walk away from it because of some…computer project.”

“It’s not ‘some computer project,’ Gina, it’s the future of the company that I helped start. I’ve got a lot invested in it, not just because they pay me. I really believe in it. I wrote that script on a bet from Jeremy Dixon. But I’m just a …”

Gina stared at him. “Who said you had to? You’re the executive producer. You don’t have to do any of that. You have a producer that does that.”

He was about to reply when Val Kilmer walked by, saw Gina, and nodded at her. “Hello, Val,” she said, and he stopped. He asked her how she was doing and glanced and nodded at Donny. Gina said she was never better, then turned to Donny. “Val, this is Don Hollenbeck.” Donny stood up and they shook hands.

“Don Hollenbeck,” said Val as if he was remembering a name. “You’re the guy with Small Town Boys?”

“That’s right.”

Val nodded. “Good luck with that. Sounds like a winner.” He smiled a little. “Good to see you, Gina. Nice meeting you,” he said to Donny, and left.

“He’s just wrapping up that new Batman,” said Gina. “See, the buzz is out there, Don. Val Kilmer.”

“You think he’d…?” Donny asked.

Gina shrugged a little. “He’s not a TV kinda guy, but…you never know. He’s not too old, either, and he’s still got it.”

It was a little after seven when Gina dropped him off back at the office. “I’ll be in touch tomorrow,” she said as he got out. “This is just the beginning.” The car started moving before he even got the door closed.

He went back up to his office. The nightlights were on, but Eric’s office door was open and music was playing – Jethro Tull’s Aqualung.

“Hey,” Eric said looking up over his glasses from the laptop. “How was it?”

Donny leaned on the door frame. “Great,” he said, “I just have to decide if I want to shit or go blind.”

Eric grinned and closed the laptop. He leaned back, stretching his arms. “Wish you were back in Ohio pounding nails?”

“Never realized what it was like to have people fighting over me.”

“Did you tell her that you’ve got something else going on?”

“Seems like it’s going forward whether I like it or not. I don’t know how to get out of it.”

Eric got up and turned off the desk lamp, leaving the nightlights in the hall as the only illumination. “Well, you’re gonna have to do something about it,” he replied seriously. For a moment they looked at each other in the dim light. Eric finally said, “C’mon, let’s go grab something to eat.”

“Thanks, but I’m going to the gym.”

Eric smiled wanly. “That’s one thing I gotta do when I move back here. See you in the morning.”

Mike was already home, sitting in the living room reading a script. “What’s that?” Donny asked.

“Some sci-fi thing about invaders from space that Roland Emmerich and Dean Devlin are working on. Sounds like remake of War of the Worlds.” Mike closed the script. “So, how’d it go with Gina?”

“Does everybody in town know what I’m doing?”

“She called Jason this morning and said she was gonna meet with you, that’s all.”

“She told me there’s a shitload of things that need to get done in the next six weeks.” He went outside to the pool. The air was chilly, but steam was rising off the water, and he dipped his hand in. It was warm and inviting, so he stripped and swam ten laps to loosen up from the gym. When he stopped Mike was sitting at the table smoking a cigarette. He handed him a towel.

“What are you going to do?”

Donny dried off, shivering a little as he pulled on his boxers and shirt. “Make a sandwich.”

Merry Christmas from Donny Hollenbeck

2007-12-25T20:50:00.000-05:00

This is a repeat of my post from last year, but I'm really busy working on the script for the movie of Small Town Boys and you know what it's like working on a deadline, not to mention this new project we've got going at McKay-Gemini. I told Mustang Bobby to just put up the same thing and maybe I'll be able to have something more to say at New Years. - DH

Mustang Bobby asked me to say a few words, and since he's the author and I'm just the character, I don't have a choice, do I?

So, I just want to say thanks to all of you who've been following my life story -- such as it is -- this year. It's kind of interesting to look back to all those years ago and remember what was going on back in L.A., and I hope you're enjoying it. It brings back a lot of memories.

I know MB's been a little slow in putting up the chapters. That's my fault, actually; you just don't spill your guts all at once, and so I've been stringing him along a little. Don't worry; I'll let him pick up the pace after New Year's.

Anyway, Merry Christmas from me, Danny, Eric, Greg, and the rest of the gang at Small Town Boys. Thanks for looking in on us, and keep in touch, okay?

Dramatic News

2007-12-17T14:05:00.000-05:00

I can now cross one more thing off my Life Goals list.

The Manhattan Repertory Theatre of New York has selected my play, Can't Live Without You, for its Winterfest 2008 series. It will open on Wednesday, January 23 with additional performances on Friday, January 25 and Saturday, January 26. Tickets are $20 (with a complimentary beverage) and are available through their website or by calling 646-329-6588.

What this means is that I will be a New York-produced playwright.

A lot of the credit goes to Rachel Charlop-Powers who read the play at the William Inge Theatre Festival last April and fell in love with it. She's been the driving force behind this production, and I will be eternally grateful to her.

Oh, yes, I'm going to see it, and if you're in the New York area, please come and see it.

As a little background, this play merges two characters from my works -- Donny Hollenbeck of Small Town Boys and Bobby Cramer of Bobby Cramer -- into one story. I started working on Can't Live Without You in the winter of 2001 when I was having a writer's block on Bobby Cramer and hadn't yet resumed work on Small Town Boys. So the Donny who is in the play isn't the "same" Donny in novel; he's a writer living with his girlfriend in the Florida Keys. But in a lot of ways, they are similar; they're both going through life almost oblivious to things around them until something startles them to the point of waking up and seeing their life from the third person.

Can't Live Without You is a romantic comedy in two acts and I had a lot of fun writing it. I've been trying to get theatres and producers to read it and even workshop it since I wrote it, but this opportunity at the Manhattan Rep came out of Rachel's efforts and I am very happy -- and fortunate -- to have a friend like her with such enthusiasm and love for the story.

Anyway, if you're in the NYC area, I hope you'll come see it, and I hope that you like it.

Small Town Boys - Chapter 48

2007-10-23T19:15:00.000-04:00

Chapter Guide

Cross-Country

Traffic was heavy on southbound I-75, but it kept moving. Mike was silent as he drove, occasionally muttering at the slower drivers. Donny dozed off after a while, the steady thrum of the tires and the bumps in the road lulling him into a semiconscious state, the music from the radio adding a weird background layer to his dreams; Paul McCartney’s “Comin’ Up” kept playing over and over.

They were just south of Wapakoneta (“Home of Neil Armstrong, first man on the moon”) when Mike suddenly said, “You never answered my question.”

“Huh?” replied Donny, snapping awake. “What question?”

“Why’d you get an agent?”

Donny sat up slowly, his back aching a little. “I told you. It was Jack’s idea,” he yawned.

“Well, you didn’t say no.”

“No, I didn’t. No skin off my ass, and if this thing takes off….”

“You talk to Eric or Greg about it?”

“No. Why should I?”

“They might like to know that one of their partners is moonlighting as a screenwriter and producer.”

“I don’t really think they give a shit. They get their money’s worth out of me and I haven’t missed any work because of it.”

It was starting to rain. Mike put the wipers on intermittent. A semi went past, throwing a spray of water from the wheels. “It’s not like being a producer is a part-time job, Donny. You’ll be called on to make a lot of decisions.”

“Like what?”

“Lots of stuff. Casting, directing, design, what studios to approach, where to shoot, how much to spend on stuff, working with the unions…” Mike glanced at him. “Who to hit up for money. This doesn’t fall from the skies, Donny. You’ve gotta find a bunch of other people who’ll sign on to put up the dough. How much are you putting up?”

Donny shifted in his seat again. “I don’t know yet.” He actually hadn’t thought about it.

“Well, you’ve gotta come up with a business plan. Jack Magahee may open a lotta doors for you, but you’re gonna have pay the admission. And even if Jack is behind it, that doesn’t mean that a lot of people will fall all over themselves to put up an investment. You talk to Paul about this?”

“No.” Donny couldn’t remember the last time he had talked to Paul Jeffries. It had been at least since the weekend at Palm Springs.

“Might not be a bad idea. He knows the nuts and bolts of the business. He’s the one who got Back Home Again up and running.”

Donny nodded and settled back in the seat. Mike lapsed into silence. The radio station started to fade, so he punched the seek button until he found another one. They were close to the Indiana border before he spoke again. “I really liked the script,” he said suddenly. It was the first time he’d said anything about it.

“Thanks,” Donny replied.

“You open to suggestions?”

“Sure.”

“You know that it’s gonna go through a ton of rewrites before it’s done, right?”

“So I’ve heard.”

“And you’re ready for that.”

“Like they say, writers are one step above the kid who gets the coffee.”

“And don’t get paid as much,” Mike said with a snort.

“Right.” Donny glanced at him. “You have some ideas?”

Mike shrugged, glanced in the rearview mirror, and passed a semi that was slowing for an exit. “Just a couple of thoughts, that’s all.”

“Shoot.”

“Well, so far it’s just the four guys, right? Eric, Greg, Bobby, and Scott, right?”

“Yeah.”

“What about adding, say, some other characters? Maybe like a boss or a parent or something? Some connection with the outside world, so to speak?” He shot Donny a quick look. “Just a thought.”

“Okay,” he replied and stared out the window.

They stopped on the western side of Indianapolis for lunch at a McDonald’s, then Donny took over the driving. Mike reclined the seat and fell asleep almost instantly. The interstate wore on, the terrain changing little as they passed farm fields, small towns, billboards, and exits. The radio stations changed locations on the dial but still put out the same music and the same commercials; even the news didn’t change much.

As they neared St. Louis the traffic started to get heavy. Mike awoke with a start and sat up. “Where are we?”

“Coming up on Saint Looey,” said Donny. “Grab the atlas and let’s see if we can avoid going through the middle of town.”

Mike pulled the Rand-McNally out of the door pocket and flipped through it. “How’re you doing?”

“Fine. We’re gonna need some gas soon.”

“There’s an Amoco at the next exit.”

“Great. I need to take a leak.”

“Me too.”

They took turns in the men’s room, then Donny pumped the gas while Mike went in and paid. He came out with a couple of Snickers, Cokes, and two packs of Camels. “I had the weirdest dreams,” he said as he popped the top on the Coke. “You and me and Jeremy Dixon…”

“A three-way? No thanks.”

“No, it wasn’t like that. We were sitting on some set like we were shooting a movie or something. He was being all nice and sweet about it, too.”

Donny screwed the gas cap on. “Sounds like a dream.”

Mike walked away from the gas pumps to light a cigarette. “You thought about who else you’d like to see in it?”

Donny shrugged. “Sure; Matt Damon, Chris O’Donnell, Jason Priestley…”

Mike chuckled. “I’m talkin’ about in the project, not in the hot tub.”

“Not really. I just figured that the casting people would figure that out.”

“You might have a say in it.”

“Well, then…I don’t know. I guess it all depends on who shows up. Jack said he had a bunch of people who were interested.”

“Did he say who?”

“No.”

Mike finished his cigarette. “That’s the thing. If you get a big name, the rest’ll come running. That’s why I was thinking that if you had a part for an older character, you might be able to get a big name. And since the older character doesn’t have to play a gay character it might be a good enough draw to get the names to play the gay parts, even if they – the actors – are straight. Kinda takes the stigma off it.” He opened the driver’s side door. “C’mon, let’s see if we can hit Joplin tonight.”

As they got back on the interstate, Donny said, “Y’know, you haven’t said you’d do it.”

Mike grinned a little. “Have your people talk to my people.”

Five hours later Mike pulled off the interstate where the signs indicated a Comfort Inn near the highway. They were just east of Joplin. Donny went into the lobby and registered since Mike didn’t want to run the risk of being recognized and be seen checking into a motel with another man. When he got to the space where the form asked for his car’s registration, he jotted down the plate from his Tahoe. They dumped their bags in the room – it had two queen size beds – and went across the parking lot to the family restaurant next door. It was almost empty, but Mike still sat with his back to the rest of the restaurant. The waitress brought them water, handed them menus, and left them alone.

Donny scanned the menu, decided on the chicken breast dinner, and stretched stiffly. He looked around. The only other patrons were an elderly couple several table over – the husband was reading Reader’s Digest while his wife filed her nails – and a table of four teens – two boys and two girls – at the other end of the room. “So,” Donny mused, “who do you think will watch it?”

“Watch what,” said Mike, still looking at the menu.

“The show. Small Town Boys.”

“I dunno, Donny. Why do you ask?”

“Well, I’m just wondering…look around. You think the folks in Joplin, Missouri, are gonna watch a series about four gay guys?”

Mike closed the menu and glanced over his shoulder. “Well, my guess is that if Jack Magahee thinks it will sell, he’s probably right. He’s from around here, y’know.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. Lebanon, Missouri. We passed it a ways back. His dad was in the dairy business. Still is, I think. Anyway, he has the knack, and if he thinks it’ll sell in Joplin, he may be right. Who knows; this town could be the gay capital of the Ozarks.”

Donny looked at the other customers. The teens were laughing over something and one girl loudly but laughingly protested; “Stop that, Wayne!”

“I kinda doubt it,” Donny said.

They ate quietly and went back to the room. Mike stretched out on one of the beds, turned on the TV and flipped through the channels. There wasn’t much on, so he left it on The Weather Channel as they got undressed. “One bed or two?” Mike asked with a shy grin. Donny pretended to think about it for a moment, then said, “One.” Mike chuckled, reached over, and tugged on Donny’s belt.

They were awake the next morning before dawn. They had pancakes and sausage at the restaurant, now crowded with truckers and locals, and were on the interstate as the sun was coming up through the remainder of the fog that had settled overnight.

Oklahoma became Texas without much notice from the vantage point of the interstate, and at mid-afternoon they stopped in Amarillo for a late lunch. They crossed the Texas-New Mexico border, passing a sign that told them that they were now one thousand miles from Los Angeles.

Sixty miles east of Albuquerque they stopped for gas. Donny got out and stretched. There was a small motel across the way and further into the town he could see a row of stores and buildings. He remembered seeing a billboard for a restaurant called The Tumbleweed that promised STEAKS. He looked at his watch; with the time change it was still early, but they were in no hurry.

“Whaddaya say we stop here for the night?” he said to Mike.

He looked around and shrugged. “Yeah, we’re still an hour from Albuquerque and the middle of rush hour. What the hell.”

The motel room was small but clean and neat with twin double beds and a TV on a stand in the corner. The under-window heater/air conditioner rattled a little but it warmed up the room, and after settling in they drove down the main street, past the bank, a storefront café, several antique shops, a pharmacy, a gas station, and a feed store.

“I think I’ve been here before,” said Mike.

“You’re kidding. When?”

“When we were shooting Silver Star. A bunch of us took a day trip from Santa Fe; came down here, stopped for lunch, prowled around the antique shops. It was fun.”

The bar at The Tumbleweed was busy, but the dining room was almost empty and they got a table right away. They ordered drinks; a beer for Donny, scotch on the rocks for Mike. When the drinks arrived, Mike raised his glass. “Here we go; back to work.”

“We’re still about a thousand miles out of L.A.”

“Yeah, well, almost there.” He took a large gulp of the scotch. “Wow, first drink I’ve had in a long time,” he said.

Donny sipped his beer. He noticed that Mike was a little on edge; he was nervously tapping the menu with his fingers as he scanned it.

“Has Jason got anything lined up for you when you get back?”

Mike shrugged. “The usual. It’s getting to be that time of year when producers and studios start putting pilots together for next year, so I’m sure there’ll be casting calls and shit when I get back. Not that I’m in a great hurry to jump into another loser.” He looked up guiltily. “No offense.”

“You haven’t said you’d do it.”

Mike grinned tightly. “You’re right.” The waitress came back and took their orders for salads and steaks. Mike ordered another drink. He rubbed his hands together and looked around the dining room, gazing at the old license plates on the wall. “Y’know,” he finally said, “maybe I’m not right for it. Most of those guys are in their twenties, right? It’s kind of a stretch for me to pull off that, dontcha think?”

“It doesn’t really say how old they are,” Donny replied. “They’re out of college, but that’s about it.”

“Yeah, but come on…who’s gonna watch a bunch of middle-aged guys? The audience is gonna want to see young and hung, not old and saggy.”

Donny chuckled. “You’re nowhere close to middle age, Mike, and you’re still hung.” Mike smirked. “And besides, weren’t you just saying it needs an older character?”

“Yeah, for contrast. Someone like…I dunno, Tom Skerritt or someone like that.”

“Think we can get him?”

“Who, Tom Skerritt? I doubt it; he’s still doing Picket Fences. But the guys are younger than me.” His fresh drink arrived and he took a sip.

Donny looked at him for a moment. “You have a problem with playing a gay character?” he said quietly.

Mike gazed at his drink. “Well,” he finally said softly, “once you’re pegged as a certain character, you can carry that with you for the rest of your life. Look at Bill Shatner. He’ll always be Captain Kirk; same with Leonard Nimoy as Spock. That show ran for three seasons and got such lousy ratings they almost cancelled it after one. But they’re both gonna die with Star Trek as the first line in their obits. I’m not sure I want to go out with ‘Lance Michaels, who played the lead role in the gay drama Small Town Boys, died today after being eaten by squirrels.’” He grinned a little. “I guess I just don’t want to get tagged with the gay label, that’s all. You saw yourself how scared people like Jeremy Dixon are by that.”

Donny remembered the lunch with Jack and Aaron how he had told him that Mike was already tagged as gay by some people. He sipped his beer and was very glad to see the waitress approaching with their salads.

“So,” Donny said, changing the subject, “you’re gonna stay in Idyllwild for now?”

Mike shook his head. “Jason’s lining up a condo for me over near where Greg lives, as a matter of fact. Already furnished and everything. Hit the ground running first thing next week.” He stabbed a forkful of salad and munched it. “Jason’s gonna land me something really good. You watch. Have you met Jason yet?”

“Haven’t had the pleasure.”

“He’s good. Nothing like Marty. He’s not gonna let me get pegged. No more of these second banana parts like the sleaze on Capitol Hill or the chickenshit deputy in that movie. No more retro sitcoms for no-name networks or cable channels, no more soaps. Good stuff.” He grinned tightly and Donny could feel the table tremble a little.

When their dinners arrived Mike ordered a glass of red wine and by the time they had finished he had had another and his eyes were a little glassy. But he paid the check and signed his name firmly to the credit card slip and walked steadily, if a little slowly, out to the parking lot.

“Want me to drive?” Donny asked, but Mike shook his head.

“I’m fine,” he said, getting behind the wheel. Donny glanced up and down the street to see if there was a cop around, but there was no traffic and it was a straight shot up the main street to the motel. Mike drove slowly and carefully back to the motel parking lot, the only sign of his state being that when he pulled into the space in front of the room he hit the concrete parking bar a little hard. “Whoops,” he muttered.

It was still early – not even nine o’clock – but it was dark outside and they’d driven all day. Mike undressed slowly and got in bed, rolling onto his side and pulling the blankets over him. “’Night,” he mumbled.

