Too Much Is Not Enough

by Andrew Rannells

  The bar was sparsely populated when we entered, giving us a chance to acclimate ourselves to the environment. (In other words, to keep drinking until we felt comfortable.) If we were self-conscious about our looks on the street, those fears quickly went away once other patrons arrived. There were people on leashes, people with ball gags in their mouths, men in leather gimp suits, French maids, men dressed as biker cops, a man tied to a rack with a woman in stilettos standing on top of him. The scene only got crazier as the bar got more crowded. The music was fun, but no one was really dancing. It was more a “stand around and look at people” kind of vibe, which was fine by us.

  As time often passes in clubs like this, all of a sudden hours had gone by and we were now packed in the center of the room, surrounded by people who really knew what Fetish Night was all about. Randi nudged me and pointed to a woman dressed as Lieutenant Uhura from Star Trek. “That looks like Debbie Harry,” Randi said. I am and have been a Debbie Harry and Blondie fan since I was a tiny child. After seeing them perform “Rapture” on Solid Gold, I asked my parents if we could buy the album. They did me one better and bought me the 8-track. (The Rannells family was never really on the cutting edge of technology. My mother still to this day owns a TV with a VHS player in it.) My dad thought my undying love for Debbie Harry was hilarious, I think hoping that I had a crush on her. The reality was, I wanted to BE her. Up to this point in my life, I had never seen Debbie in person and I would have gladly removed a rib to do so. I stared at Lieutenant Uhura.

  “That’s not her,” I said. “There’s no way.”

  “That is definitely her,” Randi replied.

  Between the beehive wig she was wearing, the lighting of the club, and the smoke from the, well, smokers, I couldn’t really be sure. I decided the only thing to do was to ask. Emboldened by drink, I marched over to Lieutenant Uhura ready to disprove Randi’s theory. I got dangerously close to her face and discovered…it was fucking Debbie Harry. “Rapture”! “Call Me”! Velma Von Tussle! It was her! I was not prepared for this. What could I say? What could I say to this icon? I managed to string together the following sentence: “Miss Harry, I love you. Autoamerican was the first 8-track I ever owned.”

  She stared at me for a moment. She took in my outfit. And then she smiled and said, “Thanks. I like your shirt.” As she said it, she ran her hand down my chest, across the lettering of HOOKER 2000.

  I wanted to say more, I wanted to make her love me back, but I also knew it would never get better than what had just happened. I had met an idol, she was dressed as a Star Trek character, and I was dressed as a twink hooker. I got to profess my love for her, and she said she liked my shirt while touching me. Get out, Rannells! I thought. Get out before you ruin it! With that, I said, “Thank you,” to Ms. Debbie Harry and I walked away proudly.

  When I got back to Randi, she said, “It wasn’t her, right?”

  “It was her. And she likes my shirt” was all I could say.

  By this point in the evening, Randi and I were drunk and losing our voices from screaming above the music as we tried to talk to people. We found Zuzanna chatting up a gentleman tied to a pole with nylon ropes. We decided it was time to go.

  Once out of the club, we automatically headed to where most evenings ended, an all-night diner near Zuzanna’s and my apartment to eat various fried foods and recap our adventure. That was always the best part of any night anyway, the conversations after we escaped the noise of the clubs. We could tell hilarious stories over mozzarella sticks and tuna melts, and then unabashedly talk about our goals without being self-conscious. We could make fun of each other’s choices in men, and then, somehow, share our deepest fears about failing, without fear of judgment. We could just listen and cheerlead, and then order more Diet Cokes and do it all over again. Looking back, I think those were the nights when Zuzanna and I really forged our friendship. We might not have been club people, but we were adventurous and ambitious on our own terms, and that was okay with us.

  I kept that HOOKER 2000 shirt for several more years, for the record. I mean, Debbie Harry touched it. I couldn’t just throw it away.

