Take Your Shirt Off and Cry: A Memoir of Near-Fame Experiences (15 page)

“Look,” I told him, channeling Mama Rose in
Gypsy,
“it’s in you. You did it tonight. Nothing to be afraid of. We’ll work it and work it some more until you’re good and comfortable.
You’ll blow them away just like tonight. ’Kay?”

The truth was that a part of me
did
think it was a fluke, but another part of me thought it was entirely possible that something very real had clicked for T.J.
and that perhaps by some strange alchemy, his lack of pretense—not to mention lack of experience—had produced a small miracle.
Yes, he had sung in his high school glee club and at piano bars when he was tanked enough, but this was different. Something
in the nether crevices of T.J.’s soul connected to the raw emotions of what the iconic anthem he had sung meant: Be Proud,
Be Unabashed, Be Yourself. It all started to click: I grew excited thinking of the possibilities of directing T.J., not just
this once, but as the start of something new, maybe even a whole act that I could inject myself into. “Maybe,” I thought,
“T.J.’s budding success could do something for
my
acting career.” As soon as the thought entered my mind, I scolded myself. What was happening to me? I was disturbed at how
mercenary I felt, how opportunistic and grabby, especially when I wasn’t even sold that this Carr thing had legs. It was like
in that old Bugs Bunny episode about being stranded on a deserted island and seeing your equally starved, emaciated friend
as a mirage of a plump, juicy roast. I hated myself for viewing T.J.—the Wind Beneath My Wings—as dinner. “No,” I thought,
“be a friend. Be here for T.J.” Besides, extrapolating further, I knew that later, after he was secure in his fame and ensconced
in his new flashy life, I would still be one of his best friends and, perhaps, even his artistic partner-in-crime. I pictured
us in the afterglow of his triumphant performance—the “Le Dome perfor mance,” we’d come to call it—basking in the reflected
glory of all those big stars Nikki Haskell had promised. I saw us kibitzing with Jack and Warren, trading fours with Marlon
and Meryl, giggling with Goldie. I was even excited to meet Steve Guttenberg; I loved him in
Diner
! I had always firmly believed that zeitgeist was contagious—if something spectacular happens to someone to whom you are close,
you’re next. As I watched T.J. toss back beer after beer, I wondered if Nikki Haskell had been right after all and this
was
a life-changing moment. Perhaps for all of us.

For the next week, T.J. and I set about turning him into a seasoned drag queen. We went to a wholesale place in downtown L.A.
to buy a blond wig, bought seamed panty hose, and borrowed a dress, high heels, and a bra with fake tits from Matthew, who
for some reason was in possession of these items. Michelle lent us a boa and some earrings, and we made an appointment with
my eyebrow lady for some shaping and unibrow expunging. Then we rehearsed. Or we tried to. T.J. kept getting distracted and
stopping mid-run-through to take phone calls from friends:

“. . . And then I just said, ‘You know, NIKKI, it’s hard for me to talk about my PROCESS, but I really become that other person.
Everything just strips away. It’s me—yes—but it’s also not me, if that makes sense . . .”

T.J. embellished the Allan Carr Story with each retelling. In some versions, even the recessed lighting at Morton’s cooperated,
bathing him in a glorious pool of blue-gold. In other versions, he sounded like he was describing Judy Garland in her famous
Palace performances, when she’d sit on the edge of the stage in her clown getup, with just a tiny pin light on her sad little
rouged face, singing “Over the Rainbow.”

Listening to him repeat the story, it occurred to me that T.J. was buying into his own hype. Maybe, I reasoned, this was how
people actually became stars: they might be just normal at first, but then, something snapped, be it an opportunity they were
ready to seize or the perfect confluence of events, chance, talent, and luck. But one thing was for sure: if they didn’t start
believing it all themselves, they were sunk. I thought back to that scene in
Truth or Dare
where Madonna is sitting on her bed with her two backup singers, and she admits she has moments of doubt, but knows she can
never give in to it or the jig is up; if she dares to let those negative thoughts in—even a little—how will she ever be able
to get up onstage, let alone writhe around in that conical Gaultier bra during the “Like a Virgin” “masturbation scene”?

