Drama Queers!

by Frank Anthony Polito

  At that moment, one of my absolute favorite tunes starts to play.

  “Oh, my God…I love this song!”

  Those words did not come outta my mouth.

  That was Les Miz Guy doing the talking.

  I’m like, “You do?”

  And he’s like, “I had the album back in 7th grade.”

  I’m like, “You’re kidding?”

  I mean, so did I. Well, I had the 45. Only I was in 2nd grade when I asked Mom to buy me it. At the time, I didn’t realize the song was about a teenaged prostitute. I have a feeling neither did Mom or she never would’ve let me listen to it.

  I remember being in Mrs. Stephens’s class at Miller Elementary in Center Line at the time, because one day I brought the record in for Show-and-Tell. Like my mom, Mrs. Stephens’s first name was Laura, which is why I think I loved her so. She used to read us Where the Sidewalk Ends and The Giving Tree by Shel Silverstein, and to her I owe my love of Charlotte’s Web. Unlike Mom, Mrs. Stephens was well aware of the song with its suggestive lyrics, and wouldn’t allow me to give an audio presentation for my 7-year-old classmates.

  The year after Mrs. Stephens taught my class, she moved to Noblesville, Indiana, with her husband and two sons. For a while, we used to write letters back and forth. Then when I was like nine or ten, they stopped. Probably because we moved to Ferndale and I forgot to tell her…Remind me I need to find Mrs. Stephens’s address and drop her a line to see how she’s doing after all these years.

  “Let’s Dance!”

  Les Miz Guy cries out at the top of his lungs, like he’s David Bowie circa 1983.

  “I’m sorry…”

  Thinking of The Sophomore tucked away in his tiny twin bed back in Hazeltucky, and poor Christopher dying of a dreaded disease here in NYC, on top of the fact that my Juilliard audition is now less than eight hours away, I decline the invitation.

  LMG says, “You’re cute, you know that?” Totally outta the blue.

  Even at this late hour, I blush. “Thanks…So are you.”

  Being the actor that he is, he takes that as his cue. Next thing I know, a pair of full lips firmly press themselves against mine…And we’re totally making out.

  Bradley James Dayton, you’re a whore!

  What I Am

  “I’m not aware of too many things

  I know what I know, if you know what I mean…”

  —Edie Brickell & New Bohemians

  “If you’re miserable, it’s your own damn fault.”

  Wanna know what time I woke up this morning?

  9:00 AM.

  ‘member what time I had the biggest audition of my life?

  If you said, “10:00 AM,” you win the prize!

  The second the alarm goes off, I want to kill myself. Or roll over and go back to bed. Luckily, the windows in Christopher’s apartment don’t have any treatments, so the sun shining directly in my eyes makes it impossible to do just that.

  If I said it one time, I said it a bijillion times: I am never drinking again!

  Hoping not to rouse my snoring host asleep on the fold-up cot three feet from me, I tiptoe into the bathroom. Except that’s not where they keep the shower in this particular apartment. Whose idea was it to put a stand-up stall on top of the kitchen counter?

  Don’t ask me, but there it sits, three steps up. The last thing I wanna do is wake poor Christopher now that I’m aware of his illness. So forgoing cleanliness in favor of practicality and time, I stick my head beneath the bathroom sink…Too bad nothing can be done to get that night-at-the-bar smoke stench off the rest of my body.

  Great!

  Now I want a cigarette.

  At already 9:15 AM, my nicotine fix will have to wait.

  Quickly, I assemble my audition outfit: brown slacks, tan dress shirt, and Jack’s matching cardigan, exact same thing I wore to the “Top 25” ceremony in October. Once I’m dressed, I break out my curling iron and get to work on my mess of hair.

  Yes, I did say curling iron.

  Actually, it’s a Clicker. You know, one of them cordless jobs that’s basically a giant cigarette lighter filled with butane so you can use it anytime, anywhere. As you can imagine, the access to electricity is always an issue Chez Dayton. Back in the day, I used to borrow Janelle’s, but soon as I started making money at Big Boy’s, I saved up and bought my own.

