(It should be stated for the record that the vote to name our gathering “The Church of Mary” was 2–1–1. Ron and I voted yes, and Sid—who is Jewish—voted no, arguing, “She’s just another nice Jewish mother of a nice Jewish son!”, while Barry—our agnostic—abstained. To me, this serves as a microcosm ofAmerican politics, where the slimmest of majorities hold on to power, usually as a result of voter apathy.)
We are four gay men of a certain age who years ago became the unlikeliest of friends. We started out as acquaintances before joining forces to stage a monthly performance at the local community theater entitledThe Golden Gays, a spoof of the still-popular 1980s TV comedy,The Golden Girls, in which we play the different characters: I am Dorothy, Ron plays Rose, Barry is Blanche and Sid is Sophia. Each of us is essentially the real-life version of the TV character.
Ironically, over time, the show became more catharsis than spoof for us.
And then an idea hit us one night after a show like an earthquake.
Okay, it really was an earthquake: a 5.2 reality rattler that not only damaged my business but also revealed that I was living in a historic building in the Uptown Design District that had never been deemed mixed-use, would cost a fortune to repair and was filled with as many painful memories of my husband, John, as it was with vintage clothing. I had sketchy insurance, no savings and nowhere to go. I finally realized in my late fifties that rooms filled with coiffed wigs, costume jewelry and fabulous caftans did not a retirement portfolio make.
I needed a home, