But Enough About Me

by Jancee Dunn

  18.

  As my life took a gentler turn, I started to check in, sometimes on a daily basis, with my mom. I marveled: When did we start having so much in common? Had it always been this way and I hadn’t noticed? We would talk, sometimes for hours, about books, travel, politics. I had always been the classic independent eldest child, but I found that I liked to phone up and run things by her. She always had a strong opinion. Never from my mother did you hear I don’t know or Hm, that’s a tough one. She just jumped in.

  In turn, she would phone me when she was driving around and doing her errands. “I’m on my way to Lord and Taylor,” she said, calling Friday morning. “Whoops, hang on. I see a cop. I’m not supposed to be on the cell phone, so I’m going to put it down for a minute.” Pause. “Okay, he’s gone. So I have to get an outfit for a dinner at the Power Boat Club. I’d rather not spend the money, but what can you do. Listen. I was thinking of something for you to pitch.”

  My mother wrote a column for her local paper, so she was constantly on the hunt for story ideas, some of which she passed on to me. “You know how there are a lot of dwarfs around?” she asked.

  I tried to absorb this. Were there a lot of dwarfs around? Was the tristate area lousy with dwarfs? Perhaps. Perhaps.

  “Well, I was thinking: Where do they go when they want to have fun? I’ll bet you that in New York there is some sort of dwarf nightclub.” Already I was preparing my southern imitation for Heather: Ah you awayah of the preponderance of dwarfs among our populace?

  “I mean, I’m assuming that dwarfs want to go to a place where they don’t feel self-conscious. Right? New York has everything, so surely it has a nightclub for dwarfs. Why don’t you do an exposé on it?”

  I considered the existence of a dwarf nightclub that had somehow eluded the attention of the New York media. “Well, there’s the problem of height,” I said carefully. “An exposé involves going incognito, which I couldn’t do unless I put shoes on my knees.”

  “Well, you don’t have to get smart.”

  “No, I’ll look into it,” I said.

  “So what are you working on?” she asked.

  I told her about my latest back-and-forth with Rosie O’Donnell’s publicist. New York magazine wanted me to write a sizable, in-depth (i.e., lucrative) feature on her, but her publicist, burned by a torrent of bad press after Rosie’s court battle with her magazine publishers, was skittish. I felt sleazy trying to reassure her that despite New York’s reputation for the occasionally blistering profile, I wasn’t looking to take Rosie down. I actually thought Rosie was funny, and I loved the work she did for charity. That said, if I passed muster, the publicist was urging me to go on R Family Vacations, a cruise for gay families organized by Rosie’s partner, Kelli.

  I informed my editor that I really wasn’t a cruise person. “Are you kidding?” he asked. “That’s the best scene, ever.”

  After a few more conversations with the publicist, I was told I made the cut. Still, she was wary.

  “I have to proceed gently,” I said to my mother. “I guess going on the cruise will help, although I’m dreading it.”

  “Dreading it? That sounds like a hoot,” said my mother.

  I was about to protest, but then it occurred to me: My cheery mom from the suburbs would be just the secret weapon I needed. Why didn’t I start taking her with me on my interviews? She had retired, so she had more time. For this story, she would be particularly helpful: As my father liked to point out, Gays Love Your Mother. She was fun. She wore big jewelry. She got a little raucous after a few Pinot Grigios.

  “Ma,” I said. “Pack your bags.”

  We were to leave New York Harbor, sail for two days and nights, then disembark in Halifax, Nova Scotia, while the ship went on to Provincetown, Martha’s Vineyard, Boston, and then back to New York. In the days leading up to the cruise, my mother called with questions. Could I use my press credentials to cut ahead of the registration line? Would she need to pack formal wear, in case there was a dinner with the captain?

  “I think the dress code will run along the lines of elasticized shorts,” I said. “And you may see some denim-on-denim ensembles.”