  See, what I do is…I use the curling iron—I mean, Clicker—to curl back the hair, then I brush it out with a brush, holding the hair in place with a little hairspray for a more feathered look. About a year ago I tried going au naturel, but somebody told me I looked like the guy from Simply Red.

  The only problem is sometimes I get a little impatient, like when I’m in a hurry, and I—

  Motherfucker!

  Burn myself…The way I did just now.

  Across the room I sprint, reaching for the freezer and finding a silver metal ice tray, circa 1972. The second I pull the lever, I think of Grandma Victor.

  Crack!

  God, I hope that didn’t wake Christopher up.

  A quick check in the bathroom mirror reveals a nice red mark right above my brow. Looks like today I’ll be sporting bangs! At least my sister, Janelle, could blame a neck burn on a hickey and vice versa.

  Speaking of…

  What the fuck is that thing just below my left ear? Looks like today I’ll be sporting a turtleneck!

  What else can possibly go wrong?

  Other than the fact that it’s now 9:30 AM and I need to travel sixty-six blocks in less than half an hour. To quote Judy Tenuta (once more): “It could happen!”

  Down five flights I fly, out the front door onto Houston—I mean, How-ston—running west all the way towards the subway. Too bad I’m supposed to run east. Next thing I know, I’m shielding my eyes from the warm winter sun, staring across some river at what I think is New Jersey…Maybe it’s Brooklyn.

  “Taxi!”

  Sticking my arm up in the air like I seen in the movies, I shout at the top of my lungs.

  There’s one…And another…And another.

  What the fuck’s a boy gotta do to get a cab in this town?

  If this was a film, and I was—I don’t know—Marilyn Monroe, I’d step up to the curb and flash some leg. Not like that’s gonna work for me here in New York City. Especially since I’m a teenaged boy and all the cab drivers are men, you know what I mean?

  Errrk!

  Lucky for me, standing in the middle of the road works just as well.

  “Where to?”

  At least I’m assuming that’s what the driver says.

  The guy’s got an accent thicker than Jerry the Chaldean from the Movies at Lakeside. ’member the 25-year-old with the bulging biceps who works the concession stand? Remind me I still need to take him up on his offer to buy me a drink sometime.

  “Juilliard School of Drama,” I say politely, adding, “and step on it,” just because it sounds like something a true New Yorker should say.

  Twenty minutes later, we arrive at a big white building with five amazingly beautiful arches and an enormous fountain out front.

  “Lin-coln Cen-ter,” Cab Driver Guy reports, again in his accent.

  I can’t believe he took me on a wild goose chase.

  I’m like, “I need to go to Juilliard,” adding, “School of Drama,” just in case he doesn’t comprehend what I’m saying.

  Cab Driver Guy repeats, “Lin-coln Cen-ter.”

  I say, “Jui-lli-ard,” thinking even my sister, Nina, isn’t this slow.

  CDG insists, “Lin-coln Cen-ter is Jui-lli-ard.”

  Sure enough, across the way a sign points out my final destination, up the stairs and on the left. I slip CDG a $20 bill, not even bothering to look at the meter, before bolting out the door.

  I would’ve said, “Keep the change,” because I always wanted to, but right now I’m too pissed…Not to mention L-A-T-E.

  “Name, please?”

  A burly African-American female security g
uard greets me at the check-in desk.

  “Bradley Dayton.”

  With her three-inch, filed-straight-across and painted-red fingernail, she scrolls down her clipboard, shaking her beaded-braided head as she goes. “Don’t see no Bradley Dayton on my list.”

  Well, Sunshine…Why don’t you take a closer look?

  “I’m auditioning for Juilliard,” I report proudly, the fact that I’m standing in the actual School of Drama lobby not yet sinking in.

  “Well, where do you think you is…The Taj Mahal?”

  This she says with a smile, cracking herself up at what’s gotta be the funniest thing she’s ever told anybody.

  I say, “I have a 10 o’clock appointment,” adding, “Bradley Dayton from Hazel Park High School.” Truth be told, I almost said Hillbilly High, I’m so used to calling it that.

  “10 o’clock AM?” Sunshine repeats, turning back a page on her clipboard.

  No, I’m twelve hours early.

