Michael's Secrets (11 page)

After midnight, just about everyone left, and Michael stayed to help Sharon clean up. She was picking up cups and putting them in a trash bag, while Michael put all the leftover food into containers and into the refrigerator. Her boyfriend, Wes, who also didn’t drink, acted as designated driver and drove a few of the guests home, so Michael and Sharon were the only ones in the condo once the party was over.

Sharon walked into the kitchen and leaned against the counter looking at Michael. “OK, Michael, what’s wrong?” she asked with her arms crossed over her ample bosom.

“Why would anything be wrong?” Michael asked as he continued the task of putting away the leftovers.

“You haven’t said a word all night. You pretty much nodded at people and then would retreat into the kitchen and make like you were helping me,” she said. “You’re usually the life of the party. Everyone gravitates around you while you tell jokes and stories about your mother and her friends or some weird situation you’ve managed to fall into.”

Michael glanced at her for a second, then placed the last container in the refrigerator, poured himself a diet soda, and sat at the kitchen table. “Do you have any cigarettes?” he asked, ignoring her question.

“Michael, I thought you didn’t smoke,” Sharon said as she tied up the trash bag she had brought into the kitchen.

“Only when I’m a little stressed,” he answered.

“You and your secrets. I have some, but we have to smoke on the patio,” she said as she walked toward the refrigerator. She then tried to reach into the cabinet above the refrigerator but was having no luck. Michael walked over to the refrigerator and opened the cabinet and found her pack of Marlboro Lights and handed them to her.

“Now, who has secrets?” he asked with a slight smile.

They walked out onto the patio, and it was unusually warm for a December night in Washington. The view from her Adams Morgan condo was magnificent. One could see the Washington Monument and the Capitol Dome, and they could still hear a few partygoers whooping it up around town. Michael lit her cigarette and then his own, and they smoked in silence for a while.

“OK, Michael, what’s up?” she asked with her brow furrowed and looking directly at him.

“I don’t know, Sharon. I guess my coming out here was a mistake,” Michael said, avoiding her gaze.

“Why do you say that?” she asked.

He took another puff and answered, “Well, I never really took the time to digest all that happened, what with the show being cancelled and Aunt Clara and Sylvia dying. I just hopped on a plane and came out here. I’m really lonely here. I don’t know that many people.”

“You know me, you idiot,” she said indignantly.

“That’s not what I meant,” he said. “I don’t go out to the bars. I’m not meeting anyone. I sit in that apartment all day writing. The only time I get out is when I go to the gym in the morning.”

She looked at him and put out her cigarette in a plastic ash tray she had sitting on a table just for these occasions. “When you say you’re not meeting people, do you mean men?”

Michael put his cigarette out and immediately grabbed another one. She gave him a look and proceeded to do the same. Did he mean men? Did he mean friends? Why was he so lonely? In Hollywood, Michael went to one party after another. He met people all the time, and he rarely stayed home on a Saturday night. But here in Washington, he had become a hermit.
What has happened to me?
Michael thought.

“I guess that’s part of it. I just have no social life either,” Michael said.

“Michael, when was the last time you had a real boyfriend?” she asked.

“It’s been a long time,” he answered.

“Why?” Sharon asked, interrupting his thoughts.

“I only attract selfish jerks, who can’t love me as I love them. I gave up on dating as I was tired of falling into the same patterns all the time,” he answered. Intellectually, he could see where he was going wrong, but emotionally, he had no control.

“Did you ever think that rather than attracting them, you are attracted to men who can’t love you back?” Sharon asked.

“No. I figured I was a magnet … and now, you sound like my therapist,” Michael said, as if her question were ridiculous.

“You’re not a magnet, Michael. You’re a walking billboard,” Sharon said. “I’ve listened over the years to your stories about Roy and Doug and Philip, and it’s always the same thing. These guys only stay with you because you make yourself available to them. You change in an effort to make them fall in love with you. But, they’ll never love you. They use you. They only love themselves. They know whatever they do you’ll stick around and allow yourself to be treated like shit.”