  On the day of the cruise, my anxious father dropped my mother, pert and ready for adventure, off at the port. Wheelie cart: check! Revlon’s Pink in the Afternoon lipstick: check! Oversized sunglasses: check! Sleeping pills: check! We took our place in line and watched all of the same-sex parents attempt in vain to control their frantically excited kids. After check-in, we got our commemorative photo taken as we smiled together inside of a life preserver.

  Then it was off to inspect our room. “Ooh!” said my mother, grabbing the Daily Events calendar and scanning it. “Well. We have to play bingo, although I’m not lucky. Your aunt Norma always won at bingo. Look! There’s a drag-cappella show tonight. What do you suppose that is? Hm. Surrogacy and Egg Donation, I guess that’s a workshop. Ooh, eight of the restaurants are free. I know. Let’s eat two bites of an entrée and run to the next one! And listen to this! Susan Powter is running the yoga class! Remember, the one with the blond crew cut? We had her book, what was it, Stop the Insanity?” She frowned. “Is she a lesbian?”

  “I’m not sure,” I said.

  Mom put on a fresh coat of Pink in the Afternoon and we raced out to the pool. A Pet Shop Boys song was blaring, and everywhere there were kids of different hues splashing and laughing while their doting parents photographed and filmed their every move. My mother sidled up to two white guys who were fastening water wings on their tiny Asian daughter. “Look at her little shoes!” my mother said. “What a beautiful girl.” Her parents beamed.

  “I’m going with you for all interviews,” she announced as we ran to a cooking demonstration by Oprah Winfrey’s chef, passing Cyndi Lauper, Wednesday’s entertainment, in the hallway. Because Rosie was involved, the onboard talent was of a higher caliber: Tony-winning stars, for instance, were the attraction for Rosie’s Variety Hour, the nighttime revue held in the Stardust Lounge.

  After joining the stampede for the Chocolate Buffet, we met Rosie’s wife, Kelli, and Kelli’s business partner, Gregg, for an interview. They told us that with gay parents, there are no accidental pregnancies. These parents often wait, anxiously, for years. They want their children, badly.

  My mother dabbed her eyes.

  After we left the conference room, Mom hugged me. “I started getting a little emotional in there,” she said. Two staffers passed us and exchanged the briefest of amused looks.

  “I think we confuse people,” said my mother.

  “They don’t know if you’re my mother or my sugar mama,” I said.

  “Hey!” she said. “Let’s interview Susan Powter.” Kelli said I could call her room directly, so I did.

  “I’m just about to take a nap!” she boomed. “But! I’d love to chat! I have a LOT going on!”

  In an hour, she phoned. “Boy, am I refreshed!” she cried. “Let’s meet by the pool!”

  She strode up to us wearing a tank top that said Big Dyke.

  “I guess that answers that question,” whispered my mother.

  Black and pink dreadlocks spilled down her back. A tattoo snaked around her stomach. She marched up to my mother. “How old are you?” she demanded.

  “Sixty,” said my mother. That was not strictly true. I let it pass.

  “Well, you look amazing!” she said. “I’m a forty-seven-year-old menopausal woman, what do you think of that! Let me tell you about my new book, The Politics of Stupid!” She sat down at a table as the families around her tried not to stare. “I hate refined white sugar, refined white flour, and refined white men! Oh, and my latest video is also out, it’s called Trailer Park Yoga!” She stood up. “I love the vaginal energy in here!” She waved her arms. “Am I right, Mom? LET’s get in TOUCH with our VAGINAL energy!” She leaned over and plopped her ample bosoms onto the table, where they spilled out of her tank top.

  Forty-five minutes and many mentions of he
r new book later, we were on to our next interview, a single gay mother who had adopted seven special-needs kids, all of whom bunched anxiously around us as we talked to her.

  “I wish I had a lot of money to give her,” said my mother as we ran to the casino. “Jesus God, that is tough work.” We passed two large ladies who occupied most of a hot tub and wondered if they were the same big gals who reportedly attended last year’s cruise to the Bahamas. They were straight, but they showed up because they got tired of the stares and giggles and figured that on this cruise, they would be accepted.

