by Milton Stern
“You’re not a magnet, Michael. You’re a walking billboard,” Sharon said. “I’ve listened over the years to your stories about Roy and Doug and Philip, and it’s always the same thing. These guys only stay with you because you make yourself available to them. You change in an effort to make them fall in love with you. But, they’ll never love you. They use you. They only love themselves. They know whatever they do you’ll stick around and allow yourself to be treated like shit.”
Michael was starting to get upset. Sharon was harsh, but she had also touched a nerve. Michael lit a third cigarette and wondered if in fact she was right?
“I allow myself to be treated like this?” he asked looking right at her.
“Yes, Michael,” she said. “You allow yourself to be treated like shit. Only you can walk away from these situations. You have to learn to stand up for yourself and not allow people to walk all over you.”
He continued to look at her but remained silent.
“Look, Michael, I love you as if you were my own brother, but sometimes I wanted to scream when I heard about how this one treated you and that one treated you. I don’t get it … At the risk of being rude,” Sharon continued as she lit another cigarette, “Would you like to see my therapist?”
“You have a therapist?” Michael asked with a smile – the first time he smiled all night.
“You’re not the only one with secrets, Michael,” she said with a smile back to him as she took a puff.
“That’s OK, Sharon, I know I can call my therapist any time, and he’ll talk to me.”
“So, why don’t you call him?”
Chapter Seven
On New Year’s Day, Steve replied to Michael’s e-mail about GayDC Weekly Magazine’s “Hottie of the Year.” Steve thanked Michael and then said he was glad to hear from him as he was thinking about him and missed him. Steve also said he was imagining Michael having sex with him on a weight bench. Michael told him he was just sorting things out and hoped he was well. There was no response to Michael’s reply, and he was actually happy about that as he still knew deep down that he had fallen for Steve and the further he stayed away, the better it would be for both of them.
Michael flew back to LA the second week of January for the premiere of Birthright. It was good to be home, even if just for three days, although it was weird for Michael to be staying at a hotel. He did check on his tenant, and the house was being kept relatively neat but not up to Michael’s standards. He suggested a cleaning lady, and the tenant agreed. Michael also reminded him to call the landscapers as the yard was beginning to resemble a jungle. He informed his tenant that he expected to be back on schedule, June 1.
Once back at the hotel, Michael called Sam to see if he wanted to go with him to the premiere, and he said enthusiastically, “Yes, of course!”
He knew it would be good to see Sam again, and he could catch up on his career as Sid had managed to get him a small recurring role on a sitcom as a sexy delivery driver, who showed up at an office every few episodes, sending all the employees into apoplexy because of his good looks and the tight uniform they made him wear. It was not a memorable role, and ten years into his career, people would probably say, “He looks familiar.” Then, during a retrospective of his career forty years from now, they would show a clip of him as the nameless delivery driver, and everyone would say, “That was Sam Jacobs?” Michael imagined it happening just like that, and it was not much of a stretch by Hollywood standards.
Sam showed up at Michael’s hotel room, wearing a black suit, gray shirt and a black and silver tie. He looked like a Jewish James Bond. His hair was shorter, but he was as handsome as ever with his dark features and full lips. Sam stepped in and hugged Michael tightly as if he missed him like no one else.
“Oh, Michael, I cannot thank you enough for everything you’ve done for me,” he said with tears in his eyes. “Meeting you was the best thing that ever happened to me.”
“Come on, Sam,” Michael said as they let go of each other, and he placed his hands on Sam’s shoulders, “You did this all yourself; you just needed a break. I’m so proud of you. I saw you on the show, and you looked so great, and you were funny, too. I think you have a fantastic career in comedy ahead of you.”
Sam hugged him again, and at six-feet even, he was probably not used to looking up at someone as tall as Michael. Sam placed his hand behind Michael’s head and pulled him in for a kiss. Their lips were perfectly meshed. They kissed for quite a while before Michael realized they would be running late.