Donny brushed his teeth, set the alarm on his watch for six, and got in the other bed. Mike was already snoring. He was almost asleep when his cell phone rang. He jolted out of bed, yanked it off the charging cord, and stumbled into the bathroom by the third ring.

“Hey,” said Eric, “where are you?”

“East of Albuquerque,” Donny replied, trying to keep his voice low but loud enough to be heard.

“Okay. So you’ll be back, what tomorrow night? Wednesday?”

“Something like that. What’s up?”

“Nothing special; just wanted to check in. Say, you heard from Marc?”

“No, why?”

“Well, Greg was looking for the receivables report today and Marc took a personal day.”

“Huh.” It was unlike Marc to miss a deadline.

“Turns out he e-mailed it to Greg last week,” Eric continued, “but…”

“D’you call him?”

“Nah. Not a big deal. Just curious.”

“Well,” Donny said, remembering a chat with Marc the week before, “I think he said something about going up to Santa Barbara for Thanksgiving. Maybe he just decided to stay an extra day.”

“Okay. So, how’d it go? Have a good time?”

“Yeah, it was… nice. I’ll call you and tell you all about when we get back.”

“Cool. I’m in L.A., y’know.”

“Oh, yeah, I forgot.”

“Listen, I’ve got something cooking that might be interesting for you.”

“Not a movie deal, I hope.”

Eric laughed. “No such luck.”

“What is it?”

“Enh….I’ll save it for when I see you.”

“Okay.”

“So how’s Mike?”

Donny glanced at the closed bathroom door. “He’s good. Ready to come back.”

“Okay. Well, listen, I’ll see you when you get here. Have a safe trip.”

Donny turned off the light and quietly opened the door. He was getting back in his bed when Mike said, “Who wazzat?”

“Eric. Just checking in.”

“Mmmph,” he replied, and a moment later was snoring again.

It took a while for Donny to get to sleep. He wondered what Eric had cooking, and he wondered about Marc; he had never taken a day off without planning it far in advance. Finally the steady roar of the heater lulled him to a fitful sleep with dreams of driving across the brown desert at twilight.

The next morning around seven they drove into town and parked across the street from the Gateway Café. The wind had picked up and little clouds of dust followed them as they crossed the street. There were a few other customers, mostly construction workers, gathered in one booth sipping coffee and smoking. The waitress, in her forties with thick glasses and a tinted perm, smiled and said, “Sit anywhere you like.” They took a booth halfway towards the back, and the waitress brought them coffee without them asking for it. Her nametag said her name was Eva.

Other than the usual bleary eyes of waking up, Mike seemed his usual self. He sipped the coffee and decided on a green chile and cheese omelet with whole wheat toast and hash browns, and grinned when Eva asked if he wanted extra chile on the side. “Sure, what the heck.” Donny ordered pancakes and bacon.

Mike looked around the café, taking in the pine paneling, the prints of cowboys riding the range, the Georgia O’Keeffe posters of cow skulls, and the little signs above the cash register that said “In God We Trust – everybody else pays cash” and “We reserve the right to refuse service to anybody, and that means you, Larry” – an apparent reference to a favorite customer. The kitchen exuded the aromas of bacon and biscuits mixing with the underlying scents of cooking oil, cigarette smoke, and cleaning solvent. Mike stretched, flexing his arms, and rested his elbows on the table.

“Ever notice that there’s a little place like this in every small town in America?”

Donny smiled. “Well, I haven’t been in every small town in America.”

“You know what I mean. Change the pictures from cowboys to duck hunters and you have the Northwoods in Maple City, right down to the waitress and the guys sitting around shootin’ the shit before going to work.” Mike took a sugar packet and shook it. “There must be a place like this in Perrysburg.” Donny nodded; he remembered Frank and some of the other guys on the crew would hang out at a place like this in town. It had a name, but it was known generically as “the coffee shop.”

The cowbell over the door rattled and two more men came in; a muscular young man with blond hair and Nordic features, followed by a short and wiry Hispanic in a jean jacket and cowboy hat. They sat at the booth with the other men, and Eva took two coffee mugs and the Bunn carafe over to the table.

“Morning, boys,” she said as she poured the coffee. They murmured and wrapped their hands around the mugs. “Where you goin’ today, Bobby?”

The blond replied shyly, “Out Old 66 to patch some holes near Green Pastures.”

One of the other men said, “That’ll take all day if you’re lucky.” The rest chuckled. “You like that shit, don’tcha, just you and the road and diggin’ holes, huh, Bobby?”

“S’okay,” he replied with a shy grin. “Beats fartin’ around with you jokers diggin’ out some arroyo full o’ tumbleweeds ‘n scorpions.” Everyone laughed at that, and Mike said quietly, nodding at Bobby, “There you go. That’s you. The strong silent type.

The cook in the kitchen put two plates in the window and banged the bell. “Order up!” She looked through the window. “Gene! Where the hell’s my potting soil?”

The Hispanic hollered back, “It’s on the truck coming today from Albuquerque! I swear, Celeste!” Everyone else at the table laughed.

Eva brought the plates and topped off the coffees. A few more customers came in and the place got busy. Mike and Donny finished and paid their bill at the register. Eva smiled and said, “C’mon back any time.” As they left Gene looked up at Donny for a second and gave him quick nod.

As they got back to the Land Rover, Mike looked down the street. “Nice little town, isn’t it?” he said. “Be nice to find a place like this and just…settle down.”

“What’s wrong with Idyllwild?”

Mike chuckled cynically and got behind the wheel. They checked out of the motel and were back on the interstate by eight. Mike drove silently until they got to the crush of traffic in Albuquerque where he barked impatiently at the slowdowns in the construction zones. But they got across the Rio Grande without incident and were soon in the desert again, passing through between the mesas and rolling plains dotted with juniper and sage. It wasn’t until they were near Laguna that Mike said, “So, what did you and my dad talk about?”

Donny had been wondering when Mike would get around to asking. He smiled to himself. “Just…stuff. Gettin’ to know you, that kind of thing. What about you and my dad?”

Mike grinned. “Same thing. I guess you haven’t told them much about me.”

“Not really.”

“Why not?”

“I dunno, I guess… I never really talked about stuff like that with them.”

“Stuff like what? Your friends ? Your sex life?”

Donny shook his head. “Nope. And definitely not my sex life. Do you?”

“Well, I don’t give them the details, but… Dad knows what’s going on. I never really could keep anything from him. Mom’s a different story.”

“So you told your dad about you being gay?”

“I told you that story, didn’t I?”

“No, I kinda think I would have remembered that.”

“I was at MSU. I’m pre-vet but every chance I get, I’m taking an acting class, trying out for plays. Then fall semester of my junior year I get cast to play McMurphy in One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest…the Jack Nicholson part, y’know? Well, there’s this other guy in the cast named Everett, and we hit it off at rehearsals and pretty soon…. You get the idea. Ev’s a last-semester senior, though, and he’s all hot to go to L.A. in January to become the next Tom Cruise, and he says that if I go with him….” Mike looked a little sheepish. “Anyway, I went home that Christmas and told my folks that I was going out to L.A. Mom had a fit, but Dad….” Mike laughed hollowly. “He took me into his study and said, ‘You must really be in love with this fellow.’”

“How’d he know?”

“He and Mom had come to see the play. Dad said he could tell the minute he saw us together after the show that it we were more than just buddies.”

“Was he pissed?”

“No. Well, yeah. He said he wasn’t, but he kept saying he wasn’t over and over, so I knew he was…He said he was disappointed and worried that I was giving up on college so easily, but…. He knew he couldn’t stop me. But the deal was that they would pay for my college, and so I was on my own. ‘Course, if I ever decide to go back and finish my degree, he said he’s still willing to pay for it.”

Donny watched the scenery go by for a moment. “But you never said, ‘Dad, I’m gay.’”

“Nope. Did you?”

“No, I guess not.”

“Funny how they know anyway.”

They had passed the Acoma exit before Donny asked, “So, what happened with you and this Everett guy.”

Mike chuckled. “Remember those Hardee’s commercials?”

“Yeah.”

“We were both up for it. I got it. He didn’t. Things got a little tense. Then he met some other guy at a casting call, he gave me a week to get out, and I ended up on the couch of a friend of my freshman year roommate who was a flight attendant and had a place out by LAX. Then I met Paul Jeffries. Last I heard Ev’s back in Saginaw.”

The interstate wound on, gradually rising to the Continental Divide, which was barely more than the crest of a hill. Donny said, “He said he loves you and he wants me to know that.”

Mike nodded. “That’s what your dad said to me.”

The road wound through the red desert landscape, the distant hills fading to the horizon. They crossed the Arizona border, passing into the Navajo nation, the radio popping and fading away until Mike punched the seek button and found KTNN, the station out of Window Rock. They listened for a few moments to the strange but melodic syllables of the broadcast in Navajo, then Mike switched it off and they drove on past the Painted Desert and Flagstaff, the only sound the rhythm of the tires and the occasional passing semi. The sky was a brilliant blue.

They did a drive-through lunch at a McDonald’s in Williams. As they waited for the Suburban ahead of them, Mike said suddenly, “I’ve always felt like I let him down, that’s all.”

“Your dad.”

“Yeah.” He opened the window and smiled at the clerk. “I know he loves me. But I know he couldn’t ever get his head around the idea that this… would be the kind of life he thought I’d lead.”

“What does he want for you?”

“That’s just it. I don’t know.”

“Neither does he, I’ll bet… other than just to be happy…”

Mike laughed hollowly. “That’s the hardest part.”

“Being happy?”

“Yeah. Pretty fuckin’ tall order in this business.”

Several miles went by before Donny said, “Then why don’t you just quit?”

“Quit what?”

“Hollywood. ‘The business.’ All this. Just quit.”

“What would I do?”

“Whatever you want. Get a regular job.”

“Doing what?”

“Hell, I don’t know, Mike. That’s the least of your worries. You’ve got money. You own income property. You don’t need to work for a while at least.” Donny grinned a little. “You could come work for me. We’re advertising for warehouse help.”

“Ha ha.”

“Well, what then? Why can’t you quit? You’ve said it enough times, Mike. ‘I hate this town. I hate this business. I would give it up in a heartbeat.’ So do it. Tomorrow morning tell Jason that you’re sick and tired of all the bullshit, all the ass-kissing, all the deceit and crap and that you’re going to find an honest job that pays twenty bucks an hour and has health insurance. I can get you the paperwork.”

Mike gazed ahead down the road for another mile or so. “That’s the problem, Donny. I can’t imagine doing anything else. It’s all I ever wanted to do. From the time I was old enough to know there was such a thing as acting and performing. It was make-believe and imagination and … something other than what I was.”

“What’s wrong with who you are?”

Mike was silent for a moment. “Didn’t you ever want to be someone else?”

“Like who?”

“I don’t know, Donny… just someone other than who you are.”

“Like what, an imaginary friend?”

Mike shrugged. “No, I mean wishing you weren’t you.”

“Not really. Besides, it’s kinda tough when you have a twin.”

“So you’ve always been happy with yourself. Never imagined being anyone else.”

“Can’t say I did, Mike.”

Mike grinned a little. “So where did all those guys in Small Town Boys come from? Eric, Greg, Scott, Bobby…? Eric, the cut-up, the one with the crazy sense of humor; Greg, the serious and cynical one who never expects anything good to come from anything; Scott, the flirt who’s always on the prowl for a quickie but secretly wants to find Mr. Right, and Bobby, the quiet one who has no clue that he could have anyone he wants and just goes through life trying not to bump into the furniture. Tell me that there’s not some of you in all of them? I’ve seen you be all four of them. Mostly you’re Bobby, but still…they’re all you.”

“You over-think things, Mike,” Donny said.

“That’s Greg talking.”

Donny snorted. “So that’s why you’re an actor. You wanted to be somebody else.”

“Yeah. Instead of being Mike Lankowski from Maple City, I could be … Biff Loman, or Hamlet, or Tom Wingfield or Stanley Kowalski…”

“If I remember my high school lit classes, none of those guys are really happy, either.”

“It’s not about being happy, Donny. It’s about learning about them so I can understand being me. And if I do that, maybe I can bring it out in the characters I play and reach the audience…touch them in some way.”

“So what don’t you like about yourself?”

“Aw, c’mon, Donny, I’m not gonna play shrink-rap with you.”

“No, I really want to know, Mike, ‘cause as far as I’m concerned, you’re a nice guy and I like being around you. So if you’re gonna base your entire life’s work on looking for answers to stuff like what’s wrong with you, I think that’s your only problem. Most people don’t worry about shit like that.”

“Actors aren’t ‘most people.’”

“So you’re telling me that all the people in show business are doing it to find themselves? Jesus, no wonder it’s so fucked up.” He shook his head. “But how does that explain someone like Jeremy Dixon?”

“Jeremy Dixon has a pretty face and a big dick and he knows how to use both to get what he wants, which is a lot of money and a lot of sex. I don’t know why everybody else is in it, Donny. Now you’re over-thinking things.”

“So tell me this, Mike. Is it worth it?”

“Compared to what? How many people get to do what they want and get paid for it and …?” Mike fidgeted in the seat a little. “Do you love what you do, Donny? Do you love going into your office every day and sitting at a desk and … doing whatever it is you do all day? Do you? Do you think you’re making a contribution to something other than your account at Bank of America or your partnership agreement?” His voice tightened a little and he gripped the steering wheel with both hands. “Are you doing what you wanted to do ever since you were old enough to think about a job beyond being a spaceman or a fireman or whatever it was you wanted to be when you were eight years old? Is being the VP of HR at McKay-Gemini what little Donny Hollenbeck wanted to be? I know what Danny wanted. He wanted to be a soldier. He wanted to serve and he wanted to be … whatever it is that he is in the Air Force. But you’ve never told me what you really want…and if it makes you happy.”

Donny looked at Mike, his mouth slightly agape. A large semi from McDonald’s roared past them, the huge painted French fries looking like gargantuan remnants from the crumpled bag on top of the center console. “Jesus, Mike,” Donny finally said, “now I know what you and my dad talked about.”

They stopped for gas in Needles, just across the California-Arizona border. The sign said “Los Angeles 255” and the red hills faded into the desert.

Small Town Boys - Chapter 47

2007-09-03T12:34:00.000-04:00

This has been the longest I've gone between publishing chapters of this story; nearly three months. My apologies for this long absence, but this chapter is one of the longest in the story and it covers some issues that, frankly, were hard for me to write about. I hope you will find it worth the long read. I've also moved the chapter guide up to the top of the page to make it easier for you to catch up on what you might have missed. - MB

Chapter Guide

Fathers and Sons

As if by magic, Back Home Again suddenly became a hot property. A week after the meeting in Jack’s office CBS announced that it would show the film as a holiday special the weekend before Christmas, bumping the rerun of A Very Brady Christmas. The network publicity department got a freelancer in Michigan to do an interview with Mike over the phone, and Jeremy actually went on Entertainment Tonight to promote it.

The script of Small Town Boys was delivered to Mike by Fed Ex. The next day Donny was in a meeting in Greg’s office when Lily buzzed through telling him that Mike was calling. Donny went back to his office.

“You wrote this,” said Mike.

“Yeah.”

“Holy shit.”

“Is that good ‘holy shit’ or bad ‘holy shit’?”

“Jesus, Donny, this is really good. I didn’t know you were a writer.”

“Oh, so all that stuff we did on Return to Sender was just jerking off?”

“No, but I mean...” Donny could hear pages shuffling. “This is....wow.”

“So you’re gonna do it?”

“Well, we’ll definitely talk about it when I get back.”

“When’s that?”

“Um,” Mike said, sounding a little more sober, “there’s still some things going on here that I’m dealing with, so probably not before Thanksgiving.” His voice trailed off, then suddenly he said, “Hey, I got an idea. Why don’t you come up here for Thanksgiving and then we can drive back together? Y’know, take some time off and maybe even stop off in Ohio and see your folks before heading back?”

Donny grabbed his desk calendar and flipped ahead to the week after Thanksgiving. There was nothing pressing, but just to be sure he put Mike on hold, buzzed Lily and asked her if there was anything major on the calendar the last week of the month. There wasn’t so he went back to Mike’s line. “Sounds like a plan,” he told him.

“Think you can get the time off?”

“Yeah. I know the personnel guy.”

“Great. Call me when you have the reservation.”

He buzzed Lily and told him to get him a one-way flight to Traverse City as close to Thanksgiving as possible. After he hung up he tried to remember where he’d put his winter clothes.

*

Lily managed to get him the last seat on a flight out of LAX the day before Thanksgiving. It was in first class, but it would have to do. The plane was packed with holiday travelers, and so was O’Hare; the K concourse streaming with hundreds of people rushing in all directions, the P.A. system squawking out announcements, children crying, and above it all the general noise of a busy airport.

He had a couple of hours to kill so he bought a horrendously overpriced sandwich and beer at a restaurant and watched the people go by. He tried to think if he knew anyone in Chicago, and then remembered Scott Welles. He hadn’t heard from him since the last time they’d hooked up three years ago, just before Scott had moved to Chicago, and the last he’d heard anything about him had been the town gossip that Danny had brought back two years ago.

He thought about calling him. Across the concourse was a bank of payphones, and after he finished eating he went over and found one with a phone book that hadn’t been shredded. There was lots of “Welles” in the greater Chicago area, and quite a few “Welles S” and even seven or eight “Welles Scott,” some with middle initials, some without. He didn’t know Scott’s middle name, and he didn’t feel like calling to find out. Besides, he wouldn’t know what to say if he called him, anyway. He stopped at a newsstand, picked up a late edition of the Chicago Tribune, found the gate for the flight to Traverse City, and settled down to do the crossword.

After a while he looked up to see the gate area was beginning to fill up; a middle-aged couple with matching tote bags were sharing a sandwich; a teenager in a bulky ski parka stared intently at the screen of his Game Boy, tiny electronic sounds blurbling from it periodically. A businessman in a grey overcoat paced as he talked on a cell phone, gesticulating with a rolled-up copy of Forbes, and a woman who appeared to be in her thirties wearing an MSU t-shirt under a zippered sweatshirt was reading a paperback. From the picture of a muscular blond man embracing a ravishing woman on the cover, Donny guessed she was reading a romance novel.

Another teenager, wearing a letter jacket from a well-known New England prep school and carrying a bag from McDonald’s, came and sat next to the other teen. The second boy looked a little older and was leaner than the other, but there was enough of a resemblance that Donny guessed they were brothers heading home from school for Thanksgiving break. The older boy wordlessly offered some French fries to the game-player, but he shook his head curtly and concentrated on the little screen in front of him.

They all looked like typical Midwesterners, as Donny did in his jeans, Nikes and winter jacket that had a window manufacturer logo over his left pec. It was a far cry from the multicultural crowd that had gathered in LAX for the flight to Chicago; no one here was speaking in Spanish, nor was there the group from India travelling together, the men solemnly dressed in impeccable suits, the women in floor-length dresses and headscarves. Here there were no crying children; the only baby in the gate was fast asleep in his stroller parked next to the young couple sitting across from him. The father, in his worn jeans and suede leather jacket, didn’t look much older than Donny, and the mother, who barely looked old enough to have a child, read from a bible, occasionally glancing at her sleeping child. Completing the impromptu nativity scene was a cat carrier on an empty seat from which an occasional meow was heard.