  “Why didn’t you say so?” Down the list the nail goes, stopping halfway. “Bradley Dayton, is that you?”

  No, Sunshine…My name is Mahatma Ghandi.

  I nod and smile, taking note of the time displayed on the digital clock nearby.

  9:57 AM.

  “Better hurry, Bradley Dayton…You gonna be late.”

  Thru the turnstile I pass, into the elevator, and up to the 3rd floor. A list posted on the wall informs me of the room number I need to report to, where I find what must be at least twenty kids my age milling about, running thru their own equivalent of “red-leather-yellow-leather” and “rubber-baby-buggy-bumpers.”

  And this isn’t the only room.

  There’s another four or five just like it on this same floor, where at least twenty other kids my age are running thru the exact same drills, and will continue to for the next eight hours. Not to mention the ones auditioning in Chicago, Los Angeles, and God-only-knows-where-else across the entire États Unis.

  I wanna go home. Or at least to the bathroom. Suddenly, I’m not feeling too great.

  “Good morning!”

  An attractive man in his early-to-mid-thirties enters, calling out to us. Surprisingly, the room falls silent. Back at HPHS the kids keep on talking and talking (and talking) no matter who’s trying to get their attention. I don’t know if he’s a teacher or what, but the guy looks like somebody important. Did I mention he’s sorta cute, in a Greg Brady sorta way, with curly dark hair and thick matching eyebrows?

  “I’m new to the faculty here at Juilliard,” he tells us. “If you have any questions, my name is Richard…”

  Great!

  Now I feel like I’m gonna cry.

  I can’t believe I cheated on poor Richie. What kind of person does that make me? I’m away for not even a day, and already I’m kissing another guy.

  “In just a moment, you’ll be taken to a practice room,” Richard the faculty member continues, “where you’ll have time to go over your audition pieces.”

  That’s all we did, me and Les Miz Guy.

  “…you’ll have three minutes to present your two contrasting monologues…”

  Well, except for the hickey he gave me.

  “Any questions?”

  I mean, I’m sure we would’ve done more, if I wanted to…

  “Break a leg!”

  But I didn’t.

  The entire time LMG was sucking on my neck, I kept thinking about how guilty I felt for letting him do it. Finally, I was like, “I gotta pee.” Then I snuck out the side door and stumbled my way down 7th Avenue, using the Twin Towers to guide my way south.

  I never did find out his name.

  I don’t know why I let the guy kiss me in the first place. If I’m sooo in love with Richie Tyler like I keep saying I am, why would I even look at another guy? With all the problems my parents had in their marriage, never once did my dad cheat on my mom.

  Back in junior high, I remember reading this book called The Hite Report on Male Sexuality. It had this whole section on gay men and how they’re much more promiscuous than their heterosexual counterparts. For obvious reasons, I became fascinated with this fact. I’ll never forget this one story about this guy who used to sit on the toilet in a public restroom, picking up men after men (after men). Whenever somebody sat down in the stall next to him, he’d slide his foot underneath as a signal. If the other guy was interested, he’d signal back and BAM!

  As hot as that story seemed at the time, I never imagined my life would come to something like that. I always pictured myself falling in love with one guy. We’d buy a house together, and settle down for the rest of our lives, just me and him. Maybe adopt some kids. Or at least a dog.

  I mean, that’s all I want outta life.

  What everybody else wants.

  Just because I’m gay doesn’t mean I shouldn’t have it…Does it?

  “Where you from?”

  A totally cute guy in his early twenties shows me to a tiny room where I have ten minutes to run thru each of my audition monologues.

  “Michigan,” I reply, unable to get over the guilt feeling in my gut at cheating on my boyfriend-who’s-not-really-my-boyfriend, even though I totally want him to be. Otherwise, I might actually attempt to carry on a conversation.

  About 6’1”, the boy is rather well-dressed in a button-down Polo worn with a navy blue blazer, pleated khaki pants, and penny loafers. In fact, most of the guys I seen here are all taller than me. This one reminds me of Robert Downey Jr. from Weird Science. He also happens to be a third-year in the acting program here at Juilliard, so I should totally be chatting him up just in case he can put in a good word.