  Finally, we had an appointment with Rosie. She occupied a large suite that looked out over the pool (“I love my lesbian fatties in their bathing suits!” she announced later at her variety show, to thunderous applause).

  Rosie was wearing bike shorts and a fleece pullover. She gave us both a hug. Unlike most celebrities, she didn’t have that invisible do-not-cross line. She told us that Melissa Etheridge was in the suite next door with her two kids.

  “I know her!” I burst out idiotically. “I broke the story in Rolling Stone that David Crosby was the surrogate father of the kids! I had to carry around that secret for eight days before the interview.”

  My mom poked me. “I want to meet Melissa,” she announced. The woman was veering out of control.

  As Rosie’s kids ran in and out of the suite, she talked about how difficult it was to censor herself, which, of course, I loved.

  “Someone should censor Tom Cruise,” my mother said, referring to his attack on Brooke Shields. She looked over at Rosie to see if she’d take the bait. She certainly had been a vocal fan of his on her talk show.

  “Mom!” I said. Then I looked at Rosie, too.

  She went off on a satisfying rant against Cruise while I silently vowed that from here on in, I was bringing my mother to every single interview. She could ask the painful questions, while I could pretend to be horrified and admonish her. Then we would wait expectantly for the celebrity’s answer, because what kind of monster would bark “No comment” to someone in a pink sweater who has a Master Gardener’s certificate and does volunteer work at Project Self-Sufficiency?

  “I like Rosie,” my mother pronounced afterward. “And I didn’t know if I would. But I really think she’s real, and unpretentious. Warm. You know?” We didn’t have much time to talk, because we were due to interview a pair of women who got a chilly reception from the residents of their small Colorado hometown. We met them in their room.

  “We saved for this cruise all year,” one woman said haltingly, the tears slipping down her cheeks. “For one week a year, my girlfriend and I don’t get stared at. Our daughter sees other kids just like her.” She wiped her eyes. “We just feel safe here.”

  I heard a robust sniff behind me. It was my mother.

  “You’re very brave,” she choked out. Blossoming under my mother’s sympathetic gaze, the woman poured out her story, while I busily took notes.

  The next day, we disembarked at Halifax. “Well, that certainly opened my eyes,” Mom said.

  As we walked down the gangplank, I heard a commotion at the entrance of the ship. It was the woman with the special-needs kids. “Come on, everybody,” she was shouting as the group made their boisterous journey down the ramp. “Let’s stay together.”

  I squinted up at them. “It’s the kids with the special needs,” I said.

  We looked at each other.

  “Run,” I said.

  A Reminder, After Years of Jangled Nerves, That the Famous Are Not So Different from You and Me

  Steady. Steady, now. Bruce Springsteen was standing right next to me. The man who provided the sound track to a few decades of my life was a mere three feet away. We were both in the audience watching his wife, Patti Scialfa, perform onstage in a New York studio for a television special. I was to interview her the next day.

  I practiced a line, just in case he caught my eye. She’s great, isn’t she? Emphasis on “she.” No, no, emphasis on “great.” But as Patti ran smoothly through song after song, he never did look around. Instead, he gazed at his red-haired wife with pride and delight, a little smile playing over his face.

  The following day, I met Scialfa in a recording studio on the West Side, where she was putting the finishing touches on a couple of tracks. I had a mild knot of nerves in my stomach, but they vanished immediately as she ran over and warmly said hello, catching both of my hands in hers. “I’m from New Jersey, too!” I cried, before realizing that she must hear that two hundred times a day.

  She was funny and friendly and utterly unaffected. When the subject of her age came up, she moved her face under a nearby light. “I’m fifty,” she said matter-of-factly, lifting up her bangs so I could see her forehead. “This is what fifty looks like.”

  There were so many things that I wanted to ask her. She told me about her girlhood at the Jersey Shore, where she hung out at the beach and cruised the streets in a Firebird and cut classes at Asbury Park High School to go into the city. At fourteen, she joined her first band, which I rejoiced to discover was called Ecstasy. Until recently, she said, she had forgotten that at the age of fifteen, she had called Springsteen, who lived a town over, to audition for his band. (He told her, firmly but kindly, that she was too young.)

