Laid Bare: Essays and Observations (7 page)

“
DID YOU HAVE A VIEW?”

To the far right of the view from my comfortable terrace here at Turtle Cottage on the island of Saba in the Dutch Antilles lies a mountain peak…  [totally random aside—that opening line sounded just like Barbara Stanwyck’s bogus country life column in “Christmas in Connecticut.”  You may never know if I’m even really here.)  Anyway, about this mountain peak; it’s there and it’s almost always shrouded in mist.  No, not shrouded so much as used as a piece of exercise equipment by the constant fog.  The clouds vault over the mountain the same way car commercials used to tout the aerodynamic properties of 1970s gas-guzzlers by shooting a jet of smoke over the contours of a sedan. 

This is Mt. Scenery.  At 2855 feet it is jokingly (and accurately) referred to as “the highest point in The Netherlands” and hiking to its summit is de rigueur for visitors to Saba.  I was a slug on my first visit to the island so I didn’t even consider a climb.  But this time, with all summer to kill, I had no excuse.  Yesterday I decided to make my assault. 

The trail up the mountain is an oddity:  most of it is either paved with asphalt or has steps cut into the stone, but it’s also a non-stop ascent and, because it’s a rainforest, the way can be very slick.  The humidity encourages lush, oversized vegetation; the trees and rocks wear thick green moss like a gramma with her sweater pulled tight in the air-conditioning.

I had no intention of climbing to the summit in one fell swoop.  Along the way there are brief detours to scenic overlooks and—the real point of my hike—a restaurant where I planned to have lunch.

The Ecolodge
is just what the name implies:  an environmentally-friendly guest house.  They use solar power as much as possible, provide no phones or televisions and grow as much of their own produce as they can.  They do have hot showers—if it’s been sunny enough to heat the water.  You can get to the Ecolodge from an access road but the dramatic approach is through the forest.  Following the pointer from the main trail you start to notice the flowers along the path gradually becoming more manicured and domesticated.  Then you round a bend and the Ecolodge restaurant sits in front of you like a pavilion straight out of the Clark Gable/Jean Harlow movie “Red Dust”; wide verandas and long bands of windows with hurricane shutters propped open for shade. Inside it’s cool and dark.  And nearly silent.  Because there’s no music piped in the diners tend to murmur to one another rather than speak at a normal volume.  Silverware clinks on china.  It’s almost eerily quiet.

I imagined I was adventurer in the wild striding in for some drink and conversation; slapping my crop on the bar, my pet monkey climbing down from my shoulders to grab a banana from the bunch hanging by the door; I pull the kerchief from around my neck to wipe my sweaty forehead as I order a rum.  From Thomas Mitchell.

In real life I had neither a crop, a monkey nor a kerchief.  Or a rum. And the bartender was played by a young blond named Dana who spoke with the same voice and cadence as Shelley Duvall.  Dana is married to the son of the founder of Ecolodge and she can really put together a beautiful plate of food.  For me, a grilled tuna salad.  Talk about your childhood wishes—you can even eat the flowers.  After killing some time with my book and an after-meal toothpick, Pogo climbed back on my shoulder as I saluted Dana with my crop and left the restaurant to resume my ascent.

The higher I got, the more lush the vegetation.  Snatches of Debussy played in my head that—as I climbed further into the clouds—morphed into Max Steiner jungle drums.  Although I wouldn't have been surprised to spot a poorly animated pterodactyl I wasn't expecting the speckled hen that darted across my path with a Bantam rooster in close pursuit.  Huh? 

The heat, humidity and the cardio workout necessitated frequent rests the further along the trail I got.  A pair of hikers came out of the mist on their way down. “Did you have a view” I asked?  Nope—just clouds. That’s the thing about Mt. Scenery:  the clouds that make it so scenic from below tend to make a mockery of its name once you’re at the peak.

As the trail finally leveled off I came within yards of the radio tower that sits on top of the mountain.  I don’t want to think about what went into carting the materials up here to build this behemoth.  And from the looks of things, it’s not even in operation.  The weird orange moss growing everywhere reminded me of the photos of the Titanic at the bottom of the ocean.  Corroded cable hung from the structure and huge satellite dishes lay foundering on the rocks at its base.  The top of the tower was enveloped in roiling clouds and the constant wind made everything mysterious and spooky.  Yes, it was altogether ooky. 

I continued past the tower to the summit.  There, a huge slab of rock affords a perfect spot to rest and take in the view.  When there is one. Yesterday there was nothing but clouds.  I stared into the abyss.  It was impossible to tell what was past the end of the outcropping: it might have been more rocks or it could have been just a sheer drop to the sea. I kept my distance from the edge. 

Since I had no schedule, and to rest up for the equally taxing climb down, I wedged myself into a cleft in the boulder and took out my book, the mist and the wind making it almost chilly.  I got through a couple of chapters when I found myself squinting and felt my face turn warm. The sun!  I bolted upright and looked out onto an amazing panorama of most of Saba.  There, far below me, was the town.  To the right, the road to The Bottom.  To the left Windwardside and the way down to the airport.  Just as I reached into my pack for my camera, the clouds came back and obscured the view.  Brigadoon-like, the vista had disappeared into the mists.  

But for a brief moment, I had a view.

September 25, 1 A.M.

I’m not really into the miracle thing, okay? I mean, I’m a big ol’ atheist and all, so the concept doesn’t quite fit into my non-belief system. But I experienced a miracle tonight.

I just finished watching “Angels In America” on DVD. Bruce and I had seen it on Broadway. Neither of us liked it; we thought it was pretentious and silly. And there was enough acting going on up on that stage to fill
three
theaters. When that damn angel broke through the ceiling at the end of Part I it was all we could do to keep from giggling out of control.