This was the “flyover” crowd that Trish had talked about. These were the people that D’Angelo wanted to reach with the sitcom version of Small Town Boys. But would any of these people watch a TV show about four gay guys living in a house in L.A. if it wasn’t a sitcom? What if he was to ask them? Not outright, of course, but to casually engage them in conversation, and then off-handedly ask them what they thought of the idea?

The teenagers would laugh nervously, cross their legs, and make fag jokes once Donny was out of earshot. The young couple with the baby wouldn’t approve; the bible being a giveaway to their reaction. The middle-aged lady might nod thoughtfully, but the husband would not answer. The businessman didn’t watch TV, and the woman reading the romance novel might watch if it wasn’t on against her other favorite programs. Donny slouched in his seat. Then again, he thought, you really don’t know. After all, no one knows I’m an executive producer of a new TV series. I probably look to them like just another college student waiting for a plane.

More passengers filtered into the gate area and the gate agent began to make preparations to board the flight. They trooped down the stairs and out onto the tarmac, the cold wind catching Donny by surprise, reminding him how long it had been since he’d been in really cold weather. Flakes of snow flurried by.

The plane was stuffy and hot, making Donny sleepy, and once they took off he dozed most of the way, only coming fully awake when the landing gear was lowered. He looked out the window, but all he could see was clouds and snow whipping past the window until the plane actually hit the runway. It slowly taxied to the ramp, the darkness cut by the streetlights over the parking lots off in the distance and the greenish glow of the lights over the gate. The airport itself seemed to be only half-lit.

Donny trotted across the tarmac, his shoulders hunched against the cold, and up the gate escalator into Cherry Capital Airport. It was colder here than Chicago and he was grateful for the sweater he had pulled on that morning. It had been uncomfortably warm even with the air conditioning on in the car when Marc dropped him at the departure level at LAX. “Have a good time,” Marc had said, “and say hi to Mike for me.”

“Will do,” he’d replied, pulling his duffel out of the back seat. “See you in a week or so.”

“Take all the time you need.”

“I’ll be back way before Eric gets here.” Eric was coming down in ten days for the year-end planning meetings.

“Hope so,” Marc had said. He waved, checked the mirrors, and cut back into traffic in front of the Super Shuttle.

Mike was waiting outside the security checkpoint. Like a lot of the other men in the waiting area, he was wearing the requisite hunting coat and cap, heavy boots, and a flannel shirt and jeans. If anyone recognized him as a movie star, they didn’t show it, and when he grabbed Donny and gave him a big brotherly hug, no one seemed to notice.

“So how’s things in Tinseltown?” he said as they strode to the baggage claim area.

“’Bout the same as it was when you split,” Donny replied. “How’s things here?”

Mike nodded. “Good. Okay.” He grinned quickly, almost nervously. “Quiet, compared to out there.”

“Colder, too.”

“Yeah, you forget what it’s like.”

One of the teenagers from the plane was staring at Mike. Donny nudged him and Mike nodded. “I get that here sometimes,” he murmured. “They’ve seen me somewhere before, but they can’t place it. I was shopping at Meijer’s the other day and the checkout girl thought I was Matthew McConaughey.”

Donny chuckled. “Better than Matt Frewer.”

“Tell me about it.”

The baggage carousel began moving and Donny’s duffel appeared. Mike grabbed it and they headed for the parking lot. The Land Rover was covered with road dirt and, aside from the shiny white California license plates, looked like just another SUV in northern Michigan.

“I made a reservation at the...” Donny started to say, but Mike cut him off.

“I know. I cancelled it. You’re staying out at our place.”

“How did you...?”

“I called your office this morning to find out what time your plane was getting in, and when your secretary told me about your reservation, I told her to cancel it. C’mon, Donny, that place was miles from the house. How were you gonna get back and forth?”

“Rent a car.”

“Fuck that shit, Donny.”

“I didn’t want to impose.”

Mike snorted. “Not a problem. We’ve got a guest room. Dad’s looking forward to meeting you.”

They were driving along the lake shore. The streetlights on the parkway were bright enough to illuminate some of the beach and catch the whitecaps of the waves as they came ashore. “So what have you told your folks about me?”

Mike gave him a wicked grin. “That you and I have been hot lovers off and on for the last couple of years as well as the executive producer for my next project and you’ve come here to meet the parents and ask for my hand in marriage.”

“Ha ha.”

“That you’re just a friend.”

“Okay.”

“Would you rather I’d gone with the hot lover line?”

Donny shrugged. “Probably more believable than the executive producer bit.”

“Yeah. You don’t exactly look like Louis B. Mayer.”

They went another mile or so, past boatyards and marinas, the lots full of tarped hulls and cabin cruisers. The traffic was light, and they turned off onto M-72 heading west, following the arrow pointing toward Empire. “So this is the plan,” Mike said. “Thanksgiving tomorrow, then Friday morning head to Toledo, see your folks, then head for L.A. Get there by Wednesday night, early Thursday. How’s that sound?”

“Good,” replied Donny. He was looking out the window at the houses passing by, lights in the windows glowing warmly. They all had the high-pitched roofs characteristic of the area. By Christmas the snow would start accumulating, and this part of the state often got more than fourteen feet over a winter. “So, what have you been doing for the last month or so?”

“Not much, really.” He tapped his thumbs on the steering wheel. “The thing is...Dad got diagnosed with prostate cancer back in September. I....”

“Jesus,” said Donny, “I’m sorry to hear that. Is he...?”

Mike smiled wistfully. “Oh, he’s doing pretty well. They caught it early. Despite the backwoodsy look of the place, they’ve got a hell of a good hospital in Traverse City. State of the art, really.”

“So don’t you want to stick around?”

“He doesn’t want me to. He said it’s not like he’s gonna go next week, so he said to get the hell out.” Mike chuckled softly. “Dad’s fighting mad and he’s gonna beat it. He’s also not the kind of guy who gets all sentimental. That comes from being a vet and knowing that at some point he has to put someone’s dog or cat to sleep. Life goes on. So when Jason called about your project, Dad’s first question was when was I leaving?”

They turned north through the evergreen forest until Mike slowed and turned off the highway into a gravel driveway. The black mailbox by the road said LANKOWSKI. The drive wound through the cedars until a modern log home, brightly lit by floodlights hanging from the eaves, emerged from the night. The drive circled around to a low deck, the headlights flashing past the carved front door. “Here we are,” Mike said.

The front door opened and a tall man in his mid-fifties stepped out onto the deck. He looked like an older and leaner version of Mike with steel-grey hair and the same features. He was wearing a red-checked flannel shirt and jeans, and Donny suddenly thought of the man on the Bounty paper towel wrapper except without the mustache. A golden retriever bounded out the door and trotted over to the driver’s side of the Land Rover.

Donny felt a wave of nervousness run through him and his legs trembled. He’d never met the parents of any of his lovers before, and he remembered how Mike had described the icy relationship he had with his mother. He let out a deep sigh and glanced at Mike. “This is it,” he whispered.

Mike shut off the engine. “Don’t worry. Neither Bailey or my dad bite.”

Dr. Lankowski shook Donny’s hand firmly. “Hi, Gene Lankowski. Let me grab your bags,” he said, then opened the back door and got the duffel bag. Bailey, her tail wagging furiously, sniffed eagerly at Donny’s leg and put her muzzle in his hand. “We have some leftovers if you’re still hungry,” Gene said over his shoulder as he went in the house.

The aroma of cinnamon and baking bread greeted them as they stepped through the door. The kitchen was off to the right of the front foyer that opened into a large living area that overlooked the back through large sliding doors. The room itself was furnished with cedar and birch-style chairs and tables with a colorfully-woven Native rug on top of the hardwood floor. A large stone fireplace at the other end crackled, the flames reflecting off the doors and vaulted ceiling. The woods were lit with floodlights, showing rows of cedars and pines. It reminded Donny of the house in Idyllwild.

“Hey, Mom, this is Donny,” Mike said as he went into the kitchen, and Donny followed him. His mother, a trim woman with lightly colored hair streaked with grey, dusted her hands on her apron, smiled at Donny, and said “I’m Anita. Nice to meet you.”

“Thank you,” Donny replied. The counter was lined with several pies and loaves of bread. “Wow,” he said. “Those smell fantastic. You must really love to bake.”

Mrs. Lankowski nodded. “Thank you. They’re all for tomorrow.”

Mike said, “Mom goes all out for Thanksgiving.”

“Let me know if I can help,” Donny replied.

Mrs. Lankowski raised an eyebrow. “I just might.”

“C’mon, let’s get you settled in.”

Gene led them down the hall off the living room, past a row of family photos, to the guest room. “There you are,” he said, plopping the duffel on the floor next to the bed. “Bath’s over there, extra blankets are in the closet.” He looked around to be sure that everything was in place. “Here, let me get your coat,” he added, and Donny shrugged it off. He took it out to the hall closet, and they went back to the kitchen. Donny looked at the pictures in the hall. There were several of Mike, all of them from his childhood or high school years, and several of his sister, her family, and the grandchildren. But there were no pictures of Mike from any of his films.

There was a plate of leftover chicken and mashed potatoes and green beans for him, and they chatted politely with the usual get-to-know-you stuff; Donny told the Lankowskis where he’d grown up and what he did in Los Angeles. They seemed as impressed by his home town upbringing as they did about his career. Donny didn’t say anything about his film career, and nobody asked him how he met Mike.

As they finished up, Mrs. Lankowski wordlessly put a pill bottle and a glass of water in front of her husband. He grinned slightly and said, “Thank you, my dear.” He took the medicine without comment.

Donny was getting ready for bed when Mike tapped softly on his door.

“All settled in?”

“Yeah. Nice place you’ve got here,” said Donny.

“This isn’t the place I grew up in,” Mike said. “Dad built it a couple of years ago as a place for him and Mom.” Mike poked the mattress. “Oh, and don’t mind Mom. She’s always been kinda quiet. Good call offering to help tomorrow, by the way.”

Donny grinned. “I might be more in the way, but...”

“It was nice. Don’t worry; she won’t hold you to it. She likes to do things herself.” Mike sat on the edge of the bed. “The dinner’s not until late tomorrow – like around five – so I thought I’d show you around.”

“Okay.” Donny glanced at Mike. He knew the signs; there was something on his mind. But Mike got up, gave Donny a quick hug, and said, “I’ll see you in the morning.”

*

The next morning was clear and cold. After a small breakfast Mrs. Lankowski shooed everyone out of the kitchen, and Mike and Donny went for a drive. Mike whistled Bailey into the wayback, and she paced back and forth looking out the windows.

They took the back roads, past cherry farms and orchards, the trees bare and stark against the sky. Mike slowed down as they passed a white farmhouse nestled at the bottom of a small valley. “That’s where we used to live. That was my granddad’s cherry farm. Dad sold most of the land and rented out the farm when he decided being a full time vet was work enough.” Donny looked at the neat clapboard house and the old red barn behind it, trying to imagine Mike growing up there.

They emerged at the lake shore and drove along the highway between the sand dunes and the woods. Many of the houses were closed for the season, as were a lot of the tourist shops along the road, windows and doors shuttered against the coming winter, leaves piled up in wind-blown piles in the porch corners. They passed through several small towns, some almost as abandoned as the shops, then turned inland and drove north through the hills. Off in the distance the lake, steel grey and cold, lay flat to the horizon.

The road bent down to the water again, this time along the shore of Grand Traverse Bay, passing through the village of Northport. The fields again were filled with fruit trees, marching in neat rows, the snow fences set up along the sides of the road in anticipation of the drifts to come. The road itself was lined with tall thin poles every hundred yards or so. Mike said it helped the snowplows stay on the road.

They finally ended up at the lighthouse park on the tip of the Leelanau peninsula. The old lighthouse was still there, now preserved as an historical site. The parking lot was empty.

They walked down to the shore, stepping over the rocks and the strands of seaweed, finally standing at the tip of the land, Bailey bounding ahead and startling a flock of gulls. There was a strong breeze blowing, whipping up the waves that came ashore. Off on the horizon two bumps of land – North and South Fox Island – were barely visible.

“Warm enough?” Mike said, digging his hands into his jeans pockets.

“Yeah,” said Donny, grateful for having pulled on the sweater that morning.

“C’mon, let’s walk down the beach a little; keep us warm.”

The shore turned to sand a little further on west of the lighthouse, the small dunes that curved up away from the shore providing a little more shelter. Mike pointed down the beach. “Used to come up here when I was a kid; there’s some back roads that lead out to the beach from behind that airport we passed. We’d go on picnics, and then...” he chuckled, “when I was in high school we’d come out there and have a little woodsie with my friends.”

“Kinda like what we’d do at Lorenzen’s quarry when I was a kid,” replied Donny.

“Yeah, smokin’ and drinkin’ and horsin’ around. Typical kid stuff.”

They walked on, passing some piles of driftwood. The sun was out and in spite of the wind it was not uncomfortable. “So,” Mike said, squinting a little, “who’s idea was it to send me the script?”

“Jack’s.”

“Jack’s?”

“Yeah.”

“Jack Magahee?”

“Yeah.”

“Why me?”

“Why not you?”

Mike shrugged. “Jason didn’t say anything about Jack. He just sent it on. I thought it was your idea.”

“I don’t even know Jason,” said Donny.

“But Gina does.”

“Gina knows everybody.”

Mike stopped to pull out his cigarettes. He offered one to Donny and they huddled together to light them. “So,” he said, “you gonna quit your job at McKay-Gemini, become some big-time producer like Paul Jeffries?”

“Hell no,” replied Donny.

Mike picked up a piece of driftwood, waved it at Bailey to get her attention, then threw it down the beach. The dog galloped after it, puffs of sand jetting back from her feet. “So this is just a one-time deal.”

“Probably.”

Mike squinted at him. “So why’d you hire an agent?”

Bailey came bounding back and dropped the stick, wagging her tail, waiting for Mike to throw it again.

They continued down the beach for a while. It actually began to warm up a little so by the time they turned around and headed back to the truck Mike had taken off his jacket.

They arrived back at the house in time to change into nice clothes, clean the sand off Bailey’s paws, sweep out of the back of the Land Rover, and help set the table. They set it for seven; Gene had invited his partner in his veterinary practice and his wife and son for the dinner. The house smelled of turkey, baking bread, cinnamon and cedar logs in the fireplace.

Promptly at four the Herlinger family – Clark, Stephanie, and son Tyler – arrived bearing a basket of fruit. Clark didn’t look much older than Mike; he was blond, a little chunky in the frame, and easily amused; he laughed at everything. Stephanie was small and attractive in a Midwestern sort of way; she wore her hair simply with very little make-up, and her outfit – a sweater and wool skirt – was simple but appropriately dressy for the occasion. Tyler was taller than both of his parents with his father’s hair color and the typical gangly thin frame of a sixteen-year-old. He was wearing a wool sweater over a button-down shirt and neatly-pressed jeans. He was silent, nodding a hello to the Lankowskis and shaking hands wordlessly when he was introduced to Mike and Donny.

Stephanie went into the kitchen to help with the last touches, and Gene showed Clark and Tyler into the living room. They settled into chairs, and the conversation drifted from local news to football and finally to Clark politely asking Donny what he did in Los Angeles. Donny replied that he worked for a software company, and they bombarded him with questions about computers, software, the internet, and what McKay-Gemini was doing. Donny did his best to answer without getting too technical. When he glanced over, he caught Mike grinning broadly at him.

Tyler had found a place on the corner of the couch where he sipped his Coke and occasionally munched a handful of Goldfish crackers. He listened silently, spending most of the time staring out the window at the woods. Finally Anita came in, announced that dinner was ready. Anita pointed out where everyone should sit; Donny next to Gene at the head of the table and across from Tyler, Mike next to her at the other end and across from Stephanie. They all held hands, bowed their heads as Gene offered a short grace, and they dug in.

“You boys are lucky,” said Clark as he picked up the bowl of mashed potatoes and took a small helping. “You can chow down all you want. Me, I gotta watch it or I’ll puff up like a balloon.”

Mike chuckled. “Hey, it happens,” he said, although he was still as lean as ever. “Now Donny...he’s the gymrat. He’ll burn it all off in one workout.”

“Nah,” replied Donny, taking a large helping. “Maybe two.” He passed the dish to Tyler and caught him staring at him. He grinned at the boy and took a slice of turkey.

The conversation drifted until Stephanie asked Mike about the movie he had been working on. Mike smiled and said that it was done and would be on the air in time for Christmas on CBS.

“Is that the one with Jeremy Dixon?” asked Stephanie.

“That’s it,” said Mike.

“Well,” said Clark, sounding impressed, “that’s impressive.”

Tyler looked down the table at Mike. “You’re in a movie with Jeremy Dixon?”

“Yeah.”

“Cool. So...what’s he like?”

Mike grinned knowingly. “Nice guy. Good actor.”

Donny looked at Tyler, who looked at him quickly then down at this plate. If only you knew, Donny thought.

Stephanie asked Mike a lot of questions about Back Home Again, about making a movie, what it was like on the set.

Stephanie looked at Donny and said, “So you grew up in Los Angeles? That must have been interesting.”

“No,” Donny replied. “I actually grew up outside of Toledo.”

“Oh? How did you get to California?”

“The usual way,” Mike cut in. “The interstate.”

Everybody laughed, and Donny told the story about working construction, the ice storm, the Christmas card from the relatives, and his showing up in Whittier with a pick-up truck, a duffel bag, and $800 in the bank. “And one day I lucked into a job answering the phone at a computer company,” he concluded, taking a small slice of ham.

“He’s being modest,” Mike said. “He’s one of the brains behind the latest bubble in the dot-com business.”

“Which could pop at any minute,” warned Donny.

“So how did you two meet?” asked Clark, chewing on a dinner roll.

Donny shot Mike a look that said you take this one.

Mike said, “Friends. I was looking for a place to stay after the earthquake and Donny’s roommate Rob, who I knew from the studio, hooked us up.” Donny nodded. Nice cover, he thought. Somehow the conversation got to Donny helping Mike with the re-writes on Return to Sender and that led to the verge of Small Town Boys, but Donny was able to catch Mike’s eye, give him an almost imperceptible shake of the head to fend him off.

“So you’re a writer, too?” said Stephanie.

For an instant Donny wondered what would happen if he said, “Yeah, I’m working on a TV show about four gay guys sharing a house in Santa Monica,” and the thud as chins hit the table. But this didn’t seem to be the time or the place, so he just shook his head and said, “No, I just...helped Mike a little, that’s all.”

“He’s being modest again,” said Gene. “Aren’t you working on a project?”

Donny shot Mike a look; he had apparently told his parents something about Small Town Boys. “Oh, nothing really big. Everybody out in L.A. is writing something. It’ll probably go nowhere.” He shrugged and hoped that someone would change the subject. “Pass the rolls, please.”