  The time slipped distressingly away as she reminisced about her days as a busker on the streets of New York, and her subsequent career as a singer with the E Street Band. Now she and Springsteen live with their three children in a nineteenth-century farmhouse in Rumson.

  She laughed when I told her about the Jersey Boast. If you lived in Rumson or nearby, you were not issued your driver’s license unless you could do the Boast, a story of your personal encounter with Bruce and Patti that ended with the proud declaration that they were Just Like Us, i.e., “I saw Bruce and Patti at the grocery store/diner/dry cleaners, and they were so freakin’ down to earth. They were buying trash bags/talking to my sister’s cousin/eating pancakes while they sat in a booth, just like everyone else.”

  As she continued to talk, I found that my teeth were dry and my cheeks hurt from smiling, and still, I listened, rapt. Before Scialfa’s publicist pried me away, I asked her about her home life with Bruce and the children. She said that the kids were grossed out when the two of them kissed in the kitchen, but that she told them, “Hey, you’re going to be happy one day when you look back and know your parents really loved each other.”

  As she relayed that story, I felt the smallest, smallest pang of envy.

  19.

  Saturday afternoon and my father was on the phone droning about cashing in my pension plan early.

  You’re looking at a monthly number when you turn sixty-five and it was developed by having a cash amount in there, you put some in and your employer does, see, and whatever that amount is, by the

  I scanned the television section of the paper. Should I stay in and watch that Ric Burns documentary? I could pop a big bowl of popcorn and climb right into my robe.

  time you’re sixty-five, they take the number of months they expect you to live past sixty-five, so that’s, let’s say one hundred eighty months, and they divide it by

  No more milk? I feel like I just bought some. I think I have whipped cream somewhere in here. I don’t know, is that weird to put in coffee?

  so your decision is whether you want to take the money out and invest it yourself and have better growth than what you’re doing, or leave it to their wisdom to invest it and elect to take the monthly payments

  On the other hand, I could go to that party at Nathan’s, but I’m so tired. By the time Saturday night rolls around I just want to sleep. It’s funny. Now that I never go out, I have no energy anymore. What to do? Heather would tell me not to turn down any invitations, but she doesn’t like to go out, either.

  the downside is if you should die when you’re sixty-seven, you’re screwed. If you live to eighty-five and they project you’re going to live to eighty, you win. So what I’m saying is, if you i
nvest wisely it will be at least as good as theirs or better.

  He seemed to be finished. “I will, Dad!” I chirped.

  “You will what?” he said. “Cash out your pension or keep it in there?”

  Oops. Wait, he said something about investing wisely. That must mean he wanted me to cash it out.

  “I’ll cash it out, then,” I said.

  “Well, I think that’s a good idea.”

  I hung up and got into my robe. There, it was decided. I was staying in. I brought in a bunch of pillows from my bed and piled them onto the couch. Maybe I’d take a bath and read a book. It was raining out, which looked to be a Patricia Highsmith kind of night.

  I had been reading for a few hours when I abruptly put my book down. Uneasiness was creeping in. I was beginning to delight in my own company so much that it was getting harder for me to emerge from my apartment. I sat up. Well, maybe I would go to the party. I could swing by for one hour, and then I could leave. I could be back here by ten. Nathan worked at Rolling Stone, so at the very least, there would be plenty of people there who I knew.

  I roused myself, threw on a dress, and swiped on a little lipstick. I just didn’t feel like doing the whole production. Then I quickly went downstairs and hailed a taxi before I could change my mind.

  There is something so gratifying about walking into a party alone. I didn’t spot anyone I knew, so I made my way to the bar. “I don’t feel like alcohol,” I told the bartender. “Is there something you can concoct that’s good without it?”

  “Sure,” he said. “I’ll do a pineapple juice, maybe some coconut cream, a little ice.” He put a cherry on top, and a slice of pineapple, and presented it with a flourish.