The Truth is Bad Enough: What Became of the Happy Hustler? (27 page)

I spoke to the director, whose observations about Tia were largely negative, delivered in a condescending tone that seems to often be the norm when a self-described authority speaks to a single man who is raising a child.

This was not the school for our particular panoply of diversity.

We wound up enrolling at L.A. Family School, where we were embraced in spite of our improbable family unit. From the moment Tia began school, there was a distorted shift in my sense of self. This almost always occurs with those of us who are hands-on parents; in fact, we begin identifying ourselves by using our child’s name. I became “Tia’s daddy” instead of “Michael” practically overnight. Now, even when I call parents whom I’ve known for several years, I introduce myself as “Tia’s daddy.” It is indicative of how we perceive ourselves, stripped of our own personalities in deference to our children.

While I enjoyed being “Tia’s daddy,” I was determined not to forfeit other aspects of myself, including the daddy persona I’d cultivated in the sexual marketplace. Sex provided a respite from my fatherly duties; some of my partners may have called me “daddy,” but I didn’t fix them macaroni and cheese or read them a fairy tale after our liaisons.

“I’m really a dad,” I told the unsuspecting boy (in gay parlance, that’s thirtysomething) as he put on the baggy shorts (no underpants) and an oversize T-shirt designed to deliberately emphasize his pulchritude.

“I know that, dude,” he said, grinning, like someone who could almost, but not quite, be cast in a daytime soap opera. This was an afternoon delight while Tia was at school, learning her ABCs.

“No,
really
,” I said.

“Does he live with your ex-wife?”

Accustomed to these assumptions, I answered, “No wife. And
she
is six years old.”

“She lives with you?” he asked, incredulously, like I was talking about a pet kangaroo or something.

“Has since she was five months old.”

“Cool,” he said, not comprehending any of it.

Oblivious to the photos of Tia and me on the bedroom walls in various father-daughter configurations, my date had riveted on his own image reflected back at him from the mirror above the headboard of my bed.

Someone submitted me to be part of an AARP (American Association of Retired Persons) campaign to attract a younger, hipper membership. They would select a number of individuals who were approaching fifty years of age who defied the somewhat stodgy image they had previously projected. I was chosen to be part of a splashy ad blitz that would include full-page enticements in the
New York Times
, the
Washington Post
and
People
magazine. They flew Tia and me to New York to be photographed and put us up at one of Leona’s hotels with all the room service meals we could devour.

The photo session went well. It was clear that they were considering two possibilities—some photos with me solo and some with Tia. In many ways, Tia and I seemed melded; how could there be a picture of me without her?

Because Tia was adopted through the county of L.A., she was routinely tested, primarily for any of the many physical and psychological ailments that often attack babies born with drugs in their system. By the time she was four years old, she was surpassing the median score in everything—height, weight, balance, logic, motor skills, verbal skills and more. From the first moment I held her, I knew she possessed a very powerful temperament; this was one strong cookie. Her first year in preschool proved challenging for her because of what I referred to as Tia’s “control issues.” It had to be her way, relentlessly and purposefully, and I couldn’t help but admire those qualities.

I think that she felt powerlessness because she didn’t have a mommy and she was utterly unable to manifest one. So she would control everything else around her. This never colored our bonding—not for a second—but it certainly marked her as different.

Because of her aggressive behavior (no one believed this was because of the drug exposure), her teacher suggested we seek therapy. The lady doctor proved to be a mother substitute, deliberately doing “mommy things” with my daughter. Although I felt some resentment (I could do mommy things, girlfriend), I do think that the therapy was valuable.

When Tia began kindergarten at a new school (Foundations School Community), some, but not all, of the diamond’s rough edges had been smoothed. However, this was a new environment and her first year was a bit out of control. Thankfully she had teachers who adored her and never shamed her. Foundations is a progressive school where children are treated as the innocent creatures they are and encouraged to maintain their individuality even if every day is not a picnic for the people in charge.