  “I went to high school in Michigan,” he offers casually.

  “Oh, yeah?” I reply, feigning interest. “Whereabouts?”

  “Interlochen Arts Academy…You know it?”

  “I thought Interlochen was a summer camp,” I admit, remembering some of the kids I met at Blue Lake mentioning they tried getting into Interlochen, but weren’t good enough.

  Sounding like a Total Snob, he informs me, “It’s also a four-year performing arts high school with majors in Theatre Arts, Creative Writing, and Dance.”

  Well, la-dee-dah!

  “So where in Michigan are you from?” I wonder. Not that I give a shit now that I know he’s got an attitude.

  Interlochen Boy replies, “My family’s from Connecticut…I just went to school in Michigan.”

  I’m like, “Oh.”

  Then he says, “Where do you go to school?”

  I’m like, “Hazel Park,” throwing in “but I live in Ferndale,” for good measure. When this registers a blank stare, I add, “It’s a suburb of Detroit.”

  Interlochen Boy says, “One of my best friends is from Bloomfield Hills.”

  I’m like, “Bloomfield Hills is nice.”

  And full of rich people!

  Whatever…

  I got more important things to worry about right now, like the fate of what I thought was going to be my profession totally going up in flames.

  Inside the tiny practice room, we find a simple gray folding chair, and a black metal music stand. There’s also an upright piano. Thank God I won’t be doing any singing. I barely have a speaking voice after all the cigarettes I smoked last night…I really gotta quit!

  “Need anything else?” my escort inquires before leaving me to my monologues.

  I’m about to respond, Not that I can think of, Dickface. Then I change my mind.

  “Can I ask you a question?” After talking to him, I figure this guy’s gotta know the answer. “Are there any gay guys here?”

  IB closes the door behind us. For a second, I think he’s gonna make a move on me. “Why do you ask?”

  “No reason…Just curious.”

  He gives me a suspicious look, much like the one my mom does when she suspects I’m up to something. “You mean like teachers…or students?”

  I answer, “I don’t know…Students, I guess.”

&
nbsp; IB hesitates, chewing a manicured fingernail. “If there is,” he quietly informs me, “I don’t know any—and neither does anybody else.”

  Whatever…

  “Hello, my name is Bradley Dayton…My selection is from Tea and Sympathy by Robert Anderson, the character of Tom.”

  Shit!

  The last thing I wanna do is walk into my Juilliard audition with a gay monologue. I’ll never get in that way. I wish Mr. Dell’Olio would’ve warned me, like his friend Christopher did, before I spent the last two months wasting my time rehearsing and rehearsing (and rehearsing) this stupid selection.

  Now what?

  I think I’ll be fine with my classical (Romeo from Romeo & Juliet), but the contemporary has sooo gotta go! Unfortunately, the only other piece I got memorized is the Jane Seymour “Man of My Dreams” monologue from Somewhere in Time. It looks like I’m screwed either way.

  “Good morning!”

  From behind a folding table I’m greeted by three adjudicators. I’m sure I should know their names, but for the life of me can’t remember due to the nervous state I’m currently residing in. The men are both middle-aged and balding, while the woman looks to be about thirty with short dark hair, parted on the side, and matching tortoiseshell glasses.

  “Hello.”

  This is all I can manage to muster up.

  Looking around the room, I gotta say, this isn’t exactly the place I envisioned myself auditioning for Juilliard in. I’m guessing this is a dance studio of some sort, with one entire wall covered in mirrors, and a wooden bar running across about waist high. I thought for sure I’d be in an actual Theatre. I mean, this is the (as in thee) best Drama School in the entire country, for chris’sakes, you know what I mean?

  “You must be Bradley Dayton,” the woman says, when I continue standing there, mouth agape, looking like a Total Dork.

  “Yes,” I nod and smile. “Thank you for having me.”

  Something about the way the woman takes charge of the situation reminds me of Jessica Clark Putnam, though she looks more like Mr. Drysdale’s secretary on The Beverly Hillbillies, Miss Hathaway. I wonder if she’s a lesbian. I see no cluster of diamonds on her ring finger.