  My Second Date with Brad

  I don’t remember his last name. If I did some sort of deep dive into my psyche and really rooted around in there, I’m sure it would come back to me. But why? What would the point of that be? His first name was Brad, which is the perfect name for a relatively faceless memory from your early twenties. He was handsome, he had a nice smile, and he had startlingly blue eyes. I had always thought that when the eyes got too blue it looked like a person didn’t have a soul. You are seeing too deeply into their head, and there’s nothing back there. But I had never dated anyone with blue eyes, and it was springtime. All seemed okay in that moment. He also had a very nice body—fit, muscle-y, extremely soft skin.

  The sex was good, I think. It was blow-job sex, if I recall correctly. There is a great debate among straight women and gay men as to what counts as “sex.” I count it all. If someone has an orgasm, I count it. My female friends have a deep misunderstanding that for gay men, anal sex is like a handshake. I got news, ladies. Sometimes we don’t want to do it with our dates as much as you don’t want to do it with yours.

  Plus, this was only a second date with Brad. We didn’t know each other that well. We never would. The other detail I should share is that he wore a lot of Acqua di Giò. If you were sexually active in the early two thousands, you know exactly what that smell is. Much like its predecessor, CK One, it can trigger all sorts of sexual and romantic memories for a generation of adults. His haircut was a little fussy, his hands were a little feminine, but his fragrance was attractive.

  An added bonus, he lived blocks away from me in Astoria, and if you have ever lived in Astoria, you know that sometimes getting people to go there at the end of the night is like asking a stranger for a ride to the airport. Brad was going to do for now. I was dating and I was twenty-two and independent and I had highlights.

  The conversation at dinner was dull, but he laughed at almost everything I said, so for a comedy narcissist like me, he was an ideal dinner companion. As we ate, my Nokia flip phone started ringing. It was my sister Julie. I declined the call. My phone was less than a year old and I was still getting used to it. I didn’t love that people could now reach me whenever they wanted. I liked my answering service better. I liked having to call in and get my messages. It made me feel like Rock Hudson or Doris Day. My father started showing me the movies of Betty Grable at a young age, and she was always checking her service for messages from suitors or Hollywood producers. There was a faded glamour to a service number.

  After dinner, we went to a cheap Thai place packed with other gays on dates, and then decided to get a drink at a gay bar where, once again, we were surrounded by other gays on dates. Because what’s more fun than trying to not look like you are checking other people out while learning about your date’s siblings? So Brad and I drank our Cosmos (it was 2001, people; if Carrie Bradshaw was doing it, so was I) until his eyes began to look less soulless in the disco lights and we started kissing. (He was a very good kisser. Or my bar was low. It doesn’t matter.) My phone vibrated again. Different sister. Becky this time. I ignored it. Another round, more making out, another phone call, Julie again. My level of drunkenness, mixed with my desire to be “present” for Brad, made this series of phone calls easy to dismiss. I had just finished reading The Four Agreements—Oprah recommended it—and I was really nailing “Be impeccable with your word.” I had told Brad we were going on a date, and I was going to be ON this date, damn it. The making out started to turn a corner, meaning we were lying down on a banquette, and I had just enough sense left to suggest a cab.

  I was feeling like a high roller, so I offered to pay. More important, even at twenty-two I was sensitive to bad lighting, and the MTA flattered no one. I don’t remember the cab ride. I think there was more groping, more kiss
ing, more picturing him as Paul Walker. We got to my apartment and we went straight to the bedroom. It lasted longer than it needed to. It was that new, “look how long I can last” phase. And then there was the cuddling and holding and sweating and panic and the kind of falling asleep next to a basic stranger and then waking up and thinking Do I like this? Does he like this? Before I knew it, almost two hours had passed.

  I gently excused myself to use the bathroom, and while up I decided to look at my phone again. Six more missed calls. My stomach dropped. I was sober enough now to know that something was clearly wrong. I started listening to the messages. Julie was in hysterics from the first word. Something about my dad falling and an ambulance, I could barely make it out. Next message, Becky was calmer but sounded shaken. A heart attack or a stroke; they weren’t sure. He was in an ambulance. Next: My mom telling me not to panic. Next: Julie, telling me it was time to panic. I skipped ahead. The last call was from my brother-in-law, Doug, and it was from only fifteen minutes earlier. I called his number. He answered. I didn’t know my brother-in-law super-well at the time. He immediately started crying on the phone. I knew whatever had happened that night was bad. Doug explained that during my niece’s first birthday party—I had completely forgotten it was her birthday even though I was her godfather—my dad had collapsed moments after handing off the hamburgers he’d been grilling.