Tia wasn’t easy, but she had so many attributes to offset her misplaced anger; she was affectionate, intelligent, empathetic and in possession of a distinct sense of humor. Those traits saved her. She was also powerful, one of the most powerful people I’ve ever encountered.

Whether she intended to shock or to simply inform, I wasn’t completely surprised when her kindergarten teacher told me that Tia had announced to her classmates, “My Uncle Joe is in prison.”

It was true. My big brother was doing more time in the slammer and I didn’t feel it should be kept a secret. Obviously, my kid agreed.

I had received a call from Martha in St. Louis, who said that she’d heard on the radio that “Joseph Kearns was taken into custody.”

Disbelieving at first but knowing too well the nature of my brother’s beast, I asked, “What for?”

“Murder,” she said.

CHAPTER 51
               

I waited a couple of hours, trying to digest the information, before calling my mother.

“How did you find out?” I asked her. “Was it on the news?”

“Somebody sent me an article from the newspaper,” she answered. I couldn’t immediately ascertain if she had been drinking or was simply confused. Or (likely) both. Apparently, she had mysteriously received an envelope in her mailbox, hand delivered, that contained the clipped article and nothing more.

Since the crime had happened in a small town on the outskirts of St. Louis, the news was not carried locally. The article had appeared in a newspaper from outside the city, meaning that someone wanted my mother to see it but obviously didn’t want to be identified as the bearer of bad news.

And it was bad news. A brawl that began in a bar traversed across the town where the “former friends” lived and ended on the premises of my brother’s house. The fight came to an ill-fated and bloody conclusion when my brother bludgeoned the victim to death with a baseball bat.

I spared Tia those details, since I knew that she was more compassionate than embarrassed and would likely share her concern by announcing the facts to her classmates.

If her aggressive outspokenness was my fault, why weren’t her good qualities because of me? Believe me, no parent goes down that logical road, even when the traits are hereditary. Parents are constantly guilty; there’s no book on the market that can prepare you for the task.

My life had taken a major shift. I suddenly found myself making a transition from artist to family breadwinner. Touring, which had provided a significant percentage of my income, was no longer an option. I had to find alternative ways to make money. This played havoc with my identity even though the emotional sustenance provided by parenthood was boundless.

But who was I now? The artist? The activist? The erstwhile celebrity?

I began seeking employment that would utilize various skills that I’d honed over the years, primarily those of a producer. Producer and event planner were certainly linked in terms of how to make something happen with a certain creativity and panache. I began finding work with various organizations that I’d been aligned with: the L.A. Gay Men’s Chorus, the Gay and Lesbian Film Festival, One Institute and the City of West Hollywood.

These various jobs certainly helped pay the bills and I felt like I was still contributing to a cause, but I wasn’t entirely satisfied being behind the scenes. One event, however, stands out because it was monumental in terms of Hollywood history.

In the spring of 1999, on the afternoon before the annual Academy Awards, my buddy Steve Tyler and I produced
A Tea with Ian McKellen
, which raised thousands and thousands of dollars for the Victory Fund, an organization that provides financial support to gay and lesbian political candidates. Ian was a Best Actor Oscar nominee for his stellar performance in
Gods and Monsters
. The crowd included a slew of openly gay actors who came to pay their respects: Wilson Cruz, Chad Allen, Bruce Vilanch and Mitchell Anderson among them. I had the daunting task of introducing our hero.

Before he joined the breathless crowd gathered in the fabulous Hollywood Hills home of Dr. Scott Hitt, we were sequestered in a bedroom, where Ian was able to check the mirror and catch his breath. “Would I really be the first?” he asked me as he straightened his tie, since he knew I kept track of the queer details of Tinseltown.

“Yes, darling, you would be the first openly gay actor to win an Oscar!”

It was a thrill to think of that happening as the millennium approached.

“Button your jacket, darling,” Ian instructed in fatherly tones as we made our entrance into the brimming party area.