“Sam, you got the job; you don’t need to throw yourself at me,” he joked.
“I like you, Michael,” he said. “Even if you did nothing for my career, I would still want to be close to you.”
He really was a sweet guy, and if Michael weren’t so jaded from two decades in Hollywood and bad relationships, he would have allowed himself truly to believe him. Michael tried, but the cynic in him managed to come through. The one thing he did know about Jewish guys was that they fell hard and fast. Michael was also like that. They really do make the best husbands as they are truly devoted and filled with guilt, too. If Sam’s parents were dead (the best match is a Jewish guy with dead parents), Michael was intent on proposing marriage. And, Sam would be perfect for Michael. So, why could he not stop thinking about Steve?
“Listen, are you worried about being my date tonight? Everyone knows I’m gay, and your career is just getting started,” Michael said to him, wondering if he would back out.
“Are you kidding? It’s 2006, and I don’t care,” Sam said. “If I don’t find work because of who I am, then fuck it. I don’t want to work,” he said with a smile as he put his arm through Michael’s, who locked the hotel room door behind them.
“I admire your attitude,” Michael said. “You don’t have to play the ‘is he or isn’t he’ game.”
As they walked up the red carpet at the Kodak Theatre, no one seemed to know who Michael – or Sam – was. Michael liked being anonymous but worried that Sam might be disappointed.
“I’m sorry I’m not adding any scandal to your career,” Michael whispered into his ear as they made their way into the theatre. “That’s what you get for being a writer’s date. No one cares.”
“Hey, fellah,” Sam said, “I am here for you, not to further my career; this is your night.”
Wow, selfless and supportive, Michael thought as he looked into Sam’s dark eyes, so why am I still thinking about Steve?
Photographers were snapping shots at Onah Wilson and Johnny Lawrence, the stars of the picture, saying look here and look there, so they could get “candid” pictures. Onah and Johnny would pose this way and that way, looking ever so natural. Michael couldn’t stand the phoniness of it all. One photographer asked Michael to step out of the way as he was blocking his view, and Stanley King, who happened to be standing next to Michael, shouted and pointed at Michael, “Do you know who the fuck you’re talking to? That is Michael Bern, he wrote this goddamn movie, you moron!”
Immediately, cameras starting flashing in Michael’s direction, and he tried to smile naturally, but it was of no use. He was no supermodel or screen idol. But Michael did manage to scream at them, “And, this handsome hunk is my date, Sam Jacobs. Remember that name. Sam Jacobs!” Sam looked at Michael with a smile, and Michael told him through clenched teeth as he looked this way and that, “Smile pretty for the camera, Sam; this’ll be your world some day.”
While smiling for the paparazzi, Sam said, “And, I hope you’re in my world when it happens.”
After they finished snapping, Michael walked up to Stanley and tapped him on the shoulder. “Thanks, Stanley, I just hope they airbrush the shots of me,” he said as they rushed into the theatre.
Michael had not seen the final cut, only the rushes when they were filming in North Carolina in 2004-2005. He had bugged Stanley about the picture, constantly being assured by the director that all was OK, and the writer need not worry about anything. Michael was ge
nerally pleased with the film. There were parts he would have changed, but the cinematography was beautiful, and Onah and Johnny were perfect in the starring roles. The reviews the next day were glowing, and there was talk of an Oscar nomination or two, including best screenplay.
After the premiere, Michael and Sam went to a party at Stanley’s house, but Michael had a hard time enjoying himself as he could not stop thinking about Steve although he was with a perfectly wonderful man, who never left his side all evening and was the perfect gentleman at the party. Whenever anyone came up to talk to him, he tried to make small talk, but he was not his usual social self. Thank God for Sam, who could carry on a conversation with anyone as he was intelligent, funny, and well-spoken, too. What a catch. Michael observed Sam with a smile, impressed by his ability to be comfortable in any situation.
What the hell is wrong with me? Michael thought as Sam talked to a couple of actors. This is supposed to be the highlight of my career, and I’m feeling so down and antisocial even though Sam is here to support me.
