The Truth is Bad Enough: What Became of the Happy Hustler? (25 page)

After celebrating my daughter’s first Christmas, we headed for Washington, D.C., where I was scheduled to perform
Attachments
, a solo show I’d written chronicling my up-to-the-minute experiences as a single, gay, HIV-positive foster dad intent upon adopting.

About a week into the month-long run, there was a shocking message on my answering machine from Miss Coleman. “I’ve decided to adopt Tia,” she said, mustering what strength she could. This news was so unexpected and out of character that I sensed there was a backstory. For the moment, that didn’t matter. What mattered was the pervasive thought that I might lose my kid.

Upon our return, I was asked to read names of the deceased during a showing of the AIDS Memorial Quilt at Pasadena’s Rose Bowl. I asked if Tia could be at the podium with me.

I was about to read the first name, when Tia leaned into the microphone and said, “Da-da.” While this might have been interpreted as black humor, people were sincerely touched and amused. It was her first celeb moment.

Even though Noel Coward’s words (“Don’t put your daughter on the stage, Mrs. Worthington”) echoed in my ears, I couldn’t resist when Tia was invited to model a T-shirt at the annual STAGE.

A slew of musical theater luminaries headlined this annual event, which Pickett and I had created in 1984.
Stephen Sondheim Part III
featured Michael Jeter, among others. We hung out on the walkway leading to the stage door prior to Tia’s debut. Jeter visited and posed for pictures with Tia in her STAGE T-shirt (which I had hemmed that morning) and a pair of bright red patent leather shoes. Jeter, uncloseted and openly HIV-positive since our prior confrontation, was far more comfortable dealing with Tia than with me.

If the audience’s response was any indication, Tia’s charisma projected across the footlights as she sashayed from the wings into my arms. Please God, I silently prayed, don’t let me become Mama Rose.

From the theater to the courtroom: at the March 28 hearing, Miss Coleman was accompanied by “Victoria Washington” (not her real name), the paternal grandmother and guardian of one of Tia’s half siblings.

“What’s with the hairdo?” she sneered, indicating Tia’s natural.

“He’s doing the best he can,” Miss Coleman said, attempting to avoid conflict. Tia’s hair and what I would do with it was a subject of great debate.

Since she was only eighteen months old, I had not yet begun to braid her hair, which Miss Washington interpreted as my inability to respect her cultural identity.

Inside the courtroom, the commissioner assigned to the case warned Miss Coleman that “the court is likely to rule in favor of the present caretaker.” In the meantime, she was granted visitation rights: twice monthly, four hours in duration.

It became apparent that Miss Washington was the fuel behind Miss Coleman’s mercurial change of heart. Although not related by blood, Miss Washington cast herself as a prime player in the familial custody battle, determined to prevent me from adopting Tia.

Yet another unpredictable moment came shortly after I met Lucy Andrew, the county-appointed social worker, who was clearly on my team. A self-described “cat person,” Lucy wore lots of colors in the purple family and cat imagery could almost always be found on at least one of her lilac or mauve garments.

Brushing strands of her long, unruly gray hair away from her eyes, she wanted to “share” one of her beliefs during a home visit. “If I had a person with a heart condition who wanted to adopt,” she said softly, even though Tia was napping soundly in the other room, “I wouldn’t stand in their way.” Pause. “Or,” Lucy continued, “someone who is, say, HIV-positive.”

I was sure she could hear the sudden acceleration of my heartbeat. I said nothing.

Then, as if she was asking me what birth sign I was born under, she said, “Are you HIV-positive?”

CHAPTER 46
               

“Yes,” I said, feeling a sense of relief.

“Just wanted to know,” Lucy said as she tidied up her paperwork. “In case it comes up later, it’s best that I know in advance. It should have no bearing on the adoption.”

I trusted her, secure that she wanted me to be Tia’s daddy.

Only in the Nineties could one meet a potential boyfriend at an “audition” for an AIDS documentary. There I was, in the same building where I’d been dozens of times, auditioning for network television shows and feature films, now trying to get cast as myself in a short film that would be shown in medical settings.

I spotted him from behind, leaning forward with his elbows on his long legs, intently reading the script. Obviously not an actor, thank God; a real actor would never appear so sincerely interested in the material.