Clark said to Mike, “Well, we were all disappointed to see your show get cancelled.”

Mike sighed, “That’s show biz. Everybody wants to be the next Friends.”

Donny noticed that Anita listened in silence, concentrating on her meal and making sure that everyone had plenty to eat. Donny also noticed that Tyler was looking at him frequently, to the point that Donny became self-conscious of it, wondering if there was some spinach on his teeth or he had a booger hanging off his nose. He carefully dabbed his mouth with his napkin, checked his teeth with his tongue, and assured himself that nothing was out of the ordinary. But Tyler was still looking at him, and he felt a twinge of discomfort.

The meal ended with a choice of pies, ice cream, and coffee, and Donny volunteered to help clear the table. Anita thanked him and then politely shooed him out of the kitchen while she and Stephanie cleaned up.

The TV was in Gene’s study off the living room and they settled in to watch the last of the late football game. The post-meal stupor was settling over them; Mike was stretched out in the La-Z-Boy, the afghan pulled over him, his eyes barely open. Tyler was already on the couch, but when Donny came in he shifted over and made room for him. Tyler seemed to be concentrating intently on the game, but when a commercial came on he glanced at Donny.

“You work out, huh,” he said, more of a statement than a question.

“Yeah.”

“How much?”

“Three, four times a week; sometimes more or less depending on work.”

Tyler was looking at the TV again. “Yeah, me too,” he said quietly. “Not like it’s doin’ any good,” he added with a self-deprecating tone.

“It takes time,” said Donny. “Can’t expect results overnight.”

“How long you been doin’ it?”

“Since high school. But I played football, too.”

“So like how old are you now?”

“Twenty-four.”

“So you’ve been doin’ it, like, for a long time.”

“Yeah, I guess. Nine years.”

Tyler scowled. “I just can’t seem to get...y’know...going.”

“Just keep at it,” Donny said. “Keep a positive attitude,” he said, wincing at the cliché.

“I try, but...”

Donny tried a different tack. “So why are you lifting in the first place? What do you want to get out of it?”

“To get big,” Tyler said instantly. “Could you like show me?”

“Show you what?”

“Your work-out. I mean, like what you do and stuff.”

Donny looked at him quizzically. “How could I...?”

“I mean, like, write it down.”

“Oh, sure.”

Gene gave him a legal pad and a pencil and Donny started to write down his routine. It took him a moment to remember exactly what he did because it was so automatic that he did it by rote; thinking about it made him stop and back up a few times.

Donny found it uncomfortable to write on his knees, so they went into the dining room and sat down at the now-cleared table. Donny explained each routine and what it did, and as he did he was remembering what it was like in his first gym class freshman year when Coach Lester had lectured them on the right and wrong ways to lift weights. Donny echoed the coach: know your limits and don’t try to show off. Tyler listened intently, his eyes never leaving Donny.

Donny tore the pages off the pad and handed them to Tyler. “I don’t make any guarantees, and I’d let your coach look this over before you do any of it.” He pulled out one of his McKay-Gemini business cards. “Here’s my address; you got any questions, drop me a note, okay?”

“Okay,” Tyler said, folding the pages and sticking them in his back pocket. He looked shyly at Donny. “Um, could you, um...?”

“What?”

“Uh, flex for me?” he whispered.

Donny was wearing a polo shirt over a t-shirt. He flexed his right biceps and the large muscle made a globe-shaped bulge, the veins cording. Tyler muttered, “Jesus.” Donny patted Tyler on the shoulder. “You’ll be there in no time. C’mon, let’s see the end of the game.

As they settled on the couch, a pager beeped. “Mine,” said Clark apologetically. He dug in his pocket, pulled out a quarter and said, “Call it” as he flipped the coin. Gene said, “Heads.” It came up tails. Clark scowled at the read-out. “Can I use your phone?”

Gene indicated the desk and Clark called the number. He listened for a moment, sighed, and said, “I’ll be right there.” He hung up the phone and shook his head.

“What’s up?” said Gene.

“Jacobsen’s. Got a breech calving in progress.”

Gene chuckled. “Good thing I called heads,” he said.

Clark smiled wanly. “Nice pun.” He went out to the foyer and pulled on his coat. “Thanks for the dinner. Steph, I gotta run out to Jacobsen’s. I’d go and come back, but there’s no telling how long this will take. C’mon, Ty, get your coat.” He shook hands with Donny. “Nice to meet you. Mike, take care, and say hooray to Hollywood for me.”

They shook hands all around, Stephanie beaming at Mike. “We’re all so proud of you and your career,” she said.

Donny glanced at Anita, whose expression was unchanged. She handed Tyler a paper grocery bag full of leftovers. “Lunch tomorrow,” she said.

“And the day after,” said Stephanie. “Thank you so much.”

They waved goodbye from the deck as the Herlingers got into their Suburban. Tyler caught Donny’s eye, waved shyly, and clenched his fist. Donny waved back. Mike caught this exchange and chuckled.

Back in the house, Gene said to Donny, “How about a nightcap?”

“Sure.”

Mike was putting on his coat. “You guys go ahead; I think I’ll take Bailey out for a run.”

Donny followed Gene back into the study. “What’s your pleasure? Scotch? Bourbon? Sherry?”

“Bourbon’s fine.”

Gene poured the drinks. “Sorry I couldn’t offer you anything before, but both Clark and I were on call and Stephanie’s a born-again Christian and she doesn’t approve of liquor in front of Tyler.” He motioned to the loungers. “Have a seat,” he said, and then closed the door. Donny got the feeling that this was going to be more than just a nightcap. But Gene smiled, settled into his chair, and took a sip. “Ah, that’s good.” He looked at Donny. “I’m glad you could make it up here, Don. Mike’s told me a lot about you, and it’s good to see that he has made a friend out there.”

“Thanks. It’s my pleasure.”

Gene leaned back. “I take it that Mike’s told you about my little medical problem.”

“Yes sir.”

Gene winced. “Oh, please, cut out the ‘sir’ crap. I’m Gene, not your high school principal. And I’m only fifty-five. Hell, I still call people ‘sir.’”

Donny smiled. “Okay.”

“Anyway, I’ve told him and I’ll tell you; it’s not a big deal. They caught it early, it’s highly treatable, and the cure rate is very high. Right now they think they can control it with medication. If not, I have the surgery, and the worst that can happen is that I won’t be able to get it up any more.”

Donny chuckled in spite of himself, and Gene nodded approvingly. “Yeah, you do have a sense of humor. Mike said you did.” He sipped his drink again. “Anyway, it’s been sort of an eye-opener for me. I mean, I’ve spent all these years as a vet treating animals for a lot of diseases, including my share of prostate cancers, and I’ve always wondered in the back of my mind what I’d think if it happened to me. If I came down with it. And now I know.” Gene stared out the window for a moment, then back at the glass in his hands. “I love my son deeply,” he said softly, almost tenderly. “I haven’t always understood him, and I can’t say that I was happy about his...choices in life, but that doesn’t change the fact that he’s my son and nothing he’s ever done or could do would make me not love him and care about him.” He glanced at Donny. “All I want for him is to be happy.” Donny remembered hearing those words from his mother on the patio by the swimming pool in the back of Uncle Ron’s house. He started to form something to say but thought better of it. “I want him to know that,” Gene added.

“He does,” Donny said.

Gene nodded. “I hope so. We haven’t always shown it.” He shrugged. “We’ve never seen his house up in the mountains. We’ve never even been out to California. We’ve talked about it, but something always comes up...” Gene looked at Donny for a moment, as if he was trying to decide whether or not to say something more, then took another sip. “I worried about him when he decided to quit school and go out there. I didn’t know what he wanted to do and you know it’s not easy for some kid from the middle of nowhere to make it out there doing anything.” Gene smiled for a second and added, “Although it looks like you and he proved me wrong. But most of all I worried about him being alone out there, with no friends or family. He was always a quiet kid, never really any trouble, but he never really had any close friends, either. We – I – worried that he’d just get swallowed up like a lot of people out there and....” Gene’s voice trailed off and he stared at his glass. “I guess I should have known that he would do all right. He’s my son. But still...you worry.” Again he stared at his glass, swirling the ice a little, the cubes clinking softly. He took another swallow, then looked at Donny. “So, for what it’s worth, I’m glad he’s met some good people out there. You mean a lot to him, Don, and...I just wanted you to know that I’m glad to see that he’s...” The sentence trailed off and Donny was about to speak when Gene said softly, “I’m glad to see that he’s met someone. It’s not exactly how I imagined it would be, but...” Gene looked at him again, his expression almost pleading. “I’m happy for him.”

There was silence for a moment, then Gene rattled the ice in his glass. “Freshen your drink?”

Donny hadn’t touched his, so he took a gulp. The bourbon stung and warmed as it went down. “No, I’m good.”

Gene got up and poured himself another. “So, Mike tells me you have a ’65 Mustang,” he said, probably trying to lighten the mood.

“Yeah, I do. Convertible.”

“GT?”

“Yeah.”

“What color?”

“Red. White interior, white top.”

“Ooh, that’s perfect. You restore it yourself?”

“Oh, no...bought it off a used car lot.”

“Drive it every day?”

“I used to, but now I have a Tahoe for that.”

Gene settled back in his chair and grinned, “I had one of those, too. Dark green with the camel top. Got it right out of college. It was my dream car.” He chuckled, “Man, I thought I was one of the Beach Boys, cruising around East Lansing in that thing. You a fan of the Beach Boys?”

“Yeah, I am.”

“’Course, trying to be a surfer dude in Michigan is a little rough. And I didn’t have it all that long; about a year. Had to sell it to help pay for vet school, and when you’ve got a couple of young kids, you need something a little more practical, I guess. But maybe someday...”

“They still make Mustang convertibles,” Donny said. “GT’s with a V-8 and everything.”

Gene smiled. “Don’t tempt me. Anita would kill me.”

“Well, when you come out to L.A. I’ll let you drive mine.”

“It’s a deal.”

Off in the distance a door opened and Bailey shook her collar, indicating that Mike was back from his walk.

“Well,” Gene said, “it was good to talk to you.”

He got up. As he did, Donny said, “I love him, too.”

Gene stopped, nodded silently, and opened the door.

As Donny was getting ready for bed, Mike tapped on his door. “So, you wanna call your folks and let ‘em know we’ll be there tomorrow afternoon?”

Donny held up his cell phone. “Already called. We’ll probably get leftovers there, too.”

He looked at Donny for a second, perhaps to try to glean something from him about what had happened while he was gone, but Donny studiously gave him no visible reaction. After a slightly uncomfortable moment, Mike said, “Hey, that was real nice of you to talk to Tyler like that.”

“Sure.”

“Dad says Clark’s been worried about him. The kid is awfully shy; doesn’t have a lot of friends here.”

Donny pulled off his shoes. “Yeah, I remember what being sixteen was like.”

Mike opened the door. “Yeah. Me too.” He looked at Donny again, seeming to be on the verge of saying something. But instead he just said, “I’ll see you in the morning.”

Donny finished undressing and settled in under the thick down comforter. In the darkness and the long time it took for him to finally fall asleep, it occurred to him that the entire reason for the trip had been that drink with Mike’s father.

*

They left the next morning after breakfast, getting on the road shortly before nine. The sky was cloudy and threatening. Mike was unusually quiet as he ate, and when the time came to say goodbye, he hugged his father for a long time and Donny thought he heard him let out a stifled sob.

Donny suddenly found himself staring off into the woods. He thanked Anita for everything and she nodded and briefly smiled. Gene shook his hand and smiled at him, and then, taking him over to the side of the deck, out of sight of Mike, who was loading his bags in the back of the Land Rover, said quietly, “Take care of my son, will you?”

“I sure will,” was all he could manage.

Gene patted him on the shoulder. “I know.”

Mike slammed the tailgate shut. Bailey, wagging her tail furiously, whined and tried to get into the back seat, but Mike pulled her back up to the deck. “No, you stay here, girl. You’d hate L.A.; there’s no squirrels to chase.” He looked up at his parents and grinned, putting on his best celebrity smile. “Okay, well, we’re off. Think about coming out there at Christmas, okay?”

“We’ll see,” said Gene.

“Yeah, okay.” Mike got behind the wheel and revved the engine. “C’mon, Donny, let’s hit the road.”

“Thanks again,” Donny said as he shut the door, the truck already moving. He waved at the Lankowskis, and they waved back until they were hidden by the trees.

Mike drove silently with the radio on the classical station from the Interlochen Center for the Arts for the first hour or so. It wasn’t until they had stopped for gas and Mike had smoked a cigarette that he said, “Looks like the sky is clearing.”

There was little traffic heading south, but in the other lane it was one long stream of cars, trucks, and RV’s heading for the long weekend up north. “Good thing we’re going this way,” Mike muttered.

“Yeah,” agreed Donny.

The radio signal from WIAA began to sputter and cut out. Mike punched the “seek” on the radio dial until he found a classic rock station, but it soon faded. “Fuck it,” he said and snapped the radio off. That was followed by about five minutes of silence until Mike said, “What really happened with Jeremy Dixon?”

They were on the freeway now, just east of Clare, heading east on towards Midland and Bay City. Donny decided to tell Mike everything, including Marc’s history before he came to work at the Cantina and McKay-Gemini. By the time Donny finished telling the story, they had made the turn south onto I-75 and were south of Flint.

“So, basically,” Donny said, “that’s it. Jeremy agreed to let Back Home Again out of the can, leave Marc alone, and no one else will know about his little movie.” He looked at Mike, who had been silent throughout the entire narrative, and added, “And I’m counting on you keeping it under your hat, too.”

Mike nodded. “Y’know, I’ve heard rumors about that for a long time, but...hell, I just figured it was noise like Tom Cruise or whatever. So you actually saw it. The porn flick.”

“Yeah.”

Mike tried to repress a chuckle. “Any good?”

“I’ve never really been into porn,” Donny said. “The quality was shitty.”

“Sonofabitch.”

They pulled off at Ann Arbor and Mike asked Donny to drive. “You know where we’re going.”

They were a few miles from the Ohio line when Mike, who had been dozing, sat up and said, “Y’know, for ten cents I’d get the hell out of the business and move back to Maple City.”

“So why don’t you?”

“I don’t know. Y’know, it’s like a huge high school with all the gossip and the sex and the drama and the bullshit. I can’t believe you want in on it, Donny.”

“I can turn this thing around and have you back up there in time for dinner,” Donny offered.

“Don’t tempt me.”

The Hollenbeck house looked the same as it had the day Donny had left except the paint was fresher and his mom had already hung the Christmas wreath on the front door. Donny pulled into the driveway and parked in the spot where he used to park his truck. It was still early enough in the day that both his parents were still at work; the bank was open the day after Thanksgiving, and the doctor’s office where Mrs. Hollenbeck worked was open as well. Donny still had a key to the back door by the garage on his key chain. He unlocked the door and stepped inside.

It was like he had never left. The same coats and hats were hung on the hooks in the mudroom off the kitchen. The old white Kelvinator refrigerator that they used to keep beer and leftovers hummed in the corner. His father’s work boots were under the little work bench where Donny and Danny used to drop their schoolbooks on their way in from the bus. The only thing different was the new Whirlpool washer and dryer that had replaced the old Maytags that had served them since they had moved into the house. Even the smell – a combination of laundry soap, Bounce, and the pungent tang of hard rubber from the doormat – was the same.

Everything in the kitchen looked the same as well, and Donny remembered that cold January morning he had left thinking he’d be back in a few weeks; back in time to get in on the first construction jobs in the spring. He looked around. The big calendar with the Audubon prints that they got every year from the insurance company hung in its usual place next to the wall phone. The little pictures – the prints from the Grandma Moses collection – were in their usual place over the window over the sink, and looking out that window to the back yard, where the willow tree was now bare, its thin branches dangling over the fence, Donny could see across the fields, past the distant line of trees to where he knew that under that clump of oaks a quarter of a mile away was Lorenzen’s quarry.

There was a note on the kitchen table between the salt and pepper shakers; the same place where his mom used to leave notes and afterschool instructions. “Help yourself to some pie in the fridge. Home by five,” it read in her neat round handwriting.

“C’mon,” he said to Mike, “let’s take our stuff upstairs.”

Mike followed him up the stairs, past the family photos lining the wall. He stopped halfway up to look at a photo of the twins together in a baby carriage. “I’m the one on the left,” said Donny.

“Yeah, I can tell.”

“How?”

Mike looked at Donny. “I just can. You guys may be twins, but you don’t look exactly alike.”

They went into the twins’ bedroom. It was unchanged; the beds on either side of the room, the same posters on the wall, the same books on the bookshelves, the same blankets and bedspreads. Donny put his duffel on his bed and pointed at Danny’s. “That’s yours.”

Mike put his overnight bag on the bed, looked around, and let out a little chuckle. “It’s like something out of Leave It to Beaver. The twin beds, the posters; I bet you still got your jammies hung up in the closet.”

“I haven’t worn ‘jammies’ since I was twelve,” said Donny dryly.

“You ever have sex in here?” Mike asked.

“With who?”

“Yeah, good point. Well, maybe we could...”

“Not a chance,” said Donny quickly. “My parents’ bedroom is at the end of the hall, and you make noises when you come.”

“Your parents aren’t home.”

“Still.”

Donny showed him the rest of the house, going out to the back porch, now sealed in with plastic against the winter, the furniture covered with old sheets. Then, with nothing better to do, Donny took him back into town and showed him the old familiar places, pointing out homes of friends, stores, and driving past the high school and the football field. “Looks like a nice place to grow up in,” said Mike.

“Not a lot different than where you did.”

“I was out in the country. This is the ‘burbs. You guys have a drive-through KFC and everything.”

They drove up Louisiana Avenue, past the library, the gas station, the hardware store, and the new shops that had replaced the appliance store, the bakery, and the old storefront market that had been there when Donny was a kid. The drugstore was under a new owner with a new façade, but he still thought of it as Houck’s with the soda fountain and the racks of comic books in the corner by the window. They drove past the bank where his father worked and saw his car in the parking lot. For a moment he thought about telling Mike to pull in, but changed his mind. He didn’t think it was a good idea to introduce Mike to his father in front of the rest of the bank. A pick-up truck with a construction company logo passed them and Donny realized it was Frank Dungan, his old boss. He almost waved.

They parked in front of the ice cream parlor. The city had already begun celebrating the holidays; the streetlights were wrapped in coils of tinsel and tiny lights, and at the end of the street, a crew was putting the finishing touches on the Christmas tree. Somewhere some outdoor speaker was playing “Silver Bells.”

There were a people in the shop, mostly parents with kids, but they didn’t have to wait. Donny scanned the blackboard over the back looking for dark chocolate.

“Well, hey, Donny, how’re you?” said a voice, and Donny turned to see Elaine Gruber. She was behind the counter in the white and blue uniform. She was short and solid, with blonde hair, a round face, and narrow glasses that made her blue eyes look like she was squinting.

“Hi, Elaine,” he smiled, “good to see you.”