They went back to the hotel after the party, and Sam came up to Michael’s room for a while to talk. They chatted about the evening, and since they both had to get up early, Sam for rehearsal, and Michael for an early flight to the East Coast for another premiere, they again parted ways without ending up in bed. Michael just didn’t want him to be a trick. He really liked Sam and thought if they ended up in bed together, it would ruin what was developing into a great friendship. Sam didn’t seem to mind, and Michael believed Sam sensed he was a little depressed.
Michael was living the old Jewish saying: “I’m just not as happy as I thought I would be.”
As he opened the door for Sam, he said as he reached up to stroke Michael’s cheek, “Michael, you seem down, not like the big flirt I met last year.”
“I’m sorry, Sam,” Michael said as he looked into his dark brown eyes. “I guess I’m not looking forward to going to Richmond for another premiere, and I wish I could stay here and sleep in my own house and not a hotel. I really don’t travel well,” he said, avoiding the real reason for his mood.
“I understand,” Sam said. “When you come back in the summer, you’ll feel more at home and be back to your normal self.”
Sam was so understanding, and Michael knew that if he were in his shoes, he would run from this depressed mess of a man who could not enjoy the highlight of his career. After Sam left, Michael prepared himself for his early flight to Virginia’s capital, which was chosen as the venue for the “second” premiere because Birthright took place there. Michael called Sam early in the morning before he left and invited him to visit him in Washington, so he could show him around. They talked for a while as Michael made his way to check out of the hotel, and he realized talking to Sam put a smile on his face and made him feel better. But, he could not get Steve out of his thoughts.
Michael flew into Richmond and rented a car. The premiere was that night, and he planned to stay only one night before flying back to Washington. This premiere was very low key, and without Stanley King there to tell them who he was, only two photographers took his picture. Again, the audience loved the movie, and the critics were raving about the performances and the script. At this high point in his life, Michael should have been thrilled and excited, but his depression had taken him over. Michael managed to smile politely when introduced, but those who had never heard of him assumed he was a man of few “spoken” words. If only they could have had the opportunity to know his real personality, the one he had before arriving in Washington.
The next morning as Michael prepared to go back to the airport, return the car, and fly to DC, he decided to take a side trip. He called the airline and changed his ticket for the following day and extended his car rental as well. He planned to drive to Hampton and Newport News for the day. The trip would only take an hour, and he thought the drive would do him some good.
As he merged onto I-64 early that morning, memories of driving along that route flooded his mind. Michael was reminded of how customers in the Williamsburg restaurant where he worked in the early 1980s would comment on all the trees on the Lower Peninsula that was home to Williamsburg, Jamestown, Hampton, and Newport News. He thought about the last time he was in his hometown in April 2004 for Aunt Florence’s funeral and how her death brought about a major shift in his life. Upon returning to LA after her death, he began therapy and completed The Girls, his “opus” that was rejected by every major studio, and learned more about himself than he wanted to know at the time. But, even with the breakthroughs in therapy, there was so much more he had not confronted, and he vowed upon his return to LA next summer to resume therapy and find out why he went through these dark periods whenever he became involved with a man.
Weren’t relationships supposed to be happy? Wasn’t finding “the one” supposed to bring one eternal bliss? Would he ever meet his soul mate? Michael doubted it, and he had resolved himself to the fact that he would be single for the rest of his life.