I remembered this guy from NYU who was a pathological liar; he’d miss scene study class, and when questioned as to where he’d
been, he’d say something ludicrous like, “I was shooting a movie with Bobby De Niro.” “He’s really crazy,” we’d all think.
“How sad!” But then, ten years later, he really
was
making movies with De Niro, which got me to thinking that perhaps pathological liars weren’t really liars at all. They might
just be seers, able to divine what was in store. Or, maybe they were such good liars that they themselves believed what came
out of their mouths and just made it eventually come true. Either way, it became clear that what was most essential was to
believe
. And that belief had to be so profound, so unwavering, that nothing could stop the inevitable. T.J.’s humility, his self-deprecating
aw-shucks demeanor, was nowhere to be found, and perhaps, I thought, this was a good thing. Still, I knew he desperately needed
to rehearse. But every time I chimed in about it, he got snippy with me; I was starting to feel like his personal assistant.

“He’s behaving like a douche,” Matthew said when I called him to complain. “He needs to just get over himself.”

Part of me agreed with Matthew, but as T.J.’s Allan Carr Story began to circulate, other friends started seeing T.J. anew.
Over the years, as people lamented his various fiascoes, the oft-repeated refrain was “Aw, jeez, poor T.J. . . .” Now, in
the span of a few days, T.J. had morphed into a full-throttle diva, and these same people who had pitied him were brimming
with appreciation—awe, even.

“Does anyone have a buckwheat pillow? I need it for my neck,” T.J. asked one night after a dinner in his honor. All evening,
he’d been throwing his weight around, alternately demanding things and, just as capriciously, staring off into space, a genius,
lost in thought.

“I don’t know how you put up with him,” Matthew said, driving me home that night.

“It’s just nerves,” I said. And while I certainly wasn’t thrilled with how T.J. was acting, I knew he didn’t mean it. He was
just reeling from all the pressure.

We stayed up all night before the Allan Carr event, fine-tuning T.J.’s costume and choreography. I worked out this cute bit
where, toward the end of the number, having approached Allan Carr’s table, and singing directly to him, T.J. would glide around
behind Allan’s chair and gently drape the boa around his neck. Then he was to caress Allan’s cheeks, turn, face the room,
and chuckle a mirthless little chuckle while taking off his clip-on cloisonné earrings. Examining the earrings, as though
they were not merely objects of artifice but dear friends, he would brighten, revealing his undying survivor spirit, rip off
the wig, and explode the final “I AM WHAT I AM!” in an electrifying, note-holding vibrato. OK, maybe it was a little contrived.
But I figured that with T.J.’s savantlike ability to connect lyrics to soul, it could work.

The next day, we drove in silence down Sunset Boulevard to Le Dome, too wound up with anticipation and fatigue to chat. We
walked through the restaurant—a garish joint with the overly art-directed look of a Nixon-era whorehouse—and found a dour
fellow who resembled Vincent Price. It was the maître d’.

“Miss Haskell is waiting for you in the dining room,” he slurred lugubriously.

Although she appeared more diminutive than she did on her billboards, with all that big, inky hair, Nikki Haskell was somehow
much scarier in person. We found her standing by the piano rehearsing a ditty with the accompanist and a few other excessively
moussed ladies. She waved when she saw T.J. and motioned for us to sit. Someone had written naughty alternate lyrics to one
of the songs from
Grease
that referred to Allan Carr’s penchant for food and sex. Nikki and co. giggled uproariously as they ran through it. Everyone
was very tan. When they were finished, we worked out a good key for T.J.’s number, but after a few bars, feeling he needed
to conserve his energy, he wanted to stop. We went off in search of a dressing room. We found a busboy vacuuming and asked
him to help, but since he didn’t speak English he could only look at us blankly. I told T.J. to stay put and went back to
consult with Nikki.

“
Dressing room?
” she spat, looking me up and down. “What the hell do you think this is, the Copacabana?” She waved her red talons dismissively.
“Listen, you’ll be lucky to find a
closet
he can use.” She continued, gesticulating like Edward Scis-sorhands in a power suit, “I don’t want Allan seeing him before
the performance. The whole
goddamn
thing is supposed to be a surprise!”

Whereupon, “Vincent Price” slunk over and told me we could use the bathroom that was just off the kitchen.

“Perfect,” Nikki declared. “He can make his entrance from there, too.” Then she turned away from me to greet Tina Sinatra,
who had just arrived.

The bathroom was a two-by-two-foot room with a teensy, chipped enamel sink, a toilet, and a large plunger. For the next hour
and a half, T.J. sat on the toilet with me crouched in front of him, painstakingly applying makeup and glitter. We somehow
got him into his costume—which required opening the door to get more arm and head room, to the bemusement of the kitchen staff—and
I went out to the bar to get him tea with lemon, honey, and bourbon.