“Likewise!” She glanced at Mike and he gave her a quick smile and went back to perusing the menu board. Her mouth dropped open a little, but then she smiled and shook her head as if she decided that there would be no reason for Lance Michaels to be standing in an ice cream parlor in Perrysburg, Ohio. “Haven’t seen you in long time. You still working with Frank?”

“Uh, no, actually, I live in L.A. now.” Donny replied, catching the interaction between Beth and Mike. “Elaine, this is Mike. He’s a friend of mine; we’re driving back from his folks’ place in Michigan.” It sounded lame, but Beth smiled again.

“Hi, nice to meet you,” she said.

“Same here,” replied Mike.

Elaine leaned on the counter. “How’s it going? What’s Danny up to? He’s in the Air Force, right?”

“Yeah,” Donny replied.

“Great. So, what’ll you have?”

They each had a scoop of German Chocolate cake and sat at one of the little tables. Donny told Mike that Elaine had once had a crush on him in high school. Mike looked at Elaine, who was now at the sink in the back rinsing out some scoops. Mike grinned. “She has excellent taste. What happened?”

“Nothing. I let her down easy, and she hooked up with some football player. Married him, I think.”

Mike smiled wistfully. “Life in a small town. You miss it?”

“Do you?” Donny replied.

The garage door was open when they pulled into the driveway, the white Buick Century in the left slot.

“Mom’s home,” said Donny as they parked.

Mike shut off the engine. “Now it’s my turn to be nervous,” he said with a chuckle.

“Don’t worry,” Donny replied. “We don’t have a dog.”

*

Donny awoke slowly and found himself staring at the same two knotholes in the ceiling paneling of his bedroom that he’d awoken to for so many years. They reminded him of owl’s eyes; wide, round, almost identical, with small centers of yellow resin spots that served as the pupils. He lay staring at them, just as he had as a child, as a teen, and on that morning in January when he’d last slept in this bed.

Everything felt so familiar. The same patterns of light and dark as the sun rose behind the pulled shades over the windows, the same smells of the room, the same sounds as the furnace sighed and lit in the basement, the thermostat clicking on for the daytime setting. From downstairs came the familiar clatter as his mother pulled out the old cast iron skillet to make breakfast, and soon the smell of frying bacon drifted up the stairs and under the door. Even the lump of rumpled blankets and pillows on the other bed looked like old times, except he knew it was Mike, not Danny. He was still asleep, his gentle breathing ending in a slight snore.

He thought back to the night before and the first meeting of Mike and his parents. His mother had hugged him and greeted Mike with a firm handshake and a beaming smile. His father had nodded and smiled and told Mike he was glad to meet him. Mike had had called them Mr. and Mrs. Hollenbeck and was immediately corrected to Fred and Anne. They had a drink in the living room and then a supper of pork chops and leftover side dishes from Thanksgiving. The conversation was filled with polite inquiries about Donny’s job, the latest news from Danny, and Thanksgiving with Mike’s family. No one brought up Mike’s career, and nothing was said about Small Town Boys. Donny couldn’t remember if he had ever said anything to his parents about it.

They were finishing dessert when Danny called. He had waited to call until that night because he knew Donny and Mike would be there. He chatted with his parents for a while, then asked to speak to Donny. His mother handed him the cordless phone, and he went out to the back porch, closing the door behind him. Back in the living room his father turned on the TV set. There was a hockey game on that he wanted to watch.

“So how’s the trip?” Danny asked, his voice a little staticky.

“So far so good.”

“Everything cool with the parental units?”

“Yeah. They seem to like him.”

“They don’t...”

“Not that I can tell.”

“Never talked to Dad, did you?”

“Nope.”

A pause, the line crackling a little. “I think he worries about you.”

“What makes you say that?” Donny looked through the sliding patio door. Mike had joined his father watching the game.

Another pause, then, “Just a feeling.”

“Huh,” Donny said softly. “Hey, you still coming back to L.A. for Christmas?”

“I put in for leave that time; we’ll see. You drive the Jeep recently?”

“Last week.”

“Cool. When are you heading back?”

“Sunday morning. Should be back by there by Thursday.”

“It’s a long haul. Take it easy.”

“As opposed to driving like the Cannonball Run?”

“Yeah. Well, say hi to Mike for me.”

“I will.”

“Love you, twin.”

Donny got out of bed and found his old wool bathrobe handing on the hook in the closet, right where he’d left it. He made a mental note to take it back with him, even though it was a little tight in the shoulders now and the belt was a tad ragged. He padded to the bathroom and turned on the shower, the familiar thrum of the water on the steel sides and the unique scent of Lysol and soap rising with steam. His mother had even hung out the old towels with “Donny” and “Danny” sewn in them.

Mike was awake when he went back to the room, blinking and rubbing his eyes. “Hey,” he said sleepily. “Time is it?”

“Little after eight.” He pulled on clean clothes and folded his towel as Mike sat up. “You’re ‘Danny’ now,” he said, “at least in the bathroom.”

During breakfast Mike told Donny that he was going to run back into town to the tire store they’d passed. “Think I’ll get the tires rotated and balanced. I noticed a little vibration yesterday.” He helped clear the table, thanked Anne, and left. Donny helped his mother rinse the dishes and load the dishwasher.

“Do you boys have any laundry that needs being done?” she asked.

“I can do it, Mom,” he replied, grinning inwardly at her calling them “the boys,” just like it was he and Danny.

“It’s no trouble. Bring it down and I’ll get them done.”

“Thanks.”

Anne rinsed out the sink. “He’s very nice. And I have seen him on TV, haven’t I?”

“Uh huh. He had a series that just got cancelled.”

“Oh, that’s too bad.” She looked out the window over the sink. Fred was out in the backyard, leaf rake in hand, picking up sticks and stray branches.

“Well, he’s got a new agent, so there should be something coming along for him,” Donny said. He looked out the window at his father.

His mother glanced at him. “He could use a hand.”

“Okay.”

His father was now raking the leaves, making neat little piles as he always did, scraping the last of them out from under the rhododendrons and the azaleas that lined the fence. The small wheelbarrow was half-full of leaves and sticks. The rest of the yard was immaculate; the rose bushes pruned back for the winter, the patio bare of the furniture that was now stored neatly in the garage attic, the patio itself swept clean. The wrought iron birdbath was empty, the copper-lined basin cleaned and covered with a small canvas tarp. He had even raked up the scattered seeds from the bird feeder that his mother maintained. A couple of chickadees darted back and forth from the protection of the bushes to the tray, buzzing and chirring as they flew.

Donny took the extra rake from the garage and started along the fence line, catching the stray leaf or two from under the maples and hackberry trees that shaded the yard in the summer and where they had hung the rope hammock, a perfect place to lie on a summer night and listen to the Tigers game on the radio, watch the lightning bugs emerge from the yews, and listen to the occasional bzzt as a mosquito got caught in the bug-zapper. He too made neat little piles, remembering the countless Saturdays of yard work and games of touch football this time of year under the perpetually grey skies of an Ohio November. He idly thought about the backyard of his home in Santa Monica, thinking that if he was there now, he’d be dipping the leaves out of the pool, checking the chemicals, and then perhaps swimming some laps before going off to the gym.

His father looked around the yard and nodded his approval, then began picking up the piles and dropping them in the wheelbarrow. Donny did the same.

“Thanks for the help,” Fred said, plucking some pine needles off his work gloves.

“Like old times,” Donny said.

Fred nodded, smiled a little, then leaned on his rake. “It’s good to have you home.”

“Nice to be here.”

“Your mother’s glad to see you. She misses you.”

“I call every week.”

Fred nodded, but he said, “It’s not really the same.”

“Well, it’s not like I can come home on weekends.”

“I know.” He spotted a twig on the ground, picked it up, and examined it. “She just misses you, that’s all.” He dropped the twig in the barrow.

Donny waited. He knew from his father’s expression there was something more coming. His father rubbed his hands together and glanced at his son. “And she worries about you.” He paused, and then added, “We both do,” almost as an afterthought.

“What about? I’ve got a good job and health insurance. And I’ve started saving some money. Bought a house; building some equity. You always said things like that were important.”

“Yes, I did. And we’re proud of you for that,” Fred said, adding with a rueful chuckle, “We’re counting on it in our old age.” He poked at the ground with his rake. “But what I think worries your mom – and me – is that....” He paused, glancing up at the sky, then looking at his son, “Is that you’re alone out there.” He looked down at the ground again, finding another imaginary leaf to rake.

“I’ve got friends, Dad. There’s Eric, there’s Greg, there’s...Mike. And Uncle Ron and Aunt Barbara....”

“I know. We know. And that’s good. But...we just...” He started to move the wheelbarrow, then stopped. “We just worry that you’re there by yourself in that house and you...”

“It’s okay, Dad. I kinda like it, if you know what I mean.”

His father shrugged. “No, I really don’t. I’ve never lived by myself, Donny. I always had someone either at home or to come home to. So I don’t know what it’s like to be on my own, and...I just worry, that’s all.” He started to go back to the garage.

Donny said, “Is it because I’m never going to get married?”

His father stopped, and put the wheelbarrow down. For a moment he did nothing, then turned and looked at his son. His expression was calm, almost sorrowful, but his shoulders were tense, and Donny could see that he’d struck a nerve. “That’s part of it. But...” He walked back to Donny, who had not moved. “I worry about both of you. Danny in the Air Force, you out there in California. Both of you are doing so well, but...we wonder – I wonder – why....” His voice drifted off, his eyes searching Donny’s face for a moment.

Donny understood. “Why we left here,” he said quietly, and his father nodded. “Why we felt like we had to get away to some other place. Why we felt like we didn’t belong here.” His father nodded again and gave him a pleading look. Donny looked around the yard. He remembered where the swing set and sandbox used to be, where their tree house in the mulberry tree had been, now gone when the limbs cracked in a heavy wind in high school. He could hear the ringing bounce of the basketball on the driveway, the thud against the backboard that was now netless, the hoop a little rusty, but still in place because when Danny and his father painted the garage a few years ago they didn’t have the heart to take it down. He looked at the Emerson’s house next door and the trees that shaded their yard and dropped leaves in their above-ground pool now covered with the black tarp, and off in the distance he heard the rumble and whistle of the freight train on the tracks that went through the center of town. You could set your watch by them. He shivered a little. The wind was picking up, the grey clouds scudding overhead. He caught the faint whiff of burning leaves. He suddenly wanted a cigarette, but he knew his father didn’t like him smoking, so he hunched his shoulders against the wind and let out a long breath. “I don’t know,” he finally said. “We just had to, that’s all.”

His father pushed the wheelbarrow back to the garage, Donny following him to the compost heap, his hands shoved deep in his pockets. He felt like he had to say something more. “It wasn’t anything to do with you or Mom.”

Fred dumped the leaves unto the pile. “I know that, Donny.” He poked the pile. “You probably felt like you couldn’t be...yourself here. Am I right?”

Donny smiled a little. “We’ve never have talked about that, have we?” he said, “me being gay.”

His father shook his head. “No.”

“Does it bother you?”

His father looked at him solemnly. “You’re my son and I love you. Nothing will ever change either fact, and the only thing that upsets me is that you seemed to think that you didn’t feel that you could talk to us about it.”

“What’s there to say? It wasn’t that I didn’t feel I couldn’t talk about it. It’s just that...I dunno, did you talk to Grandpa Ed about things like that?”

“No, but then I’m not gay, either. But is that why you ran off to California? Because you felt like you didn’t fit in here?”

“That didn’t have anything to do with it, Dad. I never really thought about it one way or the other. I just didn’t want to spend the rest of my life pounding nails for Frank, that’s all. I didn’t want to end up like Stan Tasker.”

“Or Scott Welles.” his father said quietly.

Donny stared at his father, who looked at him and raised an eyebrow. “What about Scott?” Donny said hesitantly.

“You and he were friends, am I right?”

“Yeah. Well, I mean, we got together a few times...”

Fred nodded. “I remember that. I hear he’s doing pretty well in Chicago, but you won’t hear that from his parents. They don’t talk about him. He’s been cut off from them because he lives with another man. They’ve disowned him. He’s out of the will and when he comes to visit here, he stays at the Holiday Inn.”

“Wow,” Donny replied.

“Wow indeed,” said Fred, looking at his son.

“How did you hear about that?”

“His brother Derek works for me in the mortgage department. I told him you were coming for a visit this weekend, we got to talking, and he told me about Scott. That reminds me. Derek gave me his phone number and asked you to call him if you get the chance.”

“Sure.”

“You didn’t think that would happen with us, did you?”

“No, Dad, ‘course not.”

Fred shook his head sadly. “I can’t imagine someone cutting themselves off from their child like that.”

“Some people just can’t handle it, Dad.”

Fred scowled. “There are so many more important things about a person than who they sleep with that it’s just inconceivable to me that any parent would do that. The point is, Donny, that your mother and I want you to be happy and we know that being gay isn’t an easy road to be on. There are a lot of people who still are convinced it’s not normal.” He shrugged. “What’s normal, anyway? But...we just want you to know that, and we will be here no matter what. I will say that your mother was hoping to be in the grandma business by now.”

“I’ll tell Danny to get right on it.”

“Well, hopefully he’ll get married first. Does he have any prospects that you know of?”

“None that he’s shared with me.”

“Well, I can think of about six tellers at the bank who have a crush on him. On both of you, as a matter of fact. I’ve got both your pictures on the credenza in my office and many’s the time I’ve seen the ladies staring at both of you.”

“Nice to know I’ve still got it,” Donny replied. “What picture is it?”

“The one from Danny’s graduation.” He turned to Danny. “I’m proud of both my sons. I’m glad you’ve got a good job and a nice home. But it doesn’t stop me from thinking that you are going to be missing something by not having someone to share your life with.”

Fred pushed the wheelbarrow around to the front yard. A few minutes later Mike pulled in the driveway. Fred looked at him and then back at Donny with a questioning glance. Donny smiled a little. “Actors don’t really get to have a private life, and...”

“I get the picture,” he said.

Mike joined them. “Everything okay?” Donny asked him.

“Yeah, just threw a balance weight on the left front.” He looked around the yard. “Can I lend a hand?”

“Sure,” Fred said. “Donny, give him your rake and go in and call Derek. I told him you’d call him.”

Derek answered on the second ring as if he was waiting for Donny to call. “Good to hear from you, Donny. How long are you gonna be in town?”

“Just until tomorrow. I’m driving back to L.A. with a friend.”

“Wow. Well, like I said, thanks for calling. I really like working for your dad.”
“Oh, thanks.” Donny’s memories of Derek were that of a quiet kid who didn’t participate in much in class but was usually on the honor roll. He’d played football, but Donny couldn’t remember ever having much of a conversation with him before.

“Hang on a second,” said Derek. He muffled the phone, then a voice said, “Hi, Donny.”

He recognized the voice immediately. “Hi, Scott.”

After he hung up, he went back outside. “He wants to meet for coffee.”

Mike grinned. “Sounds like that could be interesting.”

“You wanna go with?”

Mike tossed his car keys to Donny. “No, you go ahead. I’d just get in the way.”

Scott had suggested a coffee shop that had replaced the old pizza parlor on Louisiana. It was an imitation of Starbuck’s with the small tables, the reading area, and the listings of the many varieties of coffees, teas, lattes and assorted bottled sodas written on a chalkboard over the bar. It had a cute name – Uncommon Grounds – to go with the hip image. There was an empty parking space in front next to a silver BMW. There were a few customers inside.

Scott was already there, sitting at a table. He looked like he’d put on a little weight, his face was puffy and his hair had picked up a few touches of grey, but he smiled broadly when Donny came through the door, and his handshake was strong. “Really good to see you,” he said, his eyes giving Donny a quick appraisal, and he patted him on the arm. “You look great. California must be a great place to live.”

“It’s okay. A lot warmer.”

“That’s true. And I hear you’re doing well.”

“Not too bad,” Donny admitted.

Scott grinned slyly. “’Not too bad’? I read the trades. McKay-Gemini is in the top one hundred of tech start-ups last year.”

“That’s because most of ‘em fold in about twenty minutes,” said Donny. He’d seen the same survey. “We’re doin’ okay.” He shrugged.

“You’re being modest,” Scott said. “That’s what I like about you. C’mon, you ready for coffee?”

They ordered, Scott telling Donny it was his treat, then sat again. Scott stirred his cappuccino slowly, letting the foam dissolve before sipping it. “So, I hear you’re just passing through on your way back. Get back here a lot?” Donny told him it was his first time back since he’d left, and Scott nodded. “Yeah, I guess there’s not a lot to bring you back except your folks. Where’s Danny stationed now?”

“In Florida.”

“You guys seem to like the nice weather. How’s he doing?”

“Good,” Donny replied, and Scott nodded again. There seemed to be something on his mind, so Donny waited.

Scott sipped his coffee again. “Derek likes working for your father. He’s doing well, or so he tells me. That’s who I’m staying with, by the way. I get back over here every so often to see him and some friends.” He paused and smiled wanly. “I guess you’ve heard about me and my folks.”

Donny nodded. “I’m sorry.”

Scott shrugged. “My pop’s a prick and he’s always treated me like I’m a major disappointment to him. Nothing I ever did was good enough for him. He wanted me to play football; I played tennis. He wanted me to go to Yale; I squeaked into Princeton. He wanted me to take over his business; I moved to Chicago. He wanted me to get married and give him grandkids; I came out to them last Christmas. I think he was waiting for an excuse to cut me out of his life, and I was glad to give it to him. He’s still got Derek. He’ll be the one who will live up to his expectations. He’ll have the right job with the right company, he’ll marry the right girl, he’ll turn out the requisite number of kids, he’ll join the right country club, he’ll join the right service clubs like the Rotary, he’ll vote the straight Republican ticket, he’ll have the right car and the appropriate minivan and he’ll have a very nice house out in Willowbend or some such subdivision with the pool and the barbeque and the nice neighbors. Fifty years from now he’ll have a nice obituary in the Messenger-Journal that will nicely document his truly unremarkable life. My father will be so proud.”

Donny remembered Mr. Welles as being a genial if somewhat stuffy man; always well-dressed and very proud that he had gone to Yale. He always wore some sort of the university’s memorabilia, be it a tie, a blazer, or even a scarf that had the school colors on it, and he was a member of the local Yale Club that recruited promising young men to apply.

“What about your mom?”

Scott smiled wanly. “My mother does whatever my father wants because she believes he knows best and besides, if it ever got back to the Junior League or the garden club that Maisie Welles took a stand against her husband – well, that would be a stunning development. She wanted to send both of us to private school like she’d done, but Dad said no; the private schools were full of liberal teachers and colored people, and the Catholic schools were run by, well, Catholics.” He fiddled with the wooden swizzle stick. “Everybody did what dear old Dad wanted, and that’s probably why Mom drinks so much.” Donny looked around to see if anyone was in earshot of them, but Scott didn’t seem to care. He took a long sip and looked at Donny again. “And it probably didn’t help matters when they found out that the guy I’m living with is barely twenty-five years old, comes from the middle of Kansas, and not only did he not go to an Ivy League school, he never finished high school. It’s hard to say what scandalized them more; that Neil’s a man or that he’s NOKD.”