He drove past all the Newport News exits and once in the Hampton city limits, took the exit for Kecoughtan Road toward Rosenberg Cemetery, a century-old Jewish burial ground established by Russian immigrants who pursued the American dream via Hampton Rhodes Harbor in the mid- to late-1800s. The gates to the cemetery were open, although it was deserted. Michael pulled in and parked next to the first row after the oldest section of the cemetery. He took a deep breath before exiting the car and walked down the row until he spotted the dark tan granite stone. He had been unable to make the unveiling in April 2005, so this was the first time he had visited since being a pallbearer at the funeral almost two years earlier. Michael picked up a stone and stood before the large head stone, which read “Friedman.” There were three footstones, and buried on the left and written on the footstone was, “Florence ‘Flossie’ Friedman Greenberg Mirmelstein Einstein Kennof, Devoted and Beloved Mother, Grandmother, and Godmother, June 20, 1927–April 24, 2004.” Michael chuckled at the fact that they included all her married names. But upon reading “Godmother” on her marker, he was so touched that tears streamed down his face as he placed a stone on her grave. Michael was Aunt Flossie’s only godchild, and this simple act of putting that title on her grave warmed his heart and made him miss her even more. On the lower right side of the marker were two dancing figures and the inscription, “She danced her way to Heaven,” a reminder for all eternity that she collapsed and died while ballroom dancing, her favorite pastime.
“Oh, Aunt Flossie, I miss you so much. I wish you were here right now to cheer me up. I think about you every day,” Michael said out loud for only the resting souls to hear.
He stood there for a few minutes, thinking about his favorite person in the world. He then walked a few rows back and placed a stone on Arlene Feld’s grave, which was to the left of her mother-in-law, Minna Feld, who was buried between Arlene and William Feld, Arlene’s ex-husband. Michael’s eyes filled with tears again while thinking about Arlene, his mother’s oldest friend, and someone he cared for very deeply. As he wiped his eyes, he decided not to seek out any other graves at this cemetery that day.
Michael returned to the car, exited the cemetery and decided to visit one more burial ground before heading back to Richmond. He drove onto Jefferson Avenue and turned left on Denbigh Boulevard, heading for Route 60, and within a few minutes, he spotted Peninsula Memorial Park on his right and turned in to the main drive. The Reformed Jewish section was on the left, and as he drove around, he parked the car. The cemetery was empty, which he found unusual for such a large burial ground that had sections for just about every religion and their respective denominations.
“Must be a slow death week,” Michael said to himself, as he stepped out of the car and walked across the drive to gather some gravel he spotted on the other side. He picked up a few stones and walked back over to the Reform Jewish section, which was distinguished from the rest of the cemetery not only by its location near the road, but also by the use of in-ground gra
ve markers as opposed to headstones. Michael had only been to this cemetery once before, in 1981, when his cousin Lenny died from a mysterious illness that they would later learn was AIDS as it would not even make national headlines until June of that same year. Amazingly, he located his marker without any trouble – “Lenny Bern, 1960-1981.” Michael placed a stone on the marker and noticed a few other stones had also been placed there. He wondered if he knew who had visited him.
As Michael walked to the right of Lenny’s marker, he noticed a grave he had never visited. He paused to look at the marker and pondered if he should put a stone on it.
It was his mother’s grave – “Hannah S. Stein, Loving Mother and Wife, July 28, 1927-June 2, 2001.” Michael shook his head. “Loving Mother and Wife?” he said out loud. Michael had read about people who screamed at their parents’ graves letting go of anger they had bottled up for decades, but although he could be quite a drama queen when the situation called for it, he did not have the urge at that moment to lay on the histrionics – besides, there were no other people around to enjoy what could have been an entertaining display. He always believed that if one were to put on a scene, one should at least have an audience.
For the last sixteen years of Hannah’s life, he did not speak to her, and Michael thought he had let go of the hurt and the pain, but looking to the right of her grave, the pain returned. There was Karl Stein’s burial place. Next to his mother was the man who had broken his nose and knocked out his front teeth, causing him to leave Newport News and not return for almost two decades. His heart beat so loudly, he could hear it. He then struggled to keep from yelling and instead stepped on Karl’s marker while he placed a stone on his mother’s. As he stood back up, tears welled up in his eyes.
He then looked around, turned his back to the road, unzipped his pants, pulled out his penis, and took a piss on Karl’s grave. While the urine streamed over Karl’s resting place, he said out loud, “Why, Mother, why? Why did you hate me so much? What did I do to cause you so much pain?”