  The party was at my parents’ house, though at this moment my dad wasn’t living there. My parents were in the process of getting a divorce. My first summer away from home, I’d read a book called Beachcombing at Miramar, which I now understand was a memoir of a man who was having a midlife crisis. He abandoned all responsibility and restarted his life on a beach in Northern California. I was struggling with the decision of whether or not to stay in college, and I was able to reinterpret this story to fit my needs, using it as backup to support my decision to ultimately drop out. I’d suggested my mother read it, I guess to tip her off that I might be leaving school, but it turned out she was able to reinterpret the same story to fit her needs and support her decision to leave my father. (I know this book is not the reason my parents split up, but the timing is suspect.)

  My father, at sixty-one, had moved into a truly depressing bachelor pad near his office. The last time I’d been home, which had been about a month before this night, my youngest sister, Natalie, and I had visited him in his new place. The walls were beige and so was the carpet. The furniture my dad had picked out was all too large and dark for the space. It was filled with stuff and yet somehow still looked empty. He was trying to make it a home, but he didn’t know how.

  I immediately went into his bathroom to cry. I didn’t want him to see me feeling sorry for him, but when I saw him in that space, my heart broke. He didn’t belong there, he belonged in his home. I pulled myself together and the three of us ate sandwiches and Pringles. When he opened his kitchen cupboard, I saw that it was stocked with canned stews, probably the only thing he could successfully make in an indoor kitchen. I had to clench my jaw tightly to keep from crying again.

  After dinner, my dad told Natalie and me that he wanted us to feel at home in his new place. I suggested I stay there the next time I came to visit. He seemed happy when I said that. Natalie and I left his apartment, both feeling depressed but trying to appear cheerful. I hope we did a good job. As we exited, my dad was standing at the top of the stairs, and I turned around and I yelled up the stairs, “I love you, Dad.” And he replied, “I love you, Andy.” It was the last thing I said to him.

  Now I was listening to Doug cry and tell me about my dad’s collapse. How he’d tried to do CPR, how the paramedics had used the paddles twice to get a weak pulse, how they’d whisked him away to the hospital, where he was now in a coma.

  I imagined the scene: the birthday party decorations, the toys in the yard, the deck where he fell, the pots of plants my mom put out every spring, my mom crying, my sisters and brother crying, the uneaten hamburgers, the little girl’s birthday cake. It was all too much. I started to cry loudly.

  Brad came out to see what was wrong. At first I couldn’t look at him, but then I finally did. His hair was mussed from half sleep and he was completely nude. He came and stood in front of me, his penis (which was strangely semi-erect) at eye level.

  I tried to get more information from Doug. What hospital was my dad in? Where was my mom? Should I get on a plane tonight? I gestured for Brad to sit down. He sat close to me and started rubbing my back. It felt like torture. I was embarrassed about crying in front of Brad, but I also didn’t care enough to stop. Doug talked me through what little information he had and suggested I call one of my sisters. I didn’t know what to say. I imagined how horribly he must have felt kneeling over my father, trying to get his heart to beat, surrounded by people crying and shouting. All I could manage was “Thank you.” And then I hung up.

  Brad tried to hug me. I felt his dick on my leg. My body went stiff. “What happened?” he asked. I managed my rage and my desire to shout, “Clearly nothing good, asshole! Put on some fucking pants!” I tried to explain to Brad in as few words as possible what had happened. He was asking a lot of questions that I didn’t have the answers for. He started pacing around the apartment, still fully naked, making suggestions as to what I should do now. I stopped Brad as calmly as I could. My tears had completely dried up and been replaced with disgust for the whole situation.

  I didn’t even like this guy. Why did I have sex with him? All of a sudden, everything seemed wrong. The apartment I was staying in seemed cramped and dirty and I hated everything inside of it. I caught myself in the mirror and I cringed at my dyed blond hair. Why did I do that? I looked like a fool.