Donny nodded. He knew that NOKD – “not our kind, dear” – was a standard below which the Welles family would never sink. “So how’d you meet him?” he asked.

“I seem to have a thing for younger guys,” Scott said with a smirk, glancing at Donny. “Especially the handsome working-class guys. Neil was working on some kitchen remodeling I was having done. We got to talking one day and....”

“Sounds familiar,” said Donny.

“Yeah, doesn’t it. But he’s a bright kid, wise beyond his years, funny, and doesn’t seem to mind that I’ve got a family with issues. His does too; his mother goes to Mass every Sunday to pray that he won’t be gay anymore and his sister won’t let her kids near him because they’re afraid he’s some kind of pedophile. He moved in about six months after we met and that was two years ago. He’s now a manager with the company and makes a damn good living.” Scott leaned forward. “And to tell you the truth,” he whispered, “I’d much rather be with someone who knows what it’s like to work for a living rather than some stuck-up trust fund baby...like me.” Scott grinned wickedly, then added, “Have you told your folks? Is that why you moved to California?”

Donny shook his head. “No. They know, but that’s not why I moved out. I just went out for a visit. I wasn’t planning on staying but...”

“Have you got a boyfriend?”

“Not really.”

“Oh, yeah?” Scott smirked a little. “I heard you were hooked up with Lance Michaels...isn’t that his name? The guy who was in some TV series last year or the year before?”

“Where’d you get that?”

“I have friends out in L.A. They know people in the business and they know what’s going on. Word was that he had met this young guy from Perrysburg, Ohio, who had moved in with him, that they had bought a house together, and this young guy had been helping him develop some projects for the movies. I did a little more digging and found out the young guy was you. I even heard that you and he were working on a made-for-TV movie.”

Donny felt an edge of irritation rising, but he nodded and replied, “He’s in one called Back Home Again. It’s gonna be on in a couple of weeks. But I didn’t have anything to do with that.”

“So you and he...?”

Donny stared into the paper cup. He was back on the beach that day in March. He parked the truck, walked past the brightly-painted houses, across the boulevard, and onto the sand. He remembered the hazy day and the first time Mike spoke to him asking for a cigarette – “Excuse me, can I bum one of those?” He remembered following him home, the sweaty sex, and the days and weeks and months after when Mike had become a part of his life; the days and nights in Key West, in Idyllwild, and the hassle with Marty and the drinking and the insecurities and the passionate love-making and the promises made and broken and the sheer horniness that overcame him when he thought about him, including the throb he was feeling right now as he sat across the table from Scott – and then the months when Mike had vanished like he’d never been there at all. He remembered the anger at the loss and then wondering why it had dissipated so quickly and how, when he came back, he was able to ease right back into being achingly in love with him, slipping into it like a pair of comfortable flip-flops. And now Gene had entrusted him to take care of him, and his own father had hoped that he would find someone to share his life with. He looked at Scott for a moment and almost said, “Actually, we’re lovers.” But he shook his head. “Just friends, that’s all. He lived in my house for a while after the Northridge quake last winter. But...just friends,” he said again.

Scott gave him a skeptical look. “So that wasn’t Lance Michaels that you were with in the ice cream parlor yesterday afternoon.”

“Well, yeah. We’re driving back to L.A. He was up in Michigan visiting his folks. I just came back to drive back with him, y’know.” Donny realized how lame that sounded even as he said it.

“So your folks are okay with it. With you. With him.”

“I guess they are, Scott,” Donny replied with an edge. “They know I’m gay, if that’s what you mean. They don’t know anything about Mike because...there’s nothing to tell, really. He’s just a friend.”

“Well, that’s good. I’m glad your family is...okay with it. And Danny...?”

Donny remembered the story Danny had told him about a drunken Scott hitting on him at the party. He smiled a little. “He’s cool with it. He keeps trying to fix me up with people, but you’ve heard of ‘don’t ask, don’t tell,’ so that makes it tough for a blind date with a soldier.”

Scott laughed. “I guess,” he said, and patted Donny’s hand. It occurred to Donny that one of the reasons Scott had gotten in touch was to see if there was a chance they could get together for one more romp; Derek had a condo in Three Meadows and was probably spending the day with his parents. He shrugged. “Actually, I’ve kinda sworn off dating,” he said. “Too much work to do and too much...” He looked at his watch. “Say, I’d love to talk forever, but I’ve...”

“I understand,” said Scott, getting the hint, and Donny realized that maybe all Scott wanted was to see how his life had turned out; whether he was still single or had found happiness, like he had.

The silver BMW belonged to Scott. They shook hands by the parking meters, Donny resisting the urge to hug him; it was still Louisiana Avenue on a Saturday morning. They made promises to keep in touch, giving each other their cards with home phone numbers written out hastily on the back on the hood of the car, and then they waved as they drove off in opposite directions. As he drove south out past the Country Charm, Donny wondered what his life would have been like if both he and Scott had never left home.

Mike and Fred were still in the front yard, but they were done working, the rakes leaning up against the wheelbarrow, the row of leaf piles in the middle of the yard. They were talking, and Donny recognized his father’s body language as his patient listening mode. As he parked the Land Rover he heard his father laugh.

They went to dinner that night at the little storefront Mexican restaurant in town and Mike paid for it, shaking off Fred’s gentle protest. The food was as good as Donny remembered it, and as they were walking out through the front bar, he passed Stan Tasker sitting at another booth. He looked years older, now large in the belly, a stained Miller Beer t-shirt stretched tight across his gut, his hair under the Tigers cap shaved almost to the skin, and he had grown one of those chin-cupping goatees that were the fashion among the redneck crowd. His wife, whose name Donny remembered was either Sheryl or Eileen, was sitting next to him, her dyed hair looking somewhat frazzled, and she was irritably trying to control a two-year-old child who was loudly protesting his confinement. Stan glanced up from his large combo platter as they passed, and for a second he had a glimmer of recognition. He raised his paw, still holding the fork to wave and looked like he was on the verge of saying something, but at the moment the child let out a glass-shattering wail, Stan’s eyes glazed over, and he went back to his meal. Donny nodded, said nothing, and followed his parents out to the street.

They left early the next morning after a quick breakfast of toast and coffee. The sky was grey and threatening, not unlike the morning in January when Donny had hugged his mother, said he’d call when he got there, and he’d be back before Valentine’s Day. This time his parents stood on the front porch waving and telling them to drive carefully. Mike thanked them for everything, Donny hugged both of his parents, the exhaust from the idling Land Rover making his eyes sting. The heater purred as they drove to the entrance of southbound I-75, heading for Dayton, then west on I-70 to Indianapolis, St. Louis, then I-44 to Oklahoma City, then I-40 to Albuquerque, Flagstaff, Needles, Barstow, San Bernardino, and home.

Small Town Boys - Chapter 46

2007-06-12T11:13:00.000-04:00

So Popera

Instead of meeting in the CAA offices in Century City, the meeting was in a suite on the fortieth floor of a skyscraper in downtown Los Angeles. Gina called and told him to meet her in the lobby at 2:45. Donny crossed the lobby at 2:44. He saw Gina in the atrium standing next to a towering ficus tree in a large white pot. She was dressed in a black suit with a white blouse that reminded Donny of the Susan Dey character in L.A. Law; all business but still attractive. She was talking on a cell phone. She nodded when she saw him and held up her hand. Donny stood a few feet away and waited. He had borrowed Marc’s attaché case for the script and the abstracts, and he absently tapped his fingers on the leather handle.

Gina finished the call and gave him a quick smile. “You look good,” she said.

“Thanks,” he replied. The jacket was comfortable, but the shirt still had a touch of starch in the collar, and he felt the prickle of a few errant hairs from the trim he’d gotten that morning when Marc mentioned that he was looking a little shaggy around the ears and sideburns.

“Here’s how it’s going to go,” Gina said. “It’s going to be us against Jeremy and his entourage. Count on D’Angelo to do all the talking. Let him; it’s what he gets paid for. There will be some other people there, including Jack Magahee, but he won’t say much, if anything. I’ll do all our talking. Even if they ask you something, just smile and be charming, but let me talk. That’s what I get paid for. Besides, they’re not expecting you to talk. Understand?”

“Right.”

“Now, they’ve all gotten copies of your script. Even Aaron.”

“Will he be there?”

“Yes. They will all say they love it. They will all indulge you, they’ll stroke your ego and make it sound like you’re the next David Mamet. Then they’ll ask you for your overall view of how you see the project and where it will go; what kind of legs will it have and so on. Did you draft up something for the next few episodes?”

“Uh, yeah,” Donny replied, hoping she wouldn’t ask to see them.

“Good,” she replied. “Then when that’s over they’ll proceed to rip it to shreds. Each person will have their issues. Don’t take it personally. This is the way it works. It’s all designed to get you to go along with what they want, and frankly, they’re going to get it, so you might as well play along.”

Donny smiled to himself. If things went the way he planned, they weren’t going to get that far.

“Then I’ll take over,” Gina continued, “and I’ll tell them that we’re prepared to take this project to someone else who’s ready to do it the way you’ve written it and that I’ve already had inquiries from three producers who are looking for projects for cable or indie films. Then we’ll shake hands and walk out.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. They’ll call me before the end of the day and we’ll work something out.”

“Okay. Do you really have three other producers lined up?”

Gina smiled.

They signed in at the security checkpoint, then took the express elevator. They were alone. His ears popped as they ascended. “How come we’re meeting them here?” Donny asked as the car came to a stop.

“Neutral territory,” she said. “This is Jack’s office.”

The elevator doors opened onto a reception area with a smooth grey marble floor and a softly-lit center area with a mahogany desk. On either side of the desk was a waiting area with identical wingback chairs in soft mauve and a low coffee table with magazines and a flower vase in the exact center. At each end of the reception area were tall wooden double doors. A series of abstract paintings hung on the wall behind the desk, and the walls themselves were a cream white with a subtle plastered surface trimmed in dark wood and wainscoting. A receptionist was seated at the desk behind a small computer screen. He was a young man dressed in GQ casual style, his hair cut fashionably short, and a single small diamond earring glittered from his left earlobe.

“Gina Roscoe,” Gina said softly as she approached the desk, as if the room itself made her lower her voice.

The receptionist nodded, and without acknowledging Donny, pushed a button on the large telephone console and repeated her name. He nodded, and then said, “Just a moment.” He went back to looking at the screen, and Gina led Donny to one of the waiting areas.

Donny looked around again. This was clearly the top of the hill in terms of the offices he’d seen, including those at some of the larger banks and stock firms he’d gone to with Greg when they were making presentations to potential investors. It was also very quiet. Except for the occasional purr of the phone and the soft “Magahee Associates...thank you,” when the receptionist answered, it was silent. Even the passing elevators and the “ping” of the bell were hushed. Compared to his own office, which, compared to the old place above the dry cleaners, was fairly quiet, this was like a tomb. Donny thought he’d go nuts if he worked here. Someone needed to turn on a radio or something.

The door at the other end opened and a woman stepped out. “Ms. Roscoe,” she said just above a whisper, and Gina and Donny followed her through the doors and down a long hallway. The silence continued as they passed open doors to offices where people were working as if they were in a monastery; even the office machines and printers were sedate. The carpet was plush and thick as if it was chosen for its ability to absorb the sound.

It occurred to Donny that the office reflected the man; in the two times he had met Jack Magahee he had barely spoken above a whisper, and it wasn’t out of the realm of possibility that the most known unknown name in the film business had earned that reputation because he never raised his voice.

They came to another set of doors at the end of the hall. These opened into a conference room with a large expanse of glass overlooking downtown and west all the way to the ocean. The glass was tinted enough to keep the glare of the sun to a minimum and give the room soft but rich lighting, enhanced by the track lights in the ceiling. An assistant wheeled in a small bar cart with bottled water, glasses, and an ice bucket.

There were already several people seated around the large wooden rectangular conference table. Donny did not recognize any of them. They were all white men ranging in age from late twenties to mid-thirties; all dressed in very expensive, very conservative blue and grey business suits, reminding Donny of the auditing team from Ernst & Young that had paid several visits to McKay-Gemini last summer. They all stood up as Gina entered, and she went around the room shaking hands and murmuring soft greetings. She seemed to know them all. They ignored Donny until Gina said, “And this is Donald Hollenbeck.”

They all shook hands and murmured greetings. One of them whose name was Tom looked at Donny curiously and said, “Are you by chance any relation to the newsman from CBS who committed suicide in 1954?”

This was not the first time that someone had mentioned that there was another Donald Hollenbeck; it had come up in high school during a unit on the history of broadcasting in Social Studies class when they read about Edward R. Murrow and his battle with Senator Joseph McCarthy. That Donald Hollenbeck had the misfortune to say on the air that he supported Murrow, and had been hounded for it. Mr. Peters, the teacher, had asked Donny the same question. “No,” Donny replied now as he had then, “just a coincidence.”

“Oh,” said Tom with a tinge of disappointment.

They all sat down again and Gina indicated to Donny where he should sit; on the side of the table looking out over the city. As they were sitting down, Donny whispered to Gina, “Who are those guys?”

“They work for Jack.” she whispered back.

The door opened and five more people came in; two women wearing nearly identical business suits except one was tall with nearly white blonde hair. Her counterpart was shorter, full-figured, and wearing her hair in a tight bun. The tall one wore a touch of lipstick and was all business; the shorter one looked stern. The two men who followed were both dressed like all the other men in expensive suits, and in spite of his new clothes and haircut, Donny felt like he was the scruffy farm boy.

They were followed by another man who looked as if he was directly out of the pages of the Armani catalogue. He was compact and trim with handsome Latin features and perfectly coiffed hair that came to a slight pompadour. On any other man it might have looked overdone or even gay, but on him it looked good, and he strode into the room with an air that radiated confidence.

Gina smiled and said, “Hello, D’Angelo.”

Everyone stood up, and the introductions were made again, but before Donny could say anything, D’Angelo turned to him and clasped his hand. “I’ve heard a lot about you, Mr. Hollenbeck; it’s an honor to meet you in person.” Before Donny could reply he was on to the next person. His voice was louder than everyone else’s but not alarmingly so, and as he went around the table shaking hands and greeting the men from Jack’s office, the mood lightened a little.

Out of the corner of his eye Donny noticed two other men slip into the conference room; Jack Magahee followed by Aaron. They stood off to one side, Aaron nervously picking at his suit coat. After a moment Jack said quietly, “Why don’t we all have a seat, shall we?” and everyone immediately sat down, leaving one chair vacant directly across from Donny. An expectant silence settled over the room and a moment later Jeremy entered, and his entourage immediately leapt up, followed by the rest, and finally Donny. He thought, “Well, you gotta hand it to him. He knows how to make an entrance.”

Even though he was wearing Hollywood casual – an open-necked shirt, a light tan jacket, pressed jeans and moccasins without socks – he made it look like he was still the sharpest-dressed person in the room. He greeted everyone warmly, remembered names, patted the men on the shoulder as if he was their closest friend and was politely flirtatious to the ladies, saving his dimpled grin for them that made even the stern one crack a smile. But he saved his warmest greeting for Donny, clasping his hand with both of his and giving him a wink that suggested they were on equal terms. “Great to see you again,” he said, then took his chair, knowing the one in the middle was meant for him. D’Angelo passed him a leather portfolio, and he flipped it open, revealing the title page of Donny’s script. He steepled his fingers and looked directly at Donny.

“Well, I have to say I’m very impressed, Don. You rose to the challenge admirably. This is a terrific script, and I see where your ideas really pan out.” He shrugged a little. “There are a couple of little rough spots, but I don’t see anything that a little touch-up by Aaron couldn’t smooth over, am I right?” he said, glancing over at Aaron, who was seated on the far end of the table by the corner.

“Uh, no,” coughed Aaron, shaking his head. “Just a little here and there.”

“Right,” continued Jeremy. He pulled out a pair of wire-rimmed glasses and put them on, flipping through the pages of the script. “Like here, on page twenty-one where you introduce Bobby; he’s the last one we meet, but...”

“Excuse me,” said Jack, his voice barely above a whisper, but loud enough that everyone heard it, and they all froze. Jeremy looked at him and smiled expectantly. “I don’t mean to interrupt you, Jeremy, but this meeting is for the purposes of getting acquainted.” He chuckled a little; it was almost silent. “So before we get too far into this, let’s introduce ourselves.”

Jeremy’s smiled became fixed. “Oh, yeah, I’m sorry.” He waved his hand diffidently. “Of course.”

“Good. I’m Jack Magahee,” he said, nodding at the woman sitting next to him, and they went around the room and came back to Jack. “Now, I also wanted to make sure of where we all stand here.” He glanced at Donny, gave off a tiny grin that lasted a split-second, then fixed his gaze on Jeremy. “We’re here to discuss the project that Don has come up with and that we’re all looking forward to having this pilot into production very soon. I’m sure we all agree that it’s a worthwhile effort and that it has our full support.” Heads nodded, some more vigorously than others. Jack tapped his copy of the script. “There will be plenty of time between now and the beginning of production to discuss the little things. Am I right?” More head nodding, and someone said, “Right.” Jack was still looking at Jeremy. “So,” he continued, “let’s have Don review his concept and then if there are any questions, we can discuss them. All right?” That got a murmur of consensus. Jack looked at Donny and gestured slightly. “Don?”

Gina whispered, “Okay, you’re on. Make it short and sweet.”

Donny had a sudden flashback to the night at Paul’s house where Aaron had presented his concept for Back Home Again and how this mousey, hesitant, and stammering little man had suddenly switched on the confident charm in front of the audience of Hollywood moguls and investors. Maybe it was the lawyer in him, or maybe it was because it was the film was something he believed in. He took a quick look around the room, down at the script in front of him, and then at Jeremy, who was gazing at him with that mixture of charm and veiled contempt that he’d seen before...in people like Bryce, who had stared him down over lunch and told him that he was a nobody, or Marty, who had fished three hundred dollars out of his wallet to get him to go to a motel and get out of Mike’s life, or Stan Tasker, who bullied him until the summer of sophomore year when Donny’s suddenly-muscular physique and tackling abilities took the air out of him at the two-a-day practices for varsity football. He remembered holding Marc in front of the fireplace in the house in Idyllwild, and he remembered what Danny had said, his voice coming through the cell phone loud and clear: “You can take him, twin.” A calmness spread over him as he looked around the table, like the feeling that comes when a fever breaks. “Well, all right,” he said, and began.

There was a short silence when he finished, then Jack nodded and said, “Thank you, Don,” and everyone else except Jeremy took their cue and nodded and murmured. Gina whispered, “Good job.”

D’Angelo was the first one to speak. He cleared his throat and gave Donny a dazzling smile. “I think it’s a great idea and I’m sure we all agree that it has great potential.” He paused as everyone in his entourage nodded and murmured agreement. “But don’t you think, Don, that this idea is more suited for something like cable – HBO or Showtime, perhaps? Doing a show about four gay men living together might be a little too edgy for the networks. I’m just saying that perhaps the country isn’t quite ready for this on the same networks that have Touched by an Angel.”