Michael was starting to get upset. Sharon was harsh, but she had also touched a nerve. Michael lit a third cigarette and wondered if in fact she was right?

“I allow myself to be treated like this?” he asked looking right at her.

“Yes, Michael,” she said. “You allow yourself to be treated like shit. Only you can walk away from these situations. You have to learn to stand up for yourself and not allow people to walk all over you.”

He continued to look at her but remained silent.

“Look, Michael, I love you as if you were my own brother, but sometimes I wanted to scream when I heard about how this one treated you and that one treated you. I don’t get it … At the risk of being rude,” Sharon continued as she lit another cigarette, “Would you like to see
my
therapist?”

“You have a therapist?” Michael asked with a smile – the first time he smiled all night.

“You’re not the only one with secrets, Michael,” she said with a smile back to him as she took a puff.

“That’s OK, Sharon, I know I can call my therapist any time, and he’ll talk to me.”

“So, why don’t you call him?”

Chapter Seven

On New Year’s Day, Steve replied to Michael’s e-mail about
GayDC Weekly Magazine’s
“Hottie of the Year.” Steve thanked Michael and then said he was glad to hear from him as he was thinking about him and missed him. Steve also said he was imagining Michael having sex with him on a weight bench. Michael told him he was just sorting things out and hoped he was well. There was no response to Michael’s reply, and he was actually happy about that as he still knew deep down that he had fallen for Steve and the further he stayed away, the better it would be for both of them.

Michael flew back to LA the second week of January for the premiere of
Birthright
. It was good to be home, even if just for three days, although it was weird for Michael to be staying at a hotel. He did check on his tenant, and the house was being kept relatively neat but not up to Michael’s standards. He suggested a cleaning lady, and the tenant agreed. Michael also reminded him to call the landscapers as the yard was beginning to resemble a jungle. He informed his tenant that he expected to be back on schedule, June 1.

Once back at the hotel, Michael called Sam to see if he wanted to go with him to the premiere, and he said enthusiastically, “Yes, of course!”

He knew it would be good to see Sam again, and he could catch up on his career as Sid had managed to get him a small recurring role on a sitcom as a sexy delivery driver, who showed up at an office every few episodes, sending all the employees into apoplexy because of his good looks and the tight uniform they made him wear. It was not a memorable role, and ten years into his career, people would probably say, “He looks familiar.” Then, during a retrospective of his career forty years from now, they would show a clip of him as the nameless delivery driver, and everyone would say, “That was Sam Jacobs?” Michael imagined it happening just like that, and it was not much of a stretch by Hollywood standards.

Sam showed up at Michael’s hotel room, wearing a black suit, gray shirt and a black and silver tie. He looked like a Jewish James Bond. His hair was shorter, but he was as handsome as ever with his dark features and full lips. Sam stepped in and hugged Michael tightly as if he missed him like no one else.

“Oh, Michael, I cannot thank you enough for everything you’ve done for me,” he said with tears in his eyes. “Meeting you was the best thing that ever happened to me.”

“Come on, Sam,” Michael said as they let go of each other, and he placed his hands on Sam’s shoulders, “You did this all yourself; you just needed a break. I’m so proud of you. I saw you on the show, and you looked so great, and you were funny, too. I think you have a fantastic career in comedy ahead of you.”

Sam hugged him again, and at six-feet even, he was probably not used to looking up at someone as tall as Michael. Sam placed his hand behind Michael’s head and pulled him in for a kiss. Their lips were perfectly meshed. They kissed for quite a while before Michael realized they would be running late.

“Sam, you got the job; you don’t need to throw yourself at me,” he joked.

“I like you, Michael,” he said. “Even if you did nothing for my career, I would still want to be close to you.”

He really was a sweet guy, and if Michael weren’t so jaded from two decades in Hollywood and bad relationships, he would have allowed himself truly to believe him. Michael tried, but the cynic in him managed to come through. The one thing he did know about Jewish guys was that they fell hard and fast. Michael was also like that. They really do make the best husbands as they are truly devoted and filled with guilt, too. If Sam’s parents were dead (the best match
is
a Jewish guy with dead parents), Michael was intent on proposing marriage. And, Sam would be perfect for Michael. So, why could he not stop thinking about Steve?

