The Truth is Bad Enough: What Became of the Happy Hustler? (7 page)

I remember seeing Gore Vidal’s
The Best Man
, a political drama that resonated because the cast was comprised primarily of extremely handsome men wearing business suits and acting with all their might. The content, beyond my grasp, didn’t matter; the players were role models in the flesh.

We usually had a quick dinner in a cafeteria before he pointed me in the direction of the theater. His transformation, from hospital gown to tuxedo, was more significant than just a costume change, and although remnants of his depression lingered, we did converse.

“How’s your mother?” he said, by rote.

“Fine,” I said, by rote. “I’ve got a girlfriend,” I said, even though he never asked.

“Good, that’s good,” he muttered. “I don’t.”

Meal over and with time to spare, I took my time exploring the foreign streets of downtown and inevitably sensed that I was being pursued. In most cases, I was right. A fairly nondescript man, about my dad’s age, would trail me, then manage to slink in front of me and, glancing over his shoulder, indicate for me to follow him. Follow I did, into a restroom, where the anonymous man would drop to his knees, open my fly and give me a blow job. No discussion of apple pie and no reciprocation required. I was content being the object of their obsession.

This happened numerous times. Different men, different restrooms, different cocksucking techniques. Always linked to theatergoing, these T-room liaisons intensified my love affair with the theater.

Summers were devoted to building up my acting credits while honing my entrepreneurial skills. I founded and presided over Carsonville Players, a community-based theater that was run entirely by teenagers. While we did shows throughout the year, our summer productions were considerably more elaborate.

My ambition never abated. Juggling two or three plays at once, I continued to appear in traveling children’s theater productions and with other semiprofessional companies in St. Louis, often taking on the only kid role in an adult play. One of my favorite roles was Helen Keller’s angst-ridden brother, James, in
The Miracle Worker
.

Meanwhile, the dramas being played out on the home front needed the intervention of a miracle worker. One winter of severe discontent found Mommy in the throes of pneumonia after finally kicking Charlie out of the house. Her mother, my wicked grandma, moved in to take care of her.

At one point, when several inches of snow had accumulated, Grandma Mamie dictatorially ordered me to go outside and shovel the driveway. When I refused, she came after me with a broom, threatening to whack me over the head. When I warned her I’d tell my mother, she left me alone.

Grandma Mamie’s allegiance was to my brother until he did the unthinkable. At eighteen years old, he married a fourteen-year-old with hair that was dyed bright red (not unlike the color of Mamie’s) and ratted to hysterical heights.

When I excitedly told Grandma Mamie that my new sister-in-law was going to have a baby, Grandma slurred, “Big surprise.”

From her false eyelashes to her tacky bejeweled shoes, I adored everything about Sharon, my brother’s wife. Decades later, Sharon would be the one who tearfully recounted an incident when my mother had left me alone for several days without food or money. Even though she was only three years older than I was, she took it upon herself to get something to eat in the house.

Our kinship was based on some inherent understanding that we were both misfits; both of us prematurely living life out loud.

Junior high school (seventh and eighth grade in those days) was forgettable except for the increasingly romantic yearnings I harbored for my male friends. While I knew these attractions were not considered “normal” by many, I did not attempt to squelch them. I wanted to do the apple pie tango with someone I really cared about.

I scanned every boy’s face for a sign that he, too, might be experiencing these unique feelings. There was one: Art Robinson, a teenager created in the James Dean mold. With dirty blond hair and a face that was undeniably beautiful but unnervingly void of joy, Art projected something I understood. Virtually every girl at Normandy Junior High desired him. And so did at least one boy: me.

Although we never spoke, not one word, Art communicated with me in ways that other boys didn’t. Our eyes told each other secrets as we brushed by each other in hallways crowded with “normal” kids. Our unspoken entanglement may have sprung from my hopeful imagination, but what transpired one night in Art Robinson’s bedroom both confirmed my suspicions and ended my fantasies.

