by Andy Zeffer
The night of the party I thought I’d be a little funky and have some fun. The East Village boy came out of me and I got inspired to smear my whole upper body, including my hair and tank top, with Jerome Russell gold body glitter.
When I got to Sarah’s place she was more than taken aback at my glittery look.
“Check you out, sistahhh!”
The guys she hung out with were very uniform. They dressed to conform, not stick out. But as the new guy in town I wanted to grab some attention and be a little different. I suppose in a way I was already beginning to rebel against the A-list. That was the bohemian misfit stuck inside me, the one I have trouble suppressing and that’s most likely responsible for my life becoming one twisted situation after another.
The tank top I was given had the number 9 on it, my random number in the group that night. Stephen decided to print “Tank bottom” on the front, in reference to my occasional proclivity for wearing vintage 1970s’ tank tops with Bo Derek or Pink Panther transfers that were cut off at the bottom. I thought it was a stupid name, but he thought it was really funny, so I just humored him when he gave it to me at the gym earlier that week.
“Oh, how funny. That is so brilliant!” I lied, wishing he had come up with something a little more clever.
Fred’s apartment was truly amazing, located on the corner of San Vicente and Fountain in a beautiful old Hollywood building, complete with high ceilings and a marble lobby. It looked like the kind of place a silent movie star would have lived.
The rest of the crowd was there when Sarah and I arrived, and while my glitter drew a few compliments and quite a bit of comments, I could tell that more than a few in the clique were put off by my attempt to have fun with my look.
Screw them, I thought, and gave myself a little tour of the apartment while they socialized in the other room. When I came back it was time to pass out the drugs. Earlier in the week at the gym Sarah had asked me if I wanted to front her money for some X. Her friend Ryan, a cute graduate student, was getting some great stuff from this dealer he knew.
Ryan was one of those people who liked to act like they never met you before and didn’t remember who you were, when in fact they had seen you enough times that they had to. I never knew what motivated people to do this, outright cruelty or the need to feel self-important. It was probably both.
I seldom did recreational drugs but I figured in order to loosen up and have a good time with this group I would have too. So I agreed and gave her the money that day.
Sarah passed me my X. It was like sorting out treats on Halloween night, as people passed shit around and swallowed.
“Can I get some ginger ale to mix this G with?” someone asked to no one in particular.
I had no idea what half the stuff was. I put mine in my pocket, figuring I had a hard enough time driving to begin with. And as I had never been to this place before, I’d better have it together on the drive over.
Before leaving, we all posed for a group photo in our matching tank tops, and then it was off to The Palace.
There was already a long line by the time we arrived. On our way to the back I received a few appreciative comments, the name “glitter boy” being bestowed upon me more than once. One of Sarah’s friends managed to work his way to the front and beckoned with his finger for the rest of us to follow, leaving all the other poor suckers that had been waiting for minutes in the dust.
Once inside I heard the music pumping and saw the floor filling up fast.
“Should I take my X now?” I asked Sarah.
“Of course! You mean you haven’t taken it yet?” she exclaimed, giving me an amazed look. “Let’s go get you some water.”
After getting water and swallowing my little pill, we met up with the rest of the A-list, who had formed a little circle on the dance floor.
Within minutes I started to feel a buzz coming on, and all of a sudden really began to appreciate the men around me. I mean, I was really admiring the men around me, to the point I couldn’t keep my hands to myself. I waved my arms around in the air, and every time I made a sudden movement glitter sprinkled everywhere like fairy dust.
It wasn’t long before I was gyrating and squishing my pelvis against the groin of any available man within reaching distance. Every few minutes I’d get near another one, this time pressing up against him from behind. Usually more tense and anxiety prone, X did wonders for my disposition. I probably should be on it regularly, along with some Xanax for good measure.
The Palace was getting overwhelmingly hot and steamy, so I decided to take a walk and get some fresh air. I went up the stairs to the balcony, walking in a slow, stupid swagger and sticking my ass out a bit more than was normal, as if inviting someone to tear my pants off and ram their meat up me.
I traced my fingers along the railing like some Hollywood actress of the 1930s making a dramatic entrance into a room.
I must have looked incredibly stupid, but I didn’t give a shit. I was having a purely enjoyable and amusing time. Even the A-list was getting a kick out of me. As I looked out into the crowd of sweaty, muscular bodies, I wondered if I was gonna get laid.
I was interrupted from my thoughts of lustful abandon when I spotted Sarah at a couch in the corner of the room. Seated next to her was Fred, who had his head slumped between his legs while Sarah rubbed his back with a look of concern on her face.
Sauntering over in my drug-induced state I asked emphatically, “What happened? Is everything okay?” as if I would have been any help at that point whatsoever.
“He took too much shit,” Sarah informed me, looking up with dilated eyes for a moment and then proceeding to rub Fred’s shoulders.
Supposedly he had swallowed a shitload of G to go with whatever else he had taken and was a total wreck. A couple was staying with him from Canada, and one of the guys volunteered to take him home.
The best guy of the bunch, and he doesn’t even get to enjoy the night, I thought as the Canadian placed Fred’s arm around the back of his neck, wrapped his arm around Fred’s waist, and walked him out the door.
