Cold Open
“Picture it! Palm Springs, 2026!”
Act One
Teddy
“Cher was playing, and, of course, I had to sing along because when the queen croons in her signature vibrato, you must join in as a sign of respect...”
“What song was she singing?”
I cock my head like the raven eyeing our brunch from atop a palm tree.
If looks could kill, Ron would be face down in the corn soufflé he just whipped up for The Golden Gays.
“It doesn’tmatter, Ron,” I say in my deadpan Dorothy Zbornak tone.
“Itdoesmatter, Teddy,” Ron says to me.
Ugh.
Ron has that look in his eyes, the one that—despite all he’s been through—still reflects an innocence as beautiful as the cloudless blue sky overhead on this stunning February morning in Palm Springs.
“Was it ‘Gypsies, Tramps and Thieves’? ‘Dark Lady’? ‘If I Could Turn Back Time’? ‘The Shoop Shoop Song’?” he continues, face serious. “Each version of Cher is a time capsule of our souls. Each song represents a chapter of our lives.”
“He’s right, Teddy,” Barry says.
Barry leans back and flexes his biceps. I plop another spoonful of soufflé on my plate.
“For once,” Sid quips. He is the oldest in our group at eighty-one. Sid is still a cute thing, always dapper like the attorney he once was in crisp slacks and tailored jackets.
I look around the table, one brow raised, giving each of them a withering glance. I pull the brim of my bonnet down over my eyes. It is not to shield my face from the harsh desert sun but a reprimand for their interruption of my story.
“I can’t with any of you today,” I say.
Ron, Sid and Barry roll their eyes.
“So?” Ron presses. “What Cher song was it, Teddy?”
“It was ‘Believe,’ okay?”
“Her comeback!” Ron crows, pleased and clapping. He takes a sip of his mimosa. “Continue!”
I take a breath and do so.
“Well, as I was singing, our very young, very pretty server walked over carrying my drink and asked who the artist was. He didn’t know Cher!”
I lift my bonnet and look at each of my friends, making sure they are as shocked as I was. Their faces express horror.
“I know! Can you believe it?” I continue. “He didn’t recognize that iconic voice! Cher, for God’s sake! Well, I was absolutely apoplectic with rage, and it took every ounce of strength I had not to toss my Rose Kennedy in his face!”
“What did you do?” Ron asks, chin in the palm of his hand, riveted.
“I asked him if he were Kimmy Schmidt and had been living in a bunker his whole life,” I say. “I told him that I needed to revoke his gay card immediately and send him back to twink school.”
The table roars.
The response I was waiting for and deserve.