So, fast-forward—what—10 years? You can imagine my skepticism upon hearing of the movie version. Yeah yeah yeah Mike Nichols was directing it and it had a cast that really doesn’t make sense because, since many of them are big stars, no one could afford them all. I suppose it had everything going for it, but, Bruce and I just hated it so much, how could it possibly be good?

I watched Part I last night and finished it off tonight with Part II.

And it was
so
good. I was practically crying at the opening credits as at the ethereal helicopter shot flying over America on a day when the entire country is experiencing weather from heaven—
from heaven
. At the end of the sequence the camera comes swooping down to the Bethesda Fountain (like the character in the story, one of my favorite spots in Central Park) and the whole movie just got better and better as the hours flew by.

What happened? Is it possible it was the production itself in the 1990s that left us cold? I mean, it’s the same story, and, from what I can recall, sticks very close to the original. Was it the acting? The day we saw it? Maybe what Bruce and I had for dinner beforehand stuck in our craw as much as the play. Gosh, it could just have been our seats.

I don’t have a theory on this one. I just know that Mike Nichols & Co. performed a bit of alchemy and transformed a piece I thoroughly despised into a long, long movie that moved me tremendously.

Miraculous though? Nah. That ain’t no miracle.

The miracle occurred while I was watching the end credits through tear-filled eyes. I’ve experienced this miracle before, but with decreasing frequency and not for a very long time. It wasn’t a long miracle. In fact, it lasted no longer than the time it took for a tiny little electrical charge in my brain that had been tripping along very nicely, thank you, to become distracted by something. A pesky lobe? A sunset over the left hemisphere? Who can say, really? Anyway, this electrical charge became distracted and hopped onto the
wrong neuron!

And at that instant I thought to myself, “I have to remember to tell Bruce how good this movie was.”

And for that miraculously short length of time--so brief that scientists have no unit of measurement for it--Bruce was alive once more.

And that was a miracle.

CICCIOLINA, MISS AMERICA AND ME

All my life it seems as if I’ve been running from something; full-time employment, serious relationships, Little League... Once I even ran from a neighbor’s goose as it chased me around the yard and up onto the hood of their Chrysler Imperial. So, imagine my surprise, earlier this year, when I found myself running
for
a seat on the Equity Council, the governing body of Actor’s Equity.

The “42
^nd
Street” tour I had recently finished was a mixed experience: we had a terrific show with a wonderful cast, yet my salary—as a principal—was one-third of what it had been in the chorus of the National Tour of “Cabaret”. The producers and presenting organizations (including Clear Channel, irrefutable proof of the existence of Satan) bore some responsibility, but Equity caved to almost all the demands they were presented with.

I wanted to do everything in my power to see that this situation did not repeat itself. Getting involved in Union activities seemed like a good way to start. But, since leaving the show, I had gone into porn. Wouldn’t that complicate a campaign? Or would the membership of Actor’s Equity agree that they needed a representative who could not only kick some butt, but who could lick it as well?

Where on Earth could I turn for advice on
that
?

Cicciolina.

Hard-core porn star and Member of Italian Parliament for 15 years. I e-mailed her for advice:

“…
Would it be possible for you to jot down a few lines telling me how your porn stardom helped (or hurt) when you ran for Parliament? Your insight would be greatly appreciated.”

I hit “send” and went back to work on my campaign.

There were three available seats on the council and seven of us on the ballot. If I could make my case and reach enough people, I figured I had a good chance. To that end I prepared an e-mail blitz and set up a webpage detailing my position. Yes, the webpage had a picture on it. I, myself, have voted for Equity Council based solely on candidates’ photos. If there’s a cute guy on the Council, I helped put him there.

But if, in addition to my mug, I could boast an endorsement from an international porn star-cum-politico, I’d be a cinch. When would I hear from Cicciolina?

Several weeks before the election a meeting of the full council was convened and we candidates were given three minutes in which to read a statement. So, it’s come to this, I thought; I’m auditioning for actors.

The room was packed and stuffy when I arrived. Ah, there across the room… an empty seat next to a raven-haired, statuesque beauty. From the way she studied her note pad it was clear she was a fellow candidate. She possessed a certain regal bearing, almost as if… as if there should be a crown on her head. Hold on now, there
was
a crown on her head at one time.

It was Kate Shindle and she was one of our Sally Bowleses in “Cabaret”. But, more to the point, she was a former Miss America. No fair! That’s sure to sway some voters, I thought. (At least I wasn’t running against Vanessa Williams. She’d have had the Miss America thing
and
the porn thing and would have mopped the floor with me.)

I plunked myself down next to Kate and we wished each other luck. Only in the theater would a Miss America and a gay porn star be on the same ballot.

Before the meeting, one of the mucky-mucks from Equity approached me and said he had received an irate, anonymous e-mail saying it was shameful I was allowed to run. “Don’t worry about it,” he said. “I looked at your site. I enjoyed your, uh,
writing
.”

Hmmm… the only reason I hadn’t been riding on Gus’s coattails was that I didn’t think it would be right to campaign with an unfair advantage. Was I letting a great marketing ploy slip through my fingers? I thought it best that I let my record speak for itself.

From the road I had written a “report” on our lousy contract. It had spread like wildfire throughout the union, so my bona fides were in order, as far as my commitment to the cause went, and my name was out there as an activist. In the process I had also done a nifty job of blacklisting myself. I became known as the Norma Rae of the company and if I never work again I won’t have to wonder why.

From that experience, however, I knew that e-mail was a powerful tool for reaching lots of folks I didn’t even know. I sent out a notice announcing my candidacy and waited for the responses to pour in. People wrote saying they remembered my report and would vote for me. I was starting to let myself become cautiously optimistic.