“This sounds like the start of a musical,” I joke. “Veryoff-Broadway.”
“No, this sounds like the start of a real relationship,” Leo says. “This sounds like the start of a new life.” He grips my hand. “No matter how long that may be.”
He leans toward me. “I cannot believe I am about to kiss Sophia Petrillo on the lips,” he says.
“Picture it! Sicily! 1932!” I say.
My cell buzzes.
I glance down. A text from Esther glows in my lap.
Just saw the news! I’m so proud of you! I knew there was a reason we walk twice a week and do that seated workout class. As Joan Crawford used to say, “Don’t fuck with me, fellas!” Sending you a coconut cake from Sherman’s for taking that crazy bitch down. Kiss the Hot Jew for me.
I turn to Leo. “Kiss me,” I say.
Barry
The life of an artist is not that much different than that of a teenage girl: A large portion of our lives are spent staring at the phone waiting for the one we desire to call us.
In my case—and that of most actors, writers, dancers and musicians—the voice of the one we want to hear on the end of the line is our agent’s.
I stare at my silent cell as I float in the middle of our pool.
“A watched pot never boils,” I can hear my mother and Ron say in their Southern twangs.
I turn it upside down and then pick it up again to ensure the ringer is on.
I place it on my stomach, tilt my head back and watch the world slowly spin and sparkle before my eyes.
The desert sun glints off of Zsa Zsa’s windows, and I wonder if she ever waited for calls like this from her agent or one of her husbands.
I see Teddy through the window. He is moving around the house more easily now and feeling more like himself every day. He opens his robe and flashes me. I attempt to cover my eyes but am not quick enough.
Teddy flips me the bird at my reaction.
He knows I am nervous and is trying to distract me. That’s what a good friend does.
I flip him off. He laughs and walks away.
I spin on my floatie. Teddy returns to the window holding up a bottle of champagne.
He is more optimistic than I am. Where did that newfound optimism come from?
A surly teen along with a big dose of hope.
I shrug my shoulders, nodding at my cell.
Teddy walks away with the bottle.
Teddy is the one who inspired this potential celebration. After talking so openly and honestly with him the other day, he inspired my idea for the project I’ve been waiting to write my whole life: my own screenplay, an updated version ofThe Golden Girlscalled—no surprise here—The Golden Gays. The sitcom features four best gay friends who are very much like Dorothy, Rose, Blanche and Sophia, except men of a certain age living communally in Palm Springs confronting age, illness, family, secrets and estrangement.
I know the time is right for something like this. I know the world needs to hear our voices at a time like this. I know I should be in control of my own career, not at the beck and call of someone like Kyle ever again.
And there are a lot of Kyles out there.
Mostly, I don’t ever want a character like Coco to be cut again.
My cell rings, and I jump out of my skin, nearly fumbling my cell into the pool.
