“Esther originally wanted an iconic mid-century home,” Ron told me, “but when she showed me this, I saw its beauty, the nod to mid-century design and to Spanish architecture. I told her the same thing my grandma used to tell my mama: ‘A little powder, a little paint, makes a lady what she ain’t.’ All this grande dame needed was a touch-up, not a facelift.”
Ron was smart, talented and goofily sweet, and he sparked my love of design that day discussing Spanish Revival and mid-century architecture, slump stone, clerestory windows, breeze block, and post and beam.
Ron loved an open house, it turns out, because he considered it a business meeting. He could charm guests with his knowledge of all things Palm Springs, which might lead to a new client.
“Turns out Esther’s storied neighborhood is filled with Hollywood ghosts,” he told a group of potential clients, “including Jack Benny, Cary Grant and Dinah Shore, many of whom left openings in their garden walls so they could carry their cocktails to the next house during parties and occasionally, you know, have a little fun.”
“Have we met?”
Which is why Barry was there.
Before I could turn, a muscled arm had slipped around my back, and a hand holding a mid-century coupe filled with amber liquid appeared before my face.
“I’m Barry. And you are?”
When I turned, Barry recoiled.
“You’re...”
He didn’t have to finish the sentence. Barry might as well have just screamed “OLD!” and tossed the drink in my face.
“Barry,” Ron said, his tone a warning. “This is Sid. He’s new in town.”
Barry, I quickly learned, was a “chicken hawk”: a gay man of a certain age who liked (much) younger men. Barry wasn’t old by any means at that time, but he saw himself twenty years younger and preferred men twenty years younger than that. He was at Esther’s Seder to feed on new meat at the buffet table. He was, of course, an actor.
It seemed every other person I met—waiter, bartender, roofer—was a wannabe actor who had come to LA seeking fame but just wasn’t quite as pretty or talented as the next guy. So they disappeared to the desert seeking a second chance and maybe a man with money.
The fact that so many had purposely chosen Palm Springs as their home made me feel at home. People were here for a reason. That made this town special.
There was no Google at the time, so I couldn’t dash into the kitchen to search for Barry on IMDb, but I did hear from others at that surreptitious Seder about Barry’s infamous career.
As I watched Barry stalk the room, I recalled a short story I had just read, a piece by F. Scott Fitzgerald called “The Curious Case of Benjamin Button” about a man who ages in reverse. Should there ever be a movie made from this, I thought, Barry would be perfectly cast.
I actually walked out of that Seder not thinking I would ever be friends with Barry, Ron and Teddy. They were outspoken, confident and wholly comfortable being gay. They had experienced the thrill of kissing a guy they liked under a starry sky. They had gotten butterflies before going out on a date. They had lived their lives on their own terms.
I thought they had the perfect lives until I actually got to know them.
No one does, I realized. We are all passed over in some way. We must face a lifetime of plagues until we are freed.
The only thing I had done was hide, like I used to do with the afikomen at Passover Seder.
Who knew I would be the missing rya rug needed to pull their mid-century room together?
The man with the tight tuchus begins to lap us again, and Esther sticks out her leg.
“Damn it,” Esther says. “I missed him.”
“Your leg is shorter than a ruler,” I say. “Look at him go. I feel like we aren’t even moving.”
“We’re moving as best we can for two old Jews with three new hips between us,” she says. Esther slaps me on my behind. “And we need to keep moving if you don’t want him to lap us again. That would be so embarrassing for you.”
We finish, out of breath, and take a seat on the stands that ring the track.
Esther and I pretend not to ogle the man as he exercises, but her decibel level is the equivalent of blowing an air horn.
When the Hot Jew finishes, he walks over to the water fountain near us and takes a long drink. He suddenly rips off his tank top, tucks it into the back of his shorts and proceeds to splash himself with water.
“I think I’m going to pass out,” I whisper to Esther.
