Drama Queers!

by Frank Anthony Polito

  Lonely people in a city of millions.

  After we pull outta the airport parking lot and onto the highway, in the distance I see it. The City (as they call it), where the neon lights of Broadway are bright and magic fills the air…

  An hour later, I step off the bus.

  Back when I was little, whenever our phone rang, Mom would say “Grand Central” before picking it up. At the time, I never knew why. But when I exit the bus and enter the real Grand Central Station, I learn the answer…The place is a zoo!

  In the middle, there’s this giant area called the Main Concourse. According to the brochure I picked up…

  The Terminal’s Beaux Arts interior measures 275 feet long by 120 feet wide. The vaulted ceiling is 125 feet high, and the arch windows are 60 feet high at each end. The walls are covered with a warm buff-colored stone with wainscots and trimmings of cream-colored Botticino marble…

  In the center sits the world famous rendezvous spot, a round Information Booth with its four-sided clock and pagoda made of marble and brass. I guess there’s also a hidden spiral staircase leading down to the lower level. Pretty cool, huh?

  Turning back to the brochure, I discover…

  The great astronomical mural, from a design by the French painter Paul Helleu, painted in gold leaf on cerulean blue oil is the most notable feature of the Main Concourse. This extraordinary painting arches over the 80,000 square-foot Main Concourse, portraying the Mediterranean sky with October-to-March zodiac and 2,500 stars.

  Back in the day, the sixty largest stars were lit with forty-watt lights that had to be replaced by hand on a regular basis. There’s no way you’d catch this boy climbing up 125 feet just to change a lightbulb! If you ask me, the ceiling looks a little dingy, which is probably why they’re about to begin a master revitalization plan with the help of the guys responsible for restoring Ellis Island.

  The other interesting factoid I read about is the Whispering Gallery…

  Located at the end of both ramps when heading down to the Lower Level, the Whispering Gallery offers a phonic treat to visitors of Grand Central.

  Supposedly, if you and your love stand facing the walls in opposite corners, you can whisper sweet nothings to each other and hear every word said. Doesn’t that sound totally romantic? Now I really wish The Sophomore was here!

  Truth be told, I don’t know what’s going on between me and that kid.

  After that first kiss in my car, Richie’s been all about getting in-character for this Faded Flowers film. Like I said, we start shooting in two weeks, and he’s bound and determined we become Noel and Ryan, secret gay lovers.

  Whenever he calls me, it’s “Hey, Ryan…” Whenever we hang up, it’s “Good night, Ryan…” Whenever we have lunch, it’s footsies under the table. Not that I’m complaining or anything, I think it’s totally cute.

  About the only thing we haven’t done is have S-E-X.

  At least not Y-E-T.

  But I’m not gonna think about that!

  There’s no time right now. I gotta find the S train and get myself down to Greenwich Village.

  Mr. Dell’Olio’s good friend, Christopher, is letting me stay at his place on Houston Street. He’s a professional actor. I guess they met back in the day when Dell was working as a director Off-Off-Broadway.

  ‘member the play I seen the show card for, hanging above mine and Richie’s table at Backstage? Torch Song Trilogy by Harvey Fierstein. Well, apparently Christopher understudied in the original production back in like 1982 when it transferred to Broadway. How cool is it that I get to meet somebody who does what I wanna do for a living, you know what I mean?

  “Does this subway go to Times Square?”

  Finally, I see a sign leading me to the S train, where I promptly get in line at what I’m pretty sure is the token booth, and address the oh-so friendly looking attendant behind the bulletproof Plexiglas.

  The look the guy gives me says, Are you an idiot, you Midwestern gay-boy? “Only place it goes.”

  Determined not to be affected by the nasty attitude of others, I ask, “May I buy a token…Please?”

  Without any expression whatsoever, Token Booth Guy replies, “One dollar.”

  I’m not saying he’s being a jerk just because he’s black and I’m white, but coming from Ferndale/Hazel Park where there’s one African-American kid in all of Hillbilly High (“but he’s nice”), how am I supposed to feel? Ever since I seen that commercial where the little boy tells his grandpa that his Jewish friend, Jimmy, called him prejudice, I always make sure I treat people alike no matter who they are.

  I slip a $20 bill thru the slot.

  “Ain’t you got nothing smaller?”