This is what I had to say by way of introduction
:

I have always been struck by the fact that both the words “actor” and “activist” contain the word “act.” Which, according to the myriad definitions in the dictionary, means, “to exert energy or force.” As an actor, Sir Ian McKellen’s work becomes increasingly awesome to experience. His performance in
Gods and Monsters
, which has won him an Academy Award nomination, is a spectacular screen creation, exerted with luminous energy and force. But today we are honoring Sir Ian McKellen, the activist. Living in Hollywood, we all know our share of gods. And monsters. But I honestly believe there are very few heroes. Ian has gone where no other actor of his stature has dared to in terms of exerting energy and force in the fight for gay and lesbian rights, including those of us with HIV/AIDS. Many of us came to Hollywood without a role model or a hero. Sir Ian has given actors the permission to be openly gay by proving that one can be an openly gay actor and a gay activist and flirt with Oscar. Historical? You betcha. Today we are honoring Sir Ian McKellen with a Victory Fund Award for his incomparable energy and force, his enduring leadership and visibility. I would like to introduce my buddy and my hero: Sir Ian McKellen.

Although he didn’t take home the Oscar, his triumph had a totemic effect on the way gay men, on and off the screen, would be respected. The day after the Oscars, I received a call to go on an audition for Comedy Central to play “the World’s Gayest Man.” I declined in honor of Ian’s supreme gracefulness. I didn’t want to make fun of being a homo after we’d experienced such a profound uplift.

As it so often seemed, those joyous moments were a precursor to an encounter with sadness.

Charles Pierce was ailing—not anything HIV related, however. This was someone who had more comebacks than Judy and Cher combined, but I knew that his final comeback had come and gone. At one point, near the end of his run, he summoned me to his condo.

Although I’d visited his home dozens of times, I was always drawn to the many photographs of Charles, festooned in impeccable glamour plumage, with stars like Liberace, Carol Burnett, Bea Arthur and Ann-Margret, among others. More than merely narcissism, the dazzling images were testaments to the trajectory of his Herculean journey from a drag queen playing gay dives to an artist respected, on his own terms, by his peers.

“I want you to be in charge of the memorial,” he said, employing the same tone of voice he used when he directed me to play the sailor in his Sadie Thompson skit twenty-five years prior. Propped up in bed with oversize pillows, he looked frail but was still forcefully in charge. The lighting in his boudoir was diva dim and a perfume smell was potent—the showman’s way to hide the stench of death? The days of spotlights and roses were dwindling.

Papers were strewn on his king-size bed (made for a queen), with notes detailing the order of the speakers, their phone numbers, and even the sheet music for Bea Arthur’s number, “I’ll Be Seeing You.” This would be his final production and he was running the show, as he always had.

“If Charles Nelson Reilly shows up,” he said, imperiously, “don’t let him speak.” As I left, knowing we’d never meet again, he handed me a generous check. “For Tia,” he said, sounding more like Donna Reed than Joan Crawford.

He instructed me to open the afternoon memorial at Forest Lawn, where he would rest nearby Liberace and his beloved Bette Davis. Miss Arthur, the barefoot baritone, would close the afternoon, making sure there was no eye left dry, including either of hers. The “house” was packed. In fact, there was overflow onto the steps of the chapel, where speakers carried every delicious word that was declared in his honor.

His influence on me cannot be measured in terms of encouraging me to embrace myself so early in my career. He’d been an influential force for more than half of my lifetime.

P.S. Our seventeen-year-old cat, Zobie, had to be put to sleep.

CHAPTER 52
               

The reality of loss defines my daughter and me; it is, perhaps, the shared lesson plan of our lives. The cat’s death would be yet another opportunity for us to deepen our bond. When Tia first arrived, Sober (Tia renamed her Zobie) was mortified by the high-pitched sounds emanating from the little creature. But they eventually became pals and Zobie had recently spent most of her time nesting in Tia’s room.

“Zobie’s body gave out, honey,” I told my daughter. “There was nothing more we could do, so the vet gave her some special medication to end her pain and suffering.” Could she possibly understand this?

“Is she dead now?” she asked.

“Yes,” I said. “I was with her when she died.”

“I don’t want Zobie to be dead,” she announced with equal amounts of anger and sadness, as the prodigious tears came streaming down her beautiful face.