After this turn of events, the party got uglier. A half-hour after Fred was helped out, I saw a bunch of men in red fire hats standing near the door.
Cool, I thought, figuring it was just some sexy guys in fetish getup, and went back to dancing around like a maniac.
That is, until the music suddenly stopped and an announcement was made that the fire department was shutting the place down. With too many people above maximum capacity, the party was in violation of local fire codes. Looking around I could understand the concern. If a fire ever did break out you’d have a bunch of messed up queens killing each other to get out of the place.
I could just see the news headlines the next day: “Hundreds of Gay Men Trampled to Death at All-Night Drug Fest.”
A loud, instantaneous groan sounded from the crowd of dazed party dwellers. The crowd looked considerably less attractive as the indoor lights were suddenly turned on. My eyes squinted in discomfort as I half expected everyone to scurry under the woodwork like a bunch of roaches startled by the flick of a light switch.
“Figures a good party gets shut down in Lame Angeles,” one guy next to me muttered as we shuffled our way toward the door with the rest of the masses.
Outside the scene was even worse. The night was unseasonably chilly and everyone was a sticky and sweaty mess. The poor, overwhelmed valets were trying desperately to keep up with the mob of screaming gay men trying to retrieve their SUVs and sports cars all at once. It felt as if a riot were coming on.
“They put the keys underneath the seats!” someone hollered out.
By now people were scrambling to find their cars and drive off themselves. If your car was blocked on all sides you were screwed and had to wait for the mess to clear up. I spotted my red Honda and made a run for it, seeing there was no car in front. Sarah decided to drive off with another friend to a bar.
“Are you okay to drive?” she managed to ask
amid all the madness.
“Yeah, I’ll be fine,” I said, already making my way to the car.
With the stress of all the chaos around me, my buzz had worn off long ago.
“Call me on my cell phone!” Sarah yelled over her shoulder as one of her gaggle of gay men grabbed her hand with a muscular arm and dragged her away into the night.
After much screeching of brakes, I finally broke out of the pandemonium and drove back to Candy’s. I was in no mood to go anywhere else. All I could think about was bed, and washing off what was left of the sticky Jerome Russell body glitter.
Two days later I joined the group again, this time at Will Rogers beach in Santa Monica, or “Ginger Rogers beach” as the guys liked to call it. Stephen drove, swiping a parking spot from some poor oblivious lady, who unrolled her window to tell him she’d been waiting for a spot for ten minutes.
“Sistah, relax,” Sarah muttered out loud.
It didn’t seem to concern him one bit, instead saying to her from his window, “Whatever, bee-ah-itchh!”
If this behavior was typical of Stephen, I was surprised his car hadn’t been keyed up ten times over. I had been hanging out with these people because they were generous in showing me around. They probably thought I felt privileged, instead of embarrassed.
The day was sunny and hot, with streams of people blading and biking on the pavement, and teams of volleyball players across the walk at the nets. We set up our spot and stripped down to our suits.
Because I swam in high school, I always wore a Speedo. Not exactly popular out here, with long, California trunks being the standard. But I felt a Speedo looked good on me, whereas trunks made me look like a beanpole.
Within seconds guys were coming by our blanket to talk crap and flirt. After a while some of the boys decided to be brave and go into the water.
“I’ll come with you!” I wasted no time in tagging along, finding just laying on the sand an immensely boring thing to do after a while.
My enthusiasm left when I put my foot into the freezing, dark water. Miami Beach this was not. Outside it was hot as an oven, but the water was completely frigid. I even remembered the water off Fire Island being warmer than this. The rest of the guys worked their way in like it was no big deal, so I followed suit.
“Be sure to keep your mouth shut under the water!” Fred hollered over at me. He had recuperated enough from the other night to spend the day with us.
“Why?” I shouted back, jumping up against the waves.
“People get intestinal infections all the time from the sewage and pollution. Especially after it rains,” he explained.
“Sounds great!” I shot back. So much for California dreaming. Vomiting and diarrhea didn’t exactly sound like a peppy version of a Frankie Avalon and Annette Funicello beach flick to me.
After bobbing around with the boys for a while I stumbled out of the water, pretty far from where we went in. Apparently there was a strong current to go along with whatever else was in that water.
“It looked like a movie, the way you just emerged out of the water,” some guy said to me as I jogged back onto the sand.
“I should be so lucky,” I smiled back, thinking about my favorite Bond film, Dr. No. Maybe next time I came to the beach I’d wear a dagger around my thigh like Ursula Andress. I wonder how that would go over with the A-list.
The day ended when we all went to a Mexican restaurant across the beach for a late lunch. There Ryan, the Ecstasy supplier who always behaved as if he’d met me for the first time, asked me where I was from for what must have been the fifth time.
I just looked at him point-blank and replied, “Has anyone ever told you that you have the brain retention of a two-year-old?”
The whole table went quiet.
“Ohmigod. That was so rude,” one of Ryan’s pals finally said.
“You’re a tough crowd, you can handle it,” I replied.
“You know some charming people, Sarah,” Ryan said.