  I felt dirty and embarrassed, and most of all I just wanted to be alone. I told Brad he should go, that I needed to make some phone calls. He came and sat next to me again and put his arm around me. “You shouldn’t be alone right now.” He kissed my cheek. I leaned into him for a moment. I didn’t want to be alone. I didn’t want to be where I was. Everything was off and I felt so uncomfortable in my body. Is this what my dad felt like in that weird, sad apartment he was living in? Did he just feel off all the time? I kissed Brad lightly on the lips. “I really need you to leave right now,” I said. He seemed hurt, which made me angry. And sad. We stood up. He hugged me for way too long. I felt his dick against me, through my sweatpants. “Okay!” I said. “Good-bye!” I walked into the bathroom and locked the door. I stared out the window listening to him get dressed. Then I heard the front door shut. He was finally gone.

  The next few hours were filled with activity and confusion that finally ended with me back in Omaha for my dad’s funeral. I rarely thought of Brad again. There were a few text messages from him that I never responded to. A voicemail some weeks later that also went unanswered. There was too much to sort through in the following months. And I was embarrassed, I suppose.

  About two years later, Brad walked past me on Ninth Avenue. We almost stopped but only nodded at each other, smiled awkwardly, and kept going. I felt like I owed him some explanation, some ending to our story, but I just couldn’t do it. I had to keep moving forward.

  I had straightened out much of what felt so wrong that night. I now had a job I was proud of, an apartment I was proud of. I had buried my father and in doing so buried that whole chapter of my life. That meant that there could be no Brad, no trace of that time, of that night. I know it’s not generous or kind, but that’s what I did. Most important, I never got highlights again.

  Our Good-bye to Ron

  When I got on that plane to head home to Omaha, I was still pretending to be optimistic. My dad was not dead yet. Even though Ron Rannells was a “Do Not Resuscitate” kind of guy, in the chaos of his collapse at a one-year-old’s birthday party, the paramedics had hooked him up to a whole host of machines that were keeping him alive. He might wake up, I kept telling myself. He could be fine. But I had also pa
cked the one black suit I owned, because I knew in my heart that I would be attending a funeral. I remember making small talk with the flight attendants on that flight. They had no idea why I was on the plane, and I wasn’t about to tell them. I wanted to pretend for a while that everything was fine.

  It wouldn’t be fine. My family knew that Ron would not want to be kept alive by machines. At least he wouldn’t be in pain, and it would be over quickly—or so I thought. I had falsely assumed, I guess because of movies and television, that the moment life support was turned off, the patient immediately died. This is not the case. Or at least it wasn’t with my dad. We were told by doctors that it could be hours, maybe even days, before his heart once again stopped beating on its own. I stayed in the room with my mom as the machines were shut down. I wanted to be there, for him and for her.

  We sat in silence for a long time. The nurses, after taking out all the various tubes and monitors attached to Ron, had combed his hair and straightened his hospital gown. He looked like himself again. It was much sadder than I had prepared myself for. I don’t know why, but all of a sudden I felt compelled to ask my mom about her father’s death. She told me he had also suffered from a heart attack, and had died, in a hospital room just like this, a month after I was born. As my mother talked about that last day with him, I felt my throat tighten, my face flush. I suddenly felt terrible that I had never asked my mother about her own father dying.

  Two days later, with only my mother in the room, Ron passed away quietly.

  Now began the business of planning Ron’s funeral. We hadn’t talked about many details, I suppose because we all hoped we wouldn’t have to. I was not a stranger to funerals. Not only did I come from a large family with relatives who always seemed to be passing away, my stint as an altar boy meant that I had started serving funerals at eleven years old. I got to see all of it up close: the body in the casket, the grieving families, the funerals where hundreds of people came, the funerals where maybe ten people came. I was fascinated. I started to notice the details of each service: what made a good one, what made a bad one, what I would have done differently. My theatrical sensibilities mixed with my love of party planning (even as a child) went into full effect. Funerals were dramatic. The stakes were high for everyone involved.