“Listen, are you worried about being my date tonight? Everyone knows I’m gay, and your career is just getting started,” Michael said to him, wondering if he would back out.

“Are you kidding? It’s 2006, and I don’t care,” Sam said. “If I don’t find work because of who I am, then fuck it. I don’t want to work,” he said with a smile as he put his arm through Michael’s, who locked the hotel room door behind them.

“I admire your attitude,” Michael said. “You don’t have to play the ‘is he or isn’t he’ game.”

As they walked up the red carpet at the Kodak Theatre, no one seemed to know who Michael
–
or Sam – was. Michael liked being anonymous but worried that Sam might be disappointed.

“I’m sorry I’m not adding any scandal to your career,” Michael whispered into his ear as they made their way into the theatre. “That’s what you get for being a writer’s date. No one cares.”

“Hey, fellah,” Sam said, “I am here for you, not to further my career; this is your night.”

Wow, selfless and supportive
, Michael thought as he looked into Sam’s dark eyes,
so why am I still thinking about Steve?

Photographers were snapping shots at Onah Wilson and Johnny Lawrence, the stars of the picture, saying look here and look there, so they could get “candid” pictures. Onah and Johnny would pose this way and that way, looking ever so natural. Michael couldn’t stand the phoniness of it all. One photographer asked Michael to step out of the way as he was blocking his view, and Stanley King, who happened to be standing next to Michael, shouted and pointed at Michael, “Do you know who the fuck you’re talking to? That is Michael Bern, he wrote this goddamn movie, you moron!”

Immediately, cameras starting flashing in Michael’s direction, and he tried to smile naturally, but it was of no use. He was no supermodel or screen idol. But Michael did manage to scream at them, “And, this handsome hunk is my date, Sam Jacobs. Remember that name. Sam Jacobs!” Sam looked at Michael with a smile, and Michael told him through clenched teeth as he looked this way and that, “Smile pretty for the camera, Sam; this’ll be your world some day.”

While smiling for the paparazzi, Sam said, “And, I hope you’re in my world when it happens.”

After they finished snapping, Michael walked up to Stanley and tapped him on the shoulder. “Thanks, Stanley, I just hope they airbrush the shots of me,” he said as they rushed into the theatre.

Michael had not seen the final cut, only the rushes when they were filming in North Carolina in 2004-2005. He had bugged Stanley about the picture, constantly being assured by the director that all was OK, and the writer need not worry about anything. Michael was generally pleased with the film. There were parts he would have changed, but the cinematography was beautiful, and Onah and Johnny were perfect in the starring roles. The reviews the next day were glowing, and there was talk of an Oscar nomination or two, including best screenplay.

After the premiere, Michael and Sam went to a party at Stanley’s house, but Michael had a hard time enjoying himself as he could not stop thinking about Steve although he was with a perfectly wonderful man, who never left his side all evening and was the perfect gentleman at the party. Whenever anyone came up to talk to him, he tried to make small talk, but he was not his usual social self. Thank God for Sam, who could carry on a conversation with anyone as he was intelligent, funny, and well-spoken, too. What a catch. Michael observed Sam with a smile, impressed by his ability to be comfortable in any situation.

What the hell is wrong with me?
Michael thought as Sam talked to a couple of actors.
This is supposed to be the highlight of my career, and I’m feeling so down and antisocial even though Sam is here to support me
.

They went back to the hotel after the party, and Sam came up to Michael’s room for a while to talk. They chatted about the evening, and since they both had to get up early, Sam for rehearsal, and Michael for an early flight to the East Coast for another premiere, they again parted ways without ending up in bed. Michael just didn’t want him to be a trick. He really liked Sam and thought if they ended up in bed together, it would ruin what was developing into a great friendship. Sam didn’t seem to mind, and Michael believed Sam sensed he was a little depressed.

Michael was living the old Jewish saying: “I’m just not as happy as I thought I would be.”

As he opened the door for Sam, he said as he reached up to stroke Michael’s cheek, “Michael, you seem down, not like the big flirt I met last year.”