The musculature of his sculpted back was beautiful, intensified by a skintight light blue flowered shirt. His hair, straight and medium in length, was almost unnaturally black-black. Even before I saw his face, I felt like there was something happening to me as I studied him.

I sauntered across the room, attempting to be nonchalant, as I positioned myself almost directly in front of him. He was one of the most gorgeous men I had ever seen. He noticed me staring, unable to control myself. He smiled. I smiled. We chatted. Exchanged phone numbers. We fell.

I had never been in love with a Chinese man. Eric Lim certainly didn’t fit the stereotype we’ve unfairly pinned on Asian men. Not the least bit subservient, he was a stud. The “inscrutable” label? To a degree, yes, and he was not easy to lure, but my perseverance paid off and we quickly became a couple in spite of the fact that he was living with his parents in Santa Barbara. He’d had some fairly major HIV eruptions but appeared to have conquered them.

The most important quality I sought in a potential beau was willingness to be involved with a kid—whether he’d be a once-a-week boyfriend or a livein lover. Going in, I wanted to know that a foundation of understanding was in place, realizing that there would be specific things to deal with down the line in terms of the three of us as a unit.

Tia and Eric adored each other. He had a decidedly different rhythm than I did and she seemed to enjoy the shift. He was probably a bit goofier.

I also immediately exposed Eric to my work. We met up one romantic weekend in San Francisco, where I was doing
Attachments
. I remember that the audience was abuzz because Armistead and his lover Terry Anderson were in the audience on that particular Saturday night.

We did the chitchat after the show but declined an invitation for drinks. I think Armistead and Terry perceived that this was a fresh Do Not Disturb entanglement.

Eric was reeling from having seen the show. It must have been kinda like that initial lunch you have with a prospective boyfriend. You know, the one when you essentially divulge your abridged life history. Well, the only difference was that Eric was having lunch alone and I edited next to nothing.

We made love that night for the first time, in a hotel room with a view of billowing clouds that I swore were about to float in through the opened windows.

Without being too enamored with the Hollywood pieces of my life, Eric enjoyed some of the glamour. We attended the premiere showing of
A Mother’s Prayer
with Linda Hamilton and RuPaul and the screening of
intimacies
, a documentary about my life and work, at Outfest, the L.A. Gay and Lesbian Film Festival. Very quickly we were perceived as a couple. And if Tia was along, we were clearly a family. And what a combo—Chinese, gay, white, black—a veritable rainbow flag in motion.

Shortly before Tia’s second birthday, I received word that the judge had agreed to hear Miss Coleman’s petition to gain custody. This would either slow down the adoption process or end it, resulting in a change of custody. I also learned from Lucy (the DCS cat lady) that Tia’s mother had supposedly identified a birth father, incarcerated in Chino. This was their court-appointed lawyer’s stalling strategy.

It worked; the judge granted an extension and ordered Tia to undergo a DNA test to determine the authenticity of the guy in Chino.

Did Miss Coleman and Miss Washington consider the confusion a toddler would experience being forced to remove her panties and have some stranger probing around her “privates”? Needless to say, the DNA did not match up with the “father” behind bars.

I felt like every day was a test, a test of my endurance. After what seemed to be an uneventful visit with Miss Coleman, I received yet another disturbing call from Lucy. Seems Miss Coleman and Miss Washington called to report that Tia was “behaving strangely.” This eventually translated to “masturbating excessively.” The implication was too clear: They were, directly or indirectly, accusing me of molesting her.

CHAPTER 47
               

What they were referring to, in reality, was Tia’s obsession with yanking on her diaper. Unlike many kids, Tia did not have a transitional object. Kids rely on the object, usually a blanket or a favorite stuffed animal, at times of stress or making a transition (during the trip from home to preschool, for instance). Tia was a practical kid; her transitional object was her diaper, which she tugged on constantly. She was not masturbating.

On the subject of masturbating, I directed the tenth-anniversary production of Robert Chesley’s
Jerker
in 1996. It was eerie to be the only survivor of the original team that brought the landmark play to life. In a life-mirroring-art scenario, Chesley and the two original actors, Joe Fraser and David Stebbins, had already died of AIDS. Yet I felt it was crucial to keep Chesley’s words alive even though it felt like I was betraying Joe and David to find a “new” JR and Bert. Not only did I find a new JR; I found a new Joe: Gill. An angelman.