Art took his father’s shotgun, inserted it into his mouth and shot his movie star face into thousands of bits and pieces that splattered onto the walls of his bedroom. Blood everywhere.

This was the second suicide I’d experienced (and I was only thirteen years old). I could sense a pattern emerging. There was something about boys who killed themselves that pulled me into their orbit.

It was 1963, the year of the Kennedy assassination, but I will forever remember it as the year my fantasy boyfriend blew his brains out. In the troubled mind of a heartbroken teenager, Jackie Kennedy’s tragedy was no more monumental than mine. If only he’d told me, I could have saved him. Maybe I could have also saved Rick.

CHAPTER 13
               

How did I deal with the hurt? Acting, of course. Bob Goddard, the entertainment writer for the
St. Louis Globe-Democrat
, wrote, “Better add another one to our town’s burgeoning roster of talented young people. Mike Kearns, that is, who’s doubling in brass this week as leading man and director of the Carsonville Players’ production of
The Children Are Listening
. He’s also directing and taking the leading role in
The Pied Piper
with the Pasadena Players. Mike’s an honor roll student and is headed for a theatrical career.”

Seeing my name in the paper made me feel alive. I read it over and over, imagining how the assholes who made fun of me and beat me up would interpret each word; “talented … leading role … a theatrical career.”

During the first few weeks of high school, I was cast in
The Red Mill
, Normandy High’s annual musical theater event, held each fall. While it was a supporting role, it was rare for a freshman to be cast in a speaking role.

John Austin, a senior, played the romantic lead, a role that I hoped he’d play in my life. Less wounded than Art, John was graceful, gentle and shy. Blond and a bit pale, he epitomized the look of a sensitive young man—in other words, soft. One smile in my direction sustained me for hours.

The Thespian Society historically put on the spring play, directed by Colleen Wilkinson, the drama teacher, who had a nasty reputation as an uptight, unmarried woman of a certain age who took out her frustrations on her students. Even worse was the way she treated her band of thespians, braying directions and belittling them if they didn’t meet her standards of excellence.

Even though it was unlikely that a freshman would be cast before becoming a member of the Thespian Society (which couldn’t happen until your sophomore year), I summoned the requisite courage and went to the tryouts for
Harvey
.

All the auditioning male actors were instructed to read one of Elwood’s monologues, even though it was pretty much assumed that the role of the slightly daft character whose best friend is an imaginary rabbit would go to John Austin.

Miss Wilkinson was as steely as reported, but she did pay attention to me. “Not bad,” she said, which I later understood was not in keeping with her abrasive manner.

I was not cast in
Harvey
, made doubly painful because I wouldn’t be able to spend all those days after school in rehearsal observing the process of John becoming Elwood.

About a week before
Harvey
was set to open, I ran into John. This was a fairly frequent occurrence, since I’d mapped out where he was throughout the school day and charted my itinerary—moving from class to class, from building to building, on the large campus—with as many “chance meetings” as I could choreograph.

I had also figured out a way to avoid the upperclassman hooligans who had begun taunting me. “Fruit,” they muttered as they deliberately bumped into me with their oversize bodies, sometimes knocking my books out of my hands. This was followed by a chorus of triumphant, macho guffaws.

There was one occurrence that I have never been able to completely bury. After years of trying to extinguish the fear and pain that refused to diminish, I began to use the experience as fuel.

The herd of menacing boys must have staged the attack. One or two of them grabbed me and pulled me into a shower stall in the empty gymnasium. As if on cue, four or five more thugs suddenly appeared and took turns punching me in the stomach until I landed on the wet floor.

Kicking followed, with verbal assaults accompanying the physical manifestation of their hatred. “Sissy. Fruit. Homo. Queer.”

I did not tell anyone for fear of being punished by my attackers even more severely than I already had been. I ran home, soaking wet. I entered the empty house and landed in a heap on the living room couch, engulfed by feelings of shame and fear.

On some days, the possibility of seeing John was the sole motivation for going to school. On one particular day, I was glad I did.

“Miss Wilkinson wants to see you as soon as possible,” he said, with a bit of urgency in his otherwise serene voice.