Gina rested her hand on Donny’s arm, her signal for him to just nod, smile, and let her answer. Donny took the hint and he bobbed his head in a sign of tacit agreement and then glanced at Gina. She nodded and was about to speak when Jack said, “Well, D’Angelo, to quote Lanford Wilson, ‘anything’s possible with a little taste and charm.’”

Everyone nodded and murmured assertively, and Donny whispered to Gina, “Who’s Landford Wilson?”

She shook her head almost imperceptibly and whispered back, “I don’t know. Just listen.”

D’Angelo continued, “I agree, Jack, but look what happened when PBS ran Tales of the City. The Jesus-freaks went nuts and they threatened to cut off federal funding for PBS. Rumor has it that they’re going to finish out the series on cable. So unless you want S and P jumping up your ass every time one of these characters has a date, you’re better off shopping this to cable, am I right?”

Donny whispered to Gina, “S and P?”

“Standards and Practices. The network censors.”

“Oh.”

“And what about advertisers?” D’Angelo asked. “Who’s going to want to associate their cars or soup or deodorant with a program about gay people? Might be a hard sell. That’s why Aaron’s approach as a sitcom would be an easier sell.” He looked at Donny and cocked an eyebrow. “You’ll also make a lot more money on the networks then on cable. A lot more exposure, too.”

Everyone nodded and murmured assertively and Donny wondered if that was part of their job description.

“I also wonder,” Jeremy said, looking around the table, then fixing his gaze with the dazzling smile on Donny, “if there’s enough conflict here to sustain a weekly series. There’s gotta be more to it than just the gimmick of four gay guys sharing a house in Santa Monica. It’ll need something that will grab the viewer’s attention every week. That’s what makes soap operas like this work, y’know.” He shrugged. “So I’d like to know what’s next. What happens once we get through the gimmick?” He sat back and looked around the room. Everyone nodded.

Donny looked back at Jeremy; the smile was almost a smirk, and he tried hard not to respond in kind. He looked down at the abstracts that he’d typed up, then at Jack, who nodded, and Gina, who whispered, “Go for it.”

“I’ve thought about that,” he said, “and I’ve come up with some ideas.” His throat suddenly went dry and he took a sip of water, then another. Everyone was waiting expectantly, and he caught a glimpse of Aaron, far away at the end of the table, wiping his glasses with a cocktail napkin. “I thought we might focus on one character at a time in each of the first few episodes so we got to see them through their eyes and get to know them better.” He paused, and some people, including Jack, nodded their assent. He took another sip of water. “So I thought we might have an episode where Bobby gets a job working at a film studio as an assistant or as a, y’know, clerk or something working in finances. While he’s there he meets a well-known celebrity named Stan Towers who takes an interest in him, and asks him to go out to dinner...all very above-board and, y’know, normal, but pretty soon it becomes obvious that Stan, who’s about Bobby’s age but has a reputation as a straight heartthrob, is interested in more than just being friends, and he puts the make on Bobby.” Donny was now staring down at the papers in front of him. “At first Bobby resists because he doesn’t want to get involved with a married man who’s in the closet, but Stan tells Bobby that unless he sleeps with him, he’s going to tell the studio that Bobby was stalking him and he’ll get fired and maybe arrested. Bobby is about to go to sleep with Stan when he finds out from a friend at the studio that Stan once made a gay porno movie and he has the film to prove it. He tells Stan that if he’ll leave him alone, he’ll promise never to reveal his secret. The last scene is where Stan is on the red carpet at the Oscars with his lovely wife on his arm and People magazine has voted him the sexiest man alive for another year, and we cut to Bobby being interviewed for a new job somewhere else.”

Donny closed the folder and looked up, sweat prickling under his arms, his throat still dry. The entire room was stonily silent, even more so than ever. No one was moving or even, it seemed, breathing. The only sound was the faint stir of air through the ventilation vent in the ceiling and far, far away, the burr-burr of a muffled telephone ringing in another office. Jeremy was staring at him, his expression fixed in a narrow glare, his lips almost gone, his jaw clenched to the point that small red spots were appearing where the dimples normally were. His hands were on top of the table, drawn tight into fists, the knuckles almost white. Donny took a sip of water, the sound of the ice clinking in the glass loudly enough to rattle the windows. He looked down at the folder, opened it, and said, “Then there’s an episode where Eric’s twin brother, a lieutenant in the Air Force, comes to visit....”

Jeremy interrupted, his voice barely above a whisper, “Jack, may I speak to you in your office? Alone.”

“Certainly,” said Jack calmly. He rose from the table and opened the side door. Jeremy got up, glared at Donny, and almost said something until D’Angelo touched his sleeve. He followed Jack out the door, and the door latch clicked behind them.

The room suddenly breathed again, and the little noises – the creak of a chair, the rustle of paper, the drumming of fingers – came back. Everyone was trying hard not to look at anyone else. Donny heard Aaron cough once, then again, and he slurped half a glass of water.

“Jesus,” whispered Gina so that only Donny could hear her.

A full five minutes went by. Donny found himself staring out the window and saw that if he looked past Jeremy’s empty chair he could see the tall buildings in Century City, and over D’Angleo’s shoulder he could see airliners lining up to land at LAX, their anti-collision lights twinkling through the heat and smog. But no one else moved, and they remained so until the side door opened and Jeremy came in, followed by Jack.

“I’d like a few moments alone with Don, please,” Jeremy said, inclining his head to D’Angelo in a signal to get everyone out. D’Angelo herded his group out the main door, followed by the others. The door closed behind them, leaving just Donny, Gina, Jack, and Jeremy.

“Everyone,” said Jeremy tightly.

“Oh, no you don’t,” began Gina, but Jack held up a hand. “It’s all right, Gina. I promise,” he said. He held open the side door for her and she turned to Donny. She started to say something, thought better of it, then got up and left the room. Jack followed her and they were alone.

Jeremy went to the window and turned his back on Donny, who was still sitting. Finally he let out a long sigh of exasperation and turned around. His expression had relaxed; his eyes were wide open now and almost sparkling. “I just told Jack that I’m not going to work on your little project, Don.”

“Yeah, I kinda figured that out.”

Jeremy nodded and stood behind a chair, drumming his fingers on the top of the back, making a staccato sound. “Yeah. So.” He paused, glanced up at the ceiling, and then said, “So what do you want?”

Donny took his time standing up, letting Jeremy watch as he picked up the folders and script and put them back in Marc’s attaché case. “What do I want?” he replied.

“Yeah. I’ve been down this road a lot, Don. You guys always want something. They never get it, but they always ask.”

Donny shook his head. “Very simple. Leave Marc alone.”

Jeremy raised his eyebrows. “Oh, so he told you. I guessed as much.” He shrugged. “Yeah, okay. No big deal. That’s it?”

“Pretty much,” said Donny, closing the attaché. “Oh, yeah,” he said, almost as an afterthought, “one more thing.”

Jeremy shook his head. “Yeah, there’s always ‘one more thing.’ Okay, what is it?”

“Mike’s movie. Get it released or at least get it out there so that it doesn’t go straight to video. Let him earn something back from it; him and his backers,” Donny said, remembering Eric’s investment as well.

Jeremy spread his hands. “Hey, I have no control over it. I’m not in charge of who releases what out there.”

“Bullshit,” replied Donny simply. “You can do it.”

“And if I can’t?”

Donny smiled grimly. “Let’s not think about that, because we both know you can.”

Donny watched Jeremy, and for the first time there was a glimmer of what Donny took to be respect in his expression, as if he was on equal terms. But if vanished quickly, and Jeremy pursed his lips. “Yeah, right,” he said skeptically, and turned to look out the window. Donny took that to mean the meeting was over. He picked up the attaché and started for the doors.

“Where is it?” Jeremy said quietly without turning around. Donny knew what he meant.

“Locked away in a safe place where no one can find it, and that’s where it’s going to stay.”

Donny was about to open the door when Jeremy said, “You’ve seen it or just heard about it?”

“Seen it. Someday you’ll have to tell me about ‘Rubythroat.’”

Jeremy chuckled tonelessly. “How do I know you won’t sell it to the highest bidder?”

“Because you know I’m not that kind of guy, Jeremy.”

Jeremy turned around. “Yeah, I guess so.” He smiled wanly. “That’s why you’ll never make it in this town, Donny.”

It was Donny’s turn to smile. He looked out the window at the distant glass towers in Century City, knowing exactly where his office was and the work that was piled up waiting for him when he got back, including the meeting later in the week with three bidders for the new subcontract to take over tech support and the review of the backorders for Gemini Control. He laughed softly.

“I already have,” he said and opened the door.

Gina was waiting for him in the reception area next to the elevator. She looked at him and deadpanned, “Other than that, Mrs. Lincoln, how was the play?”

“He’s off the project,” Donny said simply.

Gina pursed her lips and pushed the button. A moment later the doors slid open silently. She waited until they closed and they began their descent before she spoke. “That was either the ballsiest thing I’ve ever seen or the stupidest. I haven’t decided which.”

Donny didn’t reply. He watched the numbers counting down to “L” on the little LED display over the door.

“You’re not going to tell me what that was all about, are you,” Gina said as the doors opened.

Donny shook his head. “No, I’m not.” He started across the lobby to the door to the parking garage. Gina caught up with him.

“Look,” she said, “do you have any idea how many people there who have been literally working themselves to death to get what you just had? How many guys are slaving away in their little tiny apartments off Hollywood and Vine writing some script that they hope with their last dime from Mom and Dad back in Buttfuck, Montana will get them into see someone like me, to say nothing of someone like Jeremy Dixon or Jack Magahee? You just had their biggest wet dream come true, Don, and you used it... to what? Embarrass one of the biggest stars in Hollywood in front of his manager, his agent, and all those other people? What the hell for?”

“Look,” Donny said, trying to keep his voice low, “I did what you asked. I came up with some ideas for the following episodes. Jeremy didn’t like them.”

At that moment Jeremy and his entourage crossed the lobby and went out the front door. If he saw Gina and Donny he didn’t acknowledge them. Donny looked back at Gina. “As for your guilt trip about all those poor guys slaving away over their scripts, I’m sorry, but that’s their problem, not mine. I never planned on this in the first place, and as far as I’m concerned, I really don’t give a shit what happens.”

Gina glared at him. “So what do you need me for?”

Donny shrugged. “You tell me. You want to fire me or whatever, that’s fine. If you find someone who wants to make Small Town Boys, that’s fine, too.” He looked at his watch. It was almost four. “I have a real job to get back to, Gina; I’ve already spent too much time working on something that so far hasn’t earned me a dime.”

“Me too,” she said. “Look, I’ll see what I can do about smoothing things over with D’Angelo.”

Donny spread his arms, the attaché case dangling from his right hand like an apple on a tree branch. “Whatever, Gina. I did....” He almost said “I did what I had to do,” but thought better of it. “I did what you asked me to,” he said. He looked at his watch again. “I need to get back to work.”

“Well, I need to get back to clients that actually earn me a living,” Gina said as she pulled out her cell phone. Donny gave her a wan smile then turned and went through the door into the garage.

He was at a stoplight on Wilshire re-running the meeting in his head and remembering the look on Jeremy’s face when he noticed the pick-up truck in the lane next to him. It looked familiar, and he realized with a jolt that it was his old truck, the one he’d bought off the used car lot from Kistler Ford in Toledo. It looked much the same as it had when he’d last seen it at the dealership where he’d bought the Mustang, including the little dent in top of the left front wheel where he’d misjudged the turning radius and caught a little bit of a phone pole on a job site. The back was filled with pool cleaning equipment: brushes, hoses, and buckets of chemicals. The driver was a young Mexican guy, his ethnicity made apparent by the Mexican flag dangling from the rear view mirror. He was listening to the radio, tapping his fingers on the steering wheel, watching the light. He glanced over and saw Donny looking at him. He nodded, smiled a little, and looked back at the light, which then changed. Donny let the truck pull ahead of him and he followed it for a couple of blocks before it turned onto a side street. At the next stoplight Donny pulled out his cell phone and called Danny.

He made it back to the office by four-thirty. The end-of-year evaluation folders for staff and administration were stacked neatly in his in-box, and he smiled at the reminder that he did have a real job. He pulled off his jacket and tie and draped them over a chair.

Marc tapped on the door, came in, and closed it behind him. “How’d it go?” he asked casually, but his expression was tense.

Donny emptied the attaché case, and handed it back to him. “Come on over to my place for dinner tonight and I’ll tell you all about it.”

Marc scowled. “C’mon, Donny.”

“Okay. It’s over.”

“It is?”

“Yeah, all of it; Jeremy, Small Town Boys, and probably my career as an executive producer along with it.” He picked up the folder on top of the stack and grinned at Marc.

“What about...?”

Donny looked at Marc and smiled. “Like I said. It’s over. So, we’re on for dinner?”

*

It was a warm night for November. Donny swam ten laps before climbing out of the pool and toweling off. He pulled on his sweats and tank-top and answered the phone on the second ring. It was Trish.

“How’d it go?” she asked, sounding like she already knew.

“Good,” said Donny. “Jeremy’s off the project, but he’s going to leave Marc alone.”

“Fair trade,” she said.

“Yeah, I guess so.”

“What did Marc say when you told him?”

“He was relieved.” He looked into the house through the open door to the kitchen where Marc was slicing up some cheese to make nachos.

“I’ll bet. Hey, I’m in town,” said Trish. “Can I stop by for just a moment?”

Donny shrugged. “Sure.”

“Okay. Oh, I’ve got a friend with me. That okay?”

“Fine. Should I open up the wine?”

Trish laughed. “We’ll bring our own.”

“Even better.”

He told Marc, then went and changed into jeans and a polo shirt. Ten minutes later the doorbell rang. It was Trish, holding up a bottle of champagne. Behind her stood Jack Magahee.

Donny showed them into the living room, staring open-mouthed at Trish. She just smiled back, handed him the champagne, and said, “Here put this in fridge.”

“How do you...” he started, but she put her fingers to his lips. “Just chill, Donny. I’ll explain everything.” She sniffed. “Mmm, I smell nachos.”

They sat on the patio. Jack had introduced himself to Marc by saying that he was happy to finally meet him. “I’ve heard a lot about you,” he said, “and all of it very good.”

Marc blushed a little. “Thanks. That’s nice to hear, finally.”

“I trust Don,” Jack said. “Or may I call you Donny?”

“Sure,” said Donny. He watched as Jack settled into the chair by the table. He seemed as quiet and reserved as he had that afternoon, but there was now brightness in his eyes, and although his voice was still soft, it had lost the somber tone that forced everyone else to be respectfully quiet as well.

“Actually, maybe I should call you Will...as in Shakespeare,” Jack said sagely. “‘The play’s the thing...’”

“‘Wherein I’ll catch the conscience of the king,’” said Donny with a little smirk.

Trish looked puzzled. “I don’t get it.”

Jack chuckled softly. “You should have paid more attention in high school English, Trish. Hamlet, Act Two. Donny used that little trick today on Jeremy. Worked, too.”

“So start from the beginning,” Trish said. “I want to hear all the gory details.”

Donny let Jack tell the story about the meeting and then Donny told them about his own meeting with Jeremy afterwards.

“So your idea for the upcoming episode about the celebrity in the closet with the notorious past was a little too close to home for Jeremy,” Trish said with a smile of satisfaction.

“Oh, yeah,” said Donny, grinning. “He knew that I knew. I even asked him what ‘Rubythroat’ meant.”

“You didn’t,” gaped Trish.

“You betcha. Hey, if I’m gonna to take him down, I’m gonna go all the way,” he said.

“More than that,” said Jack. “Jeremy knows that if that tape ever gets out, he’ll be selling real estate in Tarzana.”

“So how many people really know about it?” asked Marc.

“Well,” said Jack, “a lot of people have heard rumors, but very few people have actually seen it. You belong to a very select group of people who know about it.” He looked at Marc and Donny. “It took a lot of guts to take him on. If it had gone the other way, he could have made your lives miserable.”

Donny thought back to the night in front of the fireplace, holding Marc as he wept uncontrollably. “He already had.”

“Mmm,” Jack said pensively, nodding at Marc. “You’re not the first person he’s done that to, and I daresay he had it coming.” He smiled a little at his own joke, and then said, “I think you went about it in the right way, Donny. Very few people in the room knew exactly what you were talking about, so when the word gets out that Jeremy’s not going to be in it, the story will be ‘creative differences.’ That was a wise move not to out Jeremy in public, and if you’re as smart as I think you are you’ll keep it to that way. Sometimes it’s a good idea not to tell people everything that you know. Knowledge is power, and in this case, nothing is gained by spreading it around. Jeremy will respect you a lot more if he knows you’ve got that power, and he can still swing pretty big bat in this town.”

“So to speak,” Marc said dryly.

“I take it you knew,” Donny said. “About the movie.”

Jack nodded. “Who do you think told Trish and Duncan where to find it?”

Trish lit a cigarette. “So popera,” she said.

“What?”

“It’s all a big soap opera,” she said, “this whole Hollywood scene. If you put it in your show no one would believe it.”

“Well, you can forget about it,” Donny said. He slouched in his chair and lit a cigarette. “It was sorta fun while it lasted. I don’t know why I ever thought it would work.”

“D’Angelo did have a good point, Donny,” said Jack. “Doing the show your way means that a network like NBC won’t touch it. Doing it as a sitcom takes the danger out of it; if you can laugh at the stereotypes, they’re not a threat. Seeing limp-wristed fairies doesn’t make people nervous. The show would have been a hit if you’d gone along with Aaron’s approach.” Jack took a chip and munched it thoughtfully. “Or should I say Jeremy’s approach. He was the one who told Aaron to turn it into Designing Gays.”

Donny shook his head. “Damn,” he said disappointedly, “I thought Aaron was on my side.”

Jack held up his hand. “Don’t be too hard on Aaron. He was only doing what he thought was right and what he thought would get the show on the air. You can’t blame him for wanting it to succeed, and since Jeremy was going to be the star, it made sense to him.” Jack leaned forward a little. “Look, Donny, I agree with you. It’s long past time that the networks stopped treating gays like they did blacks fifty years ago; as tokens or as the butt of jokes. But these things take time, and it’s not easy to be a groundbreaker.” Jack smiled; it was a crooked little grin. “But if you’re still willing to try, I’m with you.”

“Gina’s pissed at me. I think she’s gonna fire me.”

“I’ll talk to her.”

“Without a star,” Trish said, “what chance has it got?”

“There are plenty of other actors who would be happy to take it on,” Jack said.

“Name one,” said Donny.

“How about Lance Michaels?”

Donny sat up straight in his chair. “You’re kidding.”