Joe remembers reading the play: “I was shocked by the first scene. And as I read each scene, the dialogue only got more intense and sexually explicit. The gay plays I had performed were like
Leave It to Beaver
compared to this. Chesley’s language was pornographic and very erotic. I was consumed with fearful thoughts that fed my own homophobia and prudishness.”

About the audition, he recounts: “I raced from Vegas to L.A., making good time, and even arrived at the space early, before my scheduled appointment. I decided to use my time wisely and began to meditate—something that a person with my energy needs to do or my energy creates a chaotic mess onstage, with me flailing about like a chicken. So I found a little floor space in an empty room next to where the auditions were being held.

“Then you came in and seemed shocked to see someone lying on the floor doing breathing exercises in front of the bathroom.”

I was shocked because he was fabulously blond in his eight-by-ten photo and the hair of the breathing dude was jet black. (His hair was dyed because he was playing an Israeli in a play running in San Diego.)

Joe remembers, “You said, ‘I was expecting Doris Day and I got Liz Taylor.’ That instant connection created a perfect situation for my audition.”

He got the part.

Much had changed in the decade between
Jerkers
and nowhere was that more apparent than on television. Even the glamorous
Beverly Hills 90210
was developing an AIDS plotline. After all those years of being typecast as a gay character on television, I realized I had become even more stringently pigeonholed, exclusively playing gay characters with AIDS.

It was the role of a bitter resident of a hospice where Jenny Garth’s character was doing volunteer work. Thank God I didn’t have to do my “Ironside with AIDS” routine. In fact, this was not at all like the other Gay Man Dying of AIDS in a Hospice roles I’d tackled.

I got my first clue when I visited wardrobe several days before the shooting began. I was signed for three episodes, so there were several changes to consider, and the show’s costume person tossed one shirt after another in my direction. He wanted “a layered look,” consisting of a T-shirt and a pullover. In some instances, maybe even a third colorful shirt was thrown into the mix. The shirts were deliberately oversize so that I’d look painfully thin, but—whoa, Nelly—they all had designer labels.

Knowing to tread carefully when speaking to a high-strung costume queen, I just couldn’t keep my mouth shut. “Uh,” I said, “excuse me, but this guy is in a hospice.”

He glared at me. I continued, “He’s poor. He’s dying of AIDS. Would he be wearing as many as three shirts that cost seventy-five dollars each?”

“Darling,” he said, through gritted teeth, “this is
Aaron Spelling
AIDS.”

“Aaron Spelling AIDS” also meant I wouldn’t have to spend an inordinate amount of time in the makeup room being transformed into a monster, so part of me was relieved.

Nothing relieved the anxiety I faced in real life. Tia’s vaginal exam was conducted by a physician who concluded, based on a physical exam and my kid’s interaction with me, that she had not been molested.

With the doctor’s report and the official word that there was no birth father in Chino, the stage was set for the court date to determine the final relinquishment of parental rights (which included Miss Coleman’s claim).

The entrance of Miss Coleman and Miss Washington heightened my unease. Miss Coleman had chosen, rather unwisely, to wear a yellow blond wig. It had an effect opposite of that which she must have intended: it made her look older than her seventy years. The no-nonsense Miss Washington opted for a mannish hat and appeared to be providing Miss Coleman with unsolicited directions.

Miss Coleman nodded in her characteristically gracious way, while Miss Washington refused to make eye contact. Even though the stern-faced Miss Washington did not have any more blood connection to Tia than I did, she clearly felt that this was her battle and she was determined to win.

After a few minutes, we were called into the courtroom of Bradley A. Stoutt, a veteran adjudicator known for his advocacy of “reunification,” a position maintaining that it’s almost always best for the child to be brought up by his or her biological family.

Eric and Miss Washington were seated in the section reserved for spectators, while Miss Coleman and I waited to be called to testify. Except for Miss Coleman, everyone assembled before the commissioner was white: Patricia Meyerhoff (the attorney representing Tia’s mother), my attorney, the DCS representative and her attorney. As a gay man accustomed to living in a mostly heterosexual world, I could empathize with how Miss Coleman must have felt.