Turned out that one of the actors had to quit for some reason and Miss Wilkinson chose me to replace him. Aside from the accomplishment of being cast in a major role, even though it was my freshman year, there was the crush on John that continued to consume me.

Miss Wilkinson was a toughie. She badgered more than she directed, often simply reciting the line and having us ape her delivery. She had no real respect for the art of acting, but she did know how to get a show ready for an audience.

Her actors shared some bemused fondness for her even though we constantly complained to each other about how insensitive she was. You’d have to pay attention, but on rare occasions, she managed to express a flicker of humor and even make a friendly comment. But her overall demeanor was sour.

When we returned from summer vacation, Miss Wilkinson had transformed. Astonishingly, her entire affect had shifted. Patient, understanding and soft-spoken, the former shrew never stopped smiling. Instead of muttering complaints, she purred compliments. It didn’t take long for the news to break: Miss Wilkinson was engaged to be married.

I don’t know how it happened, but I was chosen to be her wedding planner. She did not make a move without consulting with me—from the choice of her dress (“I don’t care what anyone says; I’m wearing white”) to the flowers and the reception. Before school, during lunch periods and after school, Miss Wilkinson and I obsessed over every detail in anticipation of the big day.

Her betrothed was her church’s choir director. No one dared ask what had ignited the teaming; presumably, they had known each other for some time. I met him only once before the wedding day and found him to be a bit icy. I figured he was uncomfortable, knowing how heavily his wife-to-be relied on me.

During the weeks leading up to the wedding, I became more and more attached to my teacher. A complicated woman who must have been hiding behind that glum exterior out of fear, she was suddenly filled with hope. Remember that this was the 1960s, when almost everyone believed that a woman needed a man in order to be fulfilled.

Ours was not your ordinary teacher-student relationship; we became bonded during these thrilling wedding-day preparations. She became more motherly as she got closer to being a wife.

“How old is she?” my mother scoffed, outraged that she’d consider wearing a white dress.

I defended her. “She’s never been married. It’s what she wants.”

Not only was Miss Wilkinson getting married for the first time, but she also had the audacity to suggest that she was a virgin at fortysomething. For someone with my mother’s sexual track record and no husband on the horizon, Miss Wilkinson was someone to ridicule. Factor in the closeness my teacher and I were experiencing and my mother’s entire foundation must have been threatened.

Miss Wilkinson’s walk down the aisle in her shimmering white satin gown was enchanting and the luminous glow on her face was beatific. She looked as perfect as one of those bride dolls that Grandma Mamie had dressed.

At the reception, I hugged her tight and she thanked me, whispering in my ear, “You’re like a son to me.” Before the newlyweds left for their honeymoon in Barbados, I told her that I loved her “like a mother.”

The following day, I received an unforgettable phone call.

“Are you sitting down?” It was the voice of Elaine, one of the
Harvey
cast members and a member of the Thespian Society, who was known for her convincing pranks. “Yeah, sure,” I said.

“No, I’m serious, Mike. Please sit down,” she said, and I suddenly believed that she was not kidding. I was standing in the hallway with my back up against the wall, so I pretended to be sitting but I was actually leaning.

“What? Tell me,” I said.

“She’s dead. Miss Wilkinson was killed in a bicycle accident,” she said.

CHAPTER 14
               

As she started to cry, I felt like I was melting, sliding down the wall in slow motion, landing hard on the floor in a sitting position. Her voice trailed off into sobs. “On her honeymoon,” she reminded me. “Her husband survived.”

Hearing my butt hit the floor, my mom came out of her bedroom. “No, no, no,” was all I could say. Then I began crying uncontrollably. “Honey, what is it?” my mother said, taking the receiver from me and hearing the news from Elaine.

She got down on the floor with me and attempted to console me, even though she must have felt conflicted, considering the complexity of her feelings about the dead bride.

The calls never stopped coming, including one from the school principal, who asked if I would announce what had happened to the entire student body over the school PA system the following morning.