For the rest of the meal the crowd ignored me. Stephen and Sarah barely said a word to me on the way home.
“Thanks guys,” I said as they dropped me off.
Not one for confrontation, Sarah told me to take care and she’d give me a call. Stephen didn’t say a word, and as soon as I got out of the car the SUV whizzed around the corner.
It was for the best. I needed to concentrate on getting job, not familiarizing myself with the city by hanging around a bunch of people who for the most part I found loathsome.
That evening I sat with my highlighter in hand and shut myself in my room. No ABBA music tonight or baking cookies. Candy had copies of both Variety and The Hollywood Reporter to scan through the help wanted sections of. She poked her head in for a bit to show me what Frank had bought for her at the Pasadena Flea Market. He had come in town for the weekend and she spent all day with him.
“And check out these earrings. Bling bling!” she laughed, flicking at them with her lacquered nail.
“If you keep it up you’re going to have to go to Spenders Anonymous, or Debtors Anonymous, or whatever the fuck support group is right for you.” I rolled my eyes.
Candy laughed out loud when I shared the events of the day at the beach and restaurant with her.
“Good for you! At the gym they seem so obnoxious. I don’t know how you stood being around them as much as you did.”
“I don’t know either,” I replied. Putting on a pretentious voice, I stuck my nose in the air, snapped my fingers, and announced “Sistah, I’m just glad they didn’t leave me stranded at that Mexican restaurant, or you would have had to haul ass to Santa Monica to come and get me, okay?”
“You would have found yourself on the bus,” she laughed. “I’m going to have a cigarette on the balcony. You want to join me?” she asked, picking her latest luxury goods off my bed. One of her white Persian cats, Frosty, flopped on top of the Variety that was opened to the help wanted section, looked up at me, and purred, waiting for me
to rub his belly.
“Maybe later. I need to finish faxing out my resumé.”
Turning my focus back to the want ads, I circled away with the dried out highlighter. I was determined to find a job in the next few days and get to work as soon as possible. Then I could start building and really get my shit together. I went to bed that night thinking about good things to come in the near future, and a more mellow, laid-back life than I had back in New York.
Wading with the Sharks
I landed a job answering phones at Acclaimed Talent Agency, one of the biggest agencies in town. They counted such big-name stars as Jim Carey and Jennifer Lopez as some of their clients, among others. I went to the interview all dressed up, having borrowed a tie from Candy’s husband, Frank. The agency was located on the edge of Beverly Hills, right near the intersection of Doheny and Wilshire.
“Go ahead and valet your car,” Whitman, the operations manager instructed me when scheduling the interview.
Whitman informed me there were four receptionists altogether. Since I was the last one hired, my shift started last and I was the last to leave at night. All the parking was filled by the time my shift started, so if I took the job I’d have no choice but to valet.
I spotted the want ad in a local magazine called Frontiers, a gay rag that one picked up in bars, coffee shops, gyms, etc. The fact that I came across the want ad in such a publication clued me off that there was some major gayness going on at Acclaimed Talent Agency.
Whitman turned out to be a hunk of a gay man who I would have loved to be supervised by in bed. My interview turned out to be very amusing.
“Basically our past receptionists were more interested in dating and marrying an agent than doing their job,” Whitman said with a wry manner, cutting to the chase.
“Every week the necklines got lower and the skirts shorter, while the phones were increasingly put on hold. It got to the point where it became a competition, and things got a wee bit catty. The agency can’t becom
e an episode of The Bachelor. We’ve had a better track record with gay men, and most of the administration staff is gay themselves.”
Whitman also stressed that he was not looking for an actor to fill the job.
“If you want to be an actor you can go sell star maps on Hollywood Boulevard,” he said.
“The only thing that has brought me to LA is the warm weather,” I answered in a boldface lie, proceeding to tell him I was just looking to get settled and had no interest in acting whatsoever.
Good thing I was smart enough not to mention “Screen Actors Guild member” on my application where it asked for professional organizations.
There were two floors in the agency and two receptionists to each floor. The other receptionists consisted of an unusual-looking woman named Kim, a sweet gay guy named Toby who had been hired a few weeks earlier, and an ex-alcoholic gay man in his forties named Matthew who was head receptionist and took his duties way too seriously. I knew this Matthew guy was trouble from day one. He had the most irritating Texas drawl. There is no worse accent in my mind than a Texas drawl.
“Well, we’ll make sure you have everything down and right in no time at all,” he told me the first day on the job, asserting his authority and coming off like a complete prick.
Kim, the lone female receptionist, appeared to be thirty but was actually thirty-nine. She was odd looking, resembling a younger version of Endora from Bewitched, and ironically enough had jade green feline eyes, one that was noticeably smaller than the other. Apparently she was not one of the receptionists vying for the affections of an agent. She was too involved in a torrid romance with a guy in the copier room.
Right away she had begun to fill me in on the office gossip.
“Matthew, the head receptionist, had his alcohol rehab paid for by the company. That is why he is loyal to the point of ridiculousness,” she confided to me in a sly whisper, her feline eyes gleaming with mischievousness.
Within a few days I found out who was dating whom, which agents were gay or in the closet, and which ones were on antidepressants.