“I spoke to his agent about an hour ago. He’s sending Lance your script, and unless there’s some reason that he doesn’t want the part, he’s going to play Bobby. I also spoke to the agents for...” Jack reeled off the names of five or six well-known young actors, “and they’ll be coming in for readings next week. Now that Jeremy’s out, Aaron will work with you; I guarantee it. We’ll shoot the pilot after Christmas, and this time next year it will be on one of the cable channels. A major one, not some little rinky-dink start-up.” Jack looked at Trish. “So what did you do with that bottle of champagne? I’d say it’s time to drink a toast to Small Town Boys.”

Trish and Jack left about an hour later. As Trish was picking up her purse Donny took her aside and said, “Okay, so how do you know Jack Magahee? Are you two...?”

Trish said innocently. “You mean you don’t know? He’s my mom’s brother.”

“So he’s your...?”

“My uncle Jack.”

Jack smiled. “Like I said, Donny; you don’t tell everything you know. C’mon, Trish; I’m driving.” Jack had not touched the champagne.

Later that night in the dark in Donny’s bedroom, Marc said quietly, “You think it’s really over?”

“You mean all this shit with Jeremy?”

“Yeah.”

“I sure hope so,” Donny replied, getting out of bed to find his boxers. “But I’m still not gonna shave my balls.”

Marc laughed, and it was a good, strong laugh from him; the first one Donny had heard in months.

Chapter Guide

Small Town Boys - Chapter 45

2007-05-30T18:23:00.000-04:00

The Tale of the Tape

“What did you tell her about me?” Marc asked when they were back on the freeway.

“Pretty much everything,” Donny said, steering with his knees while he unwrapped the candy bar.

“Jesus,” Marc replied, staring out the window.

“Look, one way or the other she’s gonna know about you and your past and what you did with Jeremy Dixon. Better she knows about it now rather than read about it in the tabloids.”

“I guess you’re right.”

Two cars – Trish’s red Mercedes and a brown Toyota – were parked in front of his house. Trish got out of her car and a woman and a man got out of the other. Donny recognized Minza – she was short with Mediterranean features and narrow glasses – and they shook hands. The man was introduced as Duncan. He was tall and thin with blond streaks in his hair and delicate features, and he was wearing a purple shirt and narrow trousers with tassel loafers. Some people just radiate “gay,” Donny thought.

He introduced Marc to Trish, and she introduced Minza and Duncan as “old friends.” Duncan smiled primly and cast a cruising eye over Donny and Marc as they went into the house. Donny offered drinks and then they went out to the patio.

“Place looks nice,” Minza said. “Funny how you ended up with it.”

“Yeah,” Donny. “Funny how things like that work out.”

After a little bit of small talk, through which Marc sat silently, Trish put out her cigarette and looked at Marc. “So,” she said, “you’re the guy who wants the dirt on Jeremy Dixon.”

Marc shifted in his seat. “Well, I already have the dirt,” he said softly. “I just want to know if anybody else has it...and...”

“And what you can do with it before he does something to you.”

“Yeah.”

Trish nodded and looked at Minza and Duncan. “Well, thanks to the P.A. underground, it just so happens there is something.” She grinned broadly.

“The what?” Donny said.

“Production assistants’ underground,” said Duncan. He indicated himself and Minza. “That’s us. We’re the invisible people on the movie sets; the ones who get the coffee, the ones who make sure the stars get from their trailers to the set, the ones who get their dry cleaning, pick up their brats from day care, take the dogs for a walk and scoop up the turds.” Duncan affected a Southern accent. “We’s the he’p, Miz Scarlett.”

“Which means,” Minza said, “we know everything. We know who’s on what meds, who’s banging who, and what famous macho star likes to get fluffed between shots so he looks like he’s packing the big one.”

“Fluffed?” said Donny.

“I’ll explain it later,” Trish said. “Anyway, both Duncan and Minza have worked on productions with Jeremy, and both of them know that he likes, on occasion, to hang out with guys.”

“And she means hang out,” said Minza. “As in pull out their cocks and play with it.”

Marc looked at Duncan. “Did he do it with you?”

Duncan laughed; it was a high-pitched, almost feminine giggle. “Oh God no. I’m not his type. He likes ‘em buff and butch, and,” he indicated his frame with a wave of his hand, “I’m neither, honey. You’re more his type.” Duncan giggled again. “And he is not my type, just for the record.”

Donny asked, “So you know people that have slept with him?”

“A few.”

“Who are they?”

Minza and Duncan exchanged glances. “Well,” Minza said hesitantly, “the problem is that if we tell you and word gets out that we told you, we’d never work again. And as much as I love being paid a hundred bucks a day to clean up after someone else or do their laundry...”

“Or spend hours a day photocopying scripts or standing out in the street stopping traffic while you shoot the same scene over and over again,” Duncan inserted.

“...Right,” said Minza. “As much as we hate it, we don’t want to screw it up.”

“So you won’t tell us,” Donny said. He looked at Trish for help, but she was nodding in agreement.

“Even if we gave you names and phone numbers,” Minza said, “it doesn’t do you any good. They’ll deny it, and then where will you be? And they’ll figure out who told you.”

“So,” Marc said, “we’re right back where we started.” He shook his head and started to get up. “C’mon, Donny; drop me off at the office so I can get my car and go home.”

“Hold it,” said Trish. “We’ve got more.”

“Like what?”

Trish lit another cigarette and blew the smoke out like she was doing a scene in a movie. “Think about it. What’s the one thing that would completely ruin Jeremy Dixon’s clean-cut sex symbol image; the one thing that would get every movie he’s ever made yanked out off the shelves at Blockbuster and throw up picket lines at every opening of every new film he ever made, assuming that he could ever make another movie again?” Trish raised an eyebrow.

Marc thought for a moment, and then slowly widened his eyes. “You’re kidding.”

Trish grinned broadly. “Nope.”

“Holy shit,” breathed Marc.

“What?” said Donny, completely mystified.

Marc looked at Donny. “Porn.”

“Porn?”

Trish nodded. “Porn. And not just any porn...” She raised her eyebrow again.

“Oh my God,” said Marc.

“What?” said Donny again.

“Gay porn,” said Trish.

Donny looked at Duncan and Minza who were nodding and smiling. “I have a friend,” Duncan said archly, “who has a friend, who, aside from being one of the best set decorators in Hollywood for the last forty years, has the most amazing collection of classic pornography in the world. I’m talking first-rate stuff – not that shit they make on VHS in the Valley – that goes back to as long as there has been photography, and books and art that go even further back than that, including some Japanese prints and a copy of the Kama Sutra that dates back to the nineteenth century.” Duncan paused for a moment. “It just so happens that one of his little gems is a film called Batter Up. It was made about ten years ago by a couple of guys who were just goofing around, having some fun with some hot young guys one summer, and guess who one of those guys is.”

“Jeremy Dixon,” said Donny, and Duncan touched his finger with his nose in the classic Charades signal to indicate he was on the nose.

“And,” said Trish, opening her voluminous purse and pulling out a VHS cassette box, “Duncan’s friend was kind enough to run us off a copy. You have a VCR, I presume?”

They went into the living room and Donny turned on the TV and VCR.

“The only problem,” Duncan said, “is that of course his name isn’t on it and the quality isn’t all that great. These guys weren’t Frank Capra...”

“I don’t think Frank Capra made porn,” Minza said dryly.

“Well, if he did it would be Capra-porn,” retorted Duncan.

“You’ve seen it?” Marc asked.

“No,” Duncan admitted, “but I got a blow-by-blow description.”

Minza snorted. “Very funny.”

Donny put the tape in and punched Play on the remote. The screen went blank, then a grainy, jumpy picture of a baseball stadium came on. It was clearly stock footage of Yankee Stadium with the shots of the crowd and close ups of famous batters and pitchers. The sound was tinny with crowd noise and electric organ music, and once or twice the image jumped and scrolled as the VCR’s tracking mechanism adjusted the image. There were no opening credits.

“That’s just the establishing shot,” Duncan said.

The scene changed to the dugout and showed a row of ballplayers, all of them young and well-built, sitting on the bench wearing baseball uniforms. They acted as if they were watching the game, and it became clear from the dialogue that their team was winning. The camera cut to a shot of someone hitting a home run, then back to the dugout where all the men jumped up, whooped and hollered, and some hugged each other. None of them was Jeremy.

“Go team,” said Duncan, and Trish shushed him.

The action cut to a locker room – established by showing a couple of old gym lockers and a bench against a green wall – where three or four of the players were in various stages of getting undressed. Bits of dialogue – “way to go guys!” and “yea, team!” – was heard. The camera zoomed in on one of the players as he pulled off his shirt, revealing a muscular chest and six-pack, and waited as he pulled off his pants and his jockstrap, revealing his large cock, already half-erect.

“Whoa,” said Trish approvingly.

The camera pulled back and another equally well-built player came in. Some dialogue ensued along the lines of “Hey, buddy, you played a really good game. You really know how to swing that bat,” to which the stripped guy responded by grasping his cock and saying something like, “Thanks, buddy. How’d you like to play a little more?” Some rhythmic music heavy on the bass and sounding like leftover disco from 1970’s came on and the action got down to the business of what the film was all about.

Donny watched with a mixture of fascination and amusement. He had once seen a porn flick when he was in high school at a senior-year bash at Larry Thompson’s house and Larry ran some on his Dad’s ancient Bell & Howell in the basement. It had been straight stuff with big-bosomed women having sex with guys, and he and his friends had laughed most of the way through it, and Donny remembered that he didn’t find it especially arousing. This time, watching two guys engage in sex didn’t have the filmmaker’s desired result on him either.

The scene then shifted to a motel room and the same two men were going at it on the bed in a variety of positions until, after a few moments and some close up shots of a variety of body parts and quick cuts to the facial expressions, another voice was heard off-stage saying, “Hey, can anyone join the party or is it just for guys with big meat?” Donny recognized it as Jeremy’s voice.

“My God, that is Jeremy,” said Duncan, and they all leaned forward to watch as the new guy entered the frame. He was naked as he approached the bed, but all that was seen was his back, and the camera zoomed in on his ass. He got on the bed and the other guys went after him. The camera switched to close-ups and the screen was filled with a tangle of arms, legs, mouths, and cocks. The music became driving, the groaning got louder with the occasional “Oh yeah man suck it” and other ad libs, and finally they were treated to a series of cum shots accompanied by shouts and moans. Then the camera pulled back to reveal the two original actors kissing as the film faded to black.

Donny hit the Pause button. “Okay,” Donny said, “those are really good shots of his back and his ass, but where’s his face?”

“There’s gotta be more,” said Duncan, and Donny pushed Play again. The scene shifted to a Greyhound bus going by, then an interior of the bus with two different players, one black and one Latino, sleeping next to each other. It soon became a scene where they were engaging in sex with much the same action as before and the same music. Then suddenly the screen cut to black, then the electronic snow of a blank tape.

“That’s it?” said Donny, pushing the Fast Forward button. The screen jumped and scrolled, but it was still snow. This went on for a few moments before Donny hit Stop. “Where’s the rest of it?” he said.

“There’s supposed to be a scene where he gets into the showers with another guy with his face and everything,” said Duncan.

Donny pressed Fast Forward to the end of the tape. Nothing but snow. “Shit,” he said angrily. “This isn’t any good. We never saw his face.”

“Well this sucks,” said Trish, “and not in a good way.”

“You heard his voice,” said Duncan petulantly.

“Well, he could say it was dubbed in or it was someone else,” said Minza. “But unless run a voice-print analysis on it or something, it’s useless.”

“Well, I’m sorry. The guy swears that it’s Jeremy Dixon. You heard his voice.”

“Does anyone else have the tape?” said Trish.

“It was never released,” said Duncan. “Right after he made it, Jeremy signed with CAA and they tried to get all the copies from the guys who made it. Obviously they missed one. Or part of one.”

Marc took the remote from Donny and started to rewind the tape.

“Well, other than that one scene where we see his back,” Donny said, “we’ve got nothing, and I don’t think we can prove it was him by showing just his ass. Shit.”

“Hold it,” said Marc.

“What?” said Donny.

“Hang on.”

The movie was in rapid rewind now, the action on the screen now a surrealistic high-speed series of jumps and cuts and split-second shots of the boys on the bus in engaging in comical rapid-fire sex in reverse. Then suddenly they were back in the motel room, going back furiously through the cum shots and back to the montage of close-ups. Marc punched Pause and the screen froze in a blurry dance of lines and squiggles. He backed it up frame by frame, the action jerking and jumping as the tape went back until Marc stopped it on one frame. The electronic static fizzled on the screen like stop-motion lightning, and the resolution was grainy, but it was clearly a man performing oral sex on another man. Marc pushed the Zoom button, and the picture enlarged to fill the entire screen with nothing but half an erection – the other half was out of the frame – a trimmed patch of pubic hair, and the surrounding square inches of skin. There was a small dark patch of color by the base of his cock in a shape that resembled a small bird with its wings spread.

“There,” Marc said triumphantly, putting the remote on the coffee table. “We’ve got him.”

“What?” said Trish.

“That tattoo,” said Marc, pointing at the screen. “It’s a hummingbird carrying a flower. A rose, actually. That’s Jeremy’s tattoo, and that’s Jeremy’s dick. I’ve seen them both up close and personal.”

Duncan was peering closely at the screen. “There’s some printing under it,” he said, “but the picture’s too grainy; I can’t read it.”

“It says ‘Rubythroat,’” said Marc. “He never said why, but that’s what it says.”

“You’re sure?” said Trish.

Marc chuckled. “No doubt. I’ve been there.”

“How many other people know he has that tattoo?” Trish asked.

Minza and Duncan looked at each other and shrugged. “I’ve never seen it,” said Duncan, “and I helped him get dressed a few times. I’ve seen him in his underwear; you can’t see it – and believe me, I checked him out thoroughly.”

“The only people who would know it’s there,” Marc said, “are those of us who have seen him fully naked and with a trim. I’d say that narrows the field considerably.”

“What about your friend?” Donny said to Duncan. “Has he told anyone?”

“Oh, no,” Duncan replied. “He likes his job. He’s very good about keeping secrets.”

“So why is he letting us have the tape?”

“I collect watches,” Duncan explained. “I have a 1930’s Mickey Mouse that he’s crazy about and so I’m trading him that for this and the promise that no one will ever know where it came from.”

“They won’t,” said Marc. “That I promise you.” He was ejecting the tape from the VCR. He put it back into the box and gazed at it thoughtfully.

Minza and Duncan left together; they both had early calls to work. “Another street location in the middle of suburbia,” sighed Duncan. “Never go any place fun.”

“Like where?” asked Donny.

“West Hollywood, Malibu, even Venice would be better than some dreary side street in Whittier or Anaheim. A whole day shot for five minutes of cops and robbers.”

Minza slung her purse over her shoulder. “I get to spend tomorrow running off the re-writes.”

“How many pages?” asked Donny.

“Who knows. Last week it was an average of ten pages a day. C’mon, Dunkie, I’ll buy you a Diet Coke.”

“Nice to meet you,” Donny said to Duncan as they went to the front door. “And thanks for giving up your watch.”

Duncan shrugged. “It doesn’t run and I have two others just like it. Besides, it’s worth it just to see that bastard Jeremy get it. And not in a good way.” He pecked Trish on the cheek. “See you later, babycakes. I’ll call you.”

Minza waved goodbye and Donny closed the door. They went back out to the patio and Donny lit a cigarette.

“So,” Trish said, “you’ve got him by the short hairs.”

“Literally,” added Marc.

Trish snorted. “So what are you going to do now?”

Donny blew out a long stream of smoke and grinned.

“Okay,” she said. “Surprise me.”

“Count on it.”

As she walked to her car, she said, “So, what are you going to do with the tape?”

Marc said, “It’s going into a safe deposit box at the bank after it’s sealed in an envelope and notarized.”

“Good plan,” Trish replied. “And good luck. You’re gonna need it.”

Donny drove Marc to the office to get his car.

“So when’s your meeting with Jeremy?”

“Gina’s gonna let me know.”

“What are you gonna wear?”

“I dunno; my regular outfit, I guess.” He had a navy blue blazer that he had bought shortly after the office had moved and he wore it and blue shirt, a dark red tie, and a pair of pressed khakis to important meetings. He had last worn it to the annual meeting.

Marc shook his head. “Not good enough. You’re going to a meeting with people who pay a grand for a suit. You can’t show up looking like you bought your clothes at J.C. Penney’s.”

“Well, I don’t think Brooks Brothers is open this late on a Sunday,” Donny replied.

Marc shook his head. “Even if they were, with your build you’re gonna have trouble getting fitted there unless they tailor it. Guys who shop there who have a forty-eight inch chest usually don’t have a thirty-two inch waist. There’s a big-and-tall shop nearby, though. They should be able to fit you off the rack. We’ll go tomorrow during lunch. We’ll get you some nice slacks and shoes, too; make you look the part.”

“When did you learn so much about fashion?” Donny said. Marc always wore a coat and tie to work even when everyone else settled for slacks and shirts without ties.

Marc smiled a little. “One of my regular clients was a real clothes horse, and when he wasn’t taking them off to get laid, he taught me something about nice clothes.”

They pulled into the parking garage. Marc’s car was the only one there except for the security guard’s. He started to open the door but then stopped, leaned over and kissed Donny. “Thanks,” he whispered, “for everything this weekend. Thanks for listening and....” He bit his lip and kissed Donny again. Then he got out, grabbed his bag from the back seat, and slammed the door. “See you in the morning,” he said, and tossed his bag into his car.

It was dark by the time Donny got home. He microwaved some burritos and booted up his computer. It didn’t take him long to come up with three abstracts of upcoming episodes for Small Town Boys; he had already outlined them in his head during the walk back yesterday afternoon and during the drive home. He printed them out and put them in a folder and left it by the backdoor with his car keys.

*

The salesman at the big and tall clothing shop looked like a linebacker for the Rams, but he knew clothes and was able to find a charcoal grey suit coat that fit Donny around the chest, wasn’t too long in the sleeves, and was as well-tailored and current as anything Marc wore. “I get guys like you all the time,” he rumbled. “You’re easy to fit in the jacket department; it’s the shirts that drive guys like you crazy. No one seems to make ‘em the right size in the shoulders and neck in proportion to the waist.” But he was able to find two oxford shirts – one blue and one white with faint pinstripes – in Donny’s size, and a pair of wool slacks that fit his waist. For the shoes they went to the store where Marc bought his, and they came back to the office after an hour and a half having spent just under five hundred dollars.

“I don’t think I’ve spent that much on clothes put together in my life,” Donny said.

“Better start,” said Marc, “if you plan on making Hollywood your other job. You’ve outgrown that scruffy farm boy look.”

“Huh,” said Donny. “Mike called me a ‘muscle-bound goof.’”

“Whatever. When’s the meeting?”

“At three tomorrow,” Donny replied, waving the pink message slip that Lily had left on his desk while they were out. “Did you take care of the tape?”

“First thing.”

“Where is it?”

“Like I said, in a safe deposit box at a bank. And I’m not telling you which bank, either. But trust me, it’s safe. What about you? Are you ready?”

Donny picked up the folder with the abstracts and handed them to Marc. He read through them and handed them back. “Yeah,” said Marc, “that should get his attention.”

Chapter Guide