  As much as I wanna answer, If I did, I would’ve given it to you, now wouldn’t I?, I mind my manners. “Sorry…”

  Token Booth Guy says, “How long you in town for?” As if it’s any of his business!

  I reply, “Until Monday.” Only because my mother raised me to be polite.

  “Buy a ten-pack.”

  “How much does that cost?”

  TBG looks at me like I’m a Total Moron. “Ten dollars.”

  Well, how should I know?

  I thought maybe they give you a discount for buying in bulk.

  Whatever…

  Taking the plastic bag of tokens TBG practically throws at me along with my change, I head towards the overhead signs marked S.

  At the end of the tunnel, I find four different sets of tracks.

  “Excuse me…What train do I take to Times Square?”

  This time I decide to ask a (white) woman wearing Reeboks with her tweed business suit and wool winter coat. She looks at me like I have TOURIST tattooed across my forehead. “Any of ’em.”

  Well, how should I know?

  I thought maybe each of the four different trains went someplace else.

  Whatever…

  Lonely people in a city of millions.

  Like a lamb to the slaughter, I follow the herd towards the arriving subway, climbing on board once the car doors slide open. A loud snap-crackle pops above my head.

  “This is the shuttle to Times Square,” the husky male voice announces. “Stand clear of the closing doors.”

  For a second, I panic. I’m supposed to be taking the S train, not the shuttle, whatever that is. A quick check of the map hanging next to the door informs me I’m indeed on the S (for shuttle) and that there’s only one stop between Times Square and Grand Central Station…So far so good!

  Now that I think of it, I can’t say I ever rode a subway before. In fact, the only train I ever been on in my life is the one at the Detroit Zoo. Back when we were little, Dad used to take me and the girls at least once a year during the summer. At first sight of the shiny silver water tower rising above Woodward, I just about wet myself I got sooo bic-cited.

  Whenever we went, we made sure to follow the white-painted elephant prints along the exact same route: the penguin house, the bird atrium, followed by the reptiles. A quick stop at the polar bear fountain, say hello to the prairie dogs, then work our way back towards the giraffes and zebras in their colorful Egyptian display. I hated the Hippo House…Talk about a stink!

  With my red plastic elephant key, I made sure we stopped at every yellow information box, listening to the facts for each particular habitat. I’m sure this drove Dad totally crazy. But what I loved most about our annual zoological excursion was the end-of-the-day train trip from Africa Station back to the parking lot.

  Sure, the cars were tiny, but the trip thru the tunnel made it worth the ride as me and Janelle competed to see who could scream their heads off the loudest. We also begged Dad to buy us one of them giant spiral-colored all-day suckers from the souvenir stand, and he would always remind us he spent enough money already.

  “So what brings you to the Big City?”

  A middle-aged man with a cheesy mustache and wire-frame glasses shares my subway seat. He reminds me of Mr. Klan, all bundled up in a navy b
lue faux-fur trimmed parka. You know, the kind with the snorkel hood and orange interior, circa 1977.

  My first thought is, How’s this guy know I’m a tourist? Then I remember the suitcase by my side, which I can tell is totally annoying everybody whose way it’s in.

  “I’m here for an audition,” I confess.

  The look he gives me says, Hello, Midwestern gay-boy!

  Rambling along on its track, the jerking of the train makes conversation tricky. I explain all about how I’m an actor, about Juilliard, how I never been to New York, da-dah da-dah…Probably not such a good idea.

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

  It all began in February 1976…

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “Next stop Times Square.”

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

  Parka Guy informs me, “This is us.”

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

  “Can I carry that for you?”

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

  “I’m good, thanks.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “No…In Gren-ich Village.”

  What the fuck?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “Just till Monday.”

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

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

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

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

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

  Finally, the subway comes to another screeching halt.

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

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

  Just my luck!

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

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

  “You positive?”

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

  Thank God he finally gets it.

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

  Lonely people in a city of millions.

  Hot Child in the City

  “So young to be loose and on her own

  Young boys, they all want to take her home…”

  —Nick Gilder

  Bradley James Dayton, you’re a fool!

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

  Make that twelve.

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

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

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

  Buzz!

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

  Buzz!

  I pressed the button aga
in…Nothing happened.

  Buzz!

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

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

  “I see you survived the subway…”

  Barely!

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

  “Can I offer you something to drink?”

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

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

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

  “So when’s your big audition?”

  “Tomorrow at 10 o’clock.”

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

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

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

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