“UGH! This tea is AWFUL!” T.J. moaned when I got back.

“Whatsa matter with it?”

“I need more honey!” he snapped, tossing the spoon in the sink. “And lemon. And water! Where is my water? How am I supposed
to—”

Just then, in the midst of T.J.’s tantrum, the door to our toilet cubicle was suddenly flung open, and we were face-to-face
with Joan Collins. She was in a crisp white suit, cinched at the waist, and a wide, white-brimmed hat. Her makeup was flawless.
She looked like she was attending Ascot.

“
Wot’s this?
” she chirped, eyes bugging out at T.J. in his dress. “Wot are you lot up to? I—I—” she sputtered. “But I thought this was
the
loo
.”

T.J., miraculously regaining his composure, extended his hand as though he were the Duchess of York.

“Miss Collins,” he deadpanned. “How good of you to come.”

T.J. and Joan clasped hands like long-lost pals. We explained that T.J. was moments away from performing the tune from
La
Cage
for Allan as a birthday gift.

“It’s a surprise,” I told her.

“My
gawd
,” Joan’s thyroidy green eyes bugged out some more. “Well, tick-a-lock, I won’t say a
wuhd
!”

“Bless you, Miss Collins,” T.J. curtsied, spilling his tea on one of his sling-backs.

“But,” Joan stage-whispered, conspiratorially looking toward the dining room, “you
shan’t
start without me, and I simply
must
dash to the
loo
!”

Joan Collins and her bladder would supply comic fodder for months afterward. At least once a day, calling T.J.’s answering
machine, I would chatter away as Joan, simultaneously flushing my toilet over and over:

“Hullo, T.J. dahling! [
WHOOSH, WHOOSH
.] I’m in the loo, dahling! [
WHOOSH
.] Anyway, luv, was just coming round to your flat when I realized I simply couldn’t hold it in and had to stop at the petrol
station to have a tinkle. [
WHOOSH,
WHOOSH
.] Anyhoo, be over shortly! Ta-ta! [
WHOOSH
.]”

We promised Joan we would hold the “curtain” until she emptied her bladder.

“Ooooh! Bless you, my
dahlings
, bless youuuuuuu!” And then, blowing a kiss over her shoulder, she scampered off.

I looked at T.J.

“ ‘
Miss Collins,
’ ” I said, imitating him, “ ‘
how good of you
to come.
’ Excuse me while I vomit.”

“I don’t have the slightest idea what you’re talking about,” T.J. said to his reflection in the mirror, dabbing the sweat
off his upper lip with a hankie.

“Save it, sister,” I said, lighting a cigarette.

“Ugh! Can you PLEASE not smoke in my dressing room?”

There was a knock on the door; we opened it. It was Joan.

“Em . . . where exactly
is
the loo?”

“Downstairs,” I told her.

After she left, I went to check on where we were time-wise in the festivities and how long before T.J. was on. Peeking out
from the kitchen, I saw them all: Allan Carr, Jerry Herman, Joan Collins, Suzanne Pleshette, Angie Dickinson, Nancy and Tina
Sinatra—a Who’s Who of sixties kitsch, all looking more or less like themselves, just puffier. Except for Angie Dickinson.
She looked exactly the same as she did as Pepper on
Police Woman.
Same hair, same tits, same world-weary-do-I-have-to-playa-hooker-again-this-week smirk. She looked great!

“Who’s out there?” T.J. asked me when I returned with the five-minute warning.

“No one,” I said, not wanting to rattle him with the laundry list. “I mean, there’s people, and some you know, but no big-gie
. . .”

“Any major celebs?” he asked, winking.

“Nope, not yet,” I said. “But you know how those people always slip in at the last minute.”

“True, true.”

T.J. sighed deeply, then sat down on the toilet.

“What is it?” I asked.

He shook his head.

“Nothing,” he said, looking at me silently for a few seconds. Then, looking away and shrugging, he grabbed my Shiseido compact.
“Gosh,” he said, gazing at himself in the tiny mirror. “Don’t know why I didn’t notice this before . . .”

“What?”

“I look exactly like my mother.”

Aside from the glitter, slick red lips, and boa, T.J. looked a bit more conservative as a lady than I had originally conceptualized.
He sort of looked like a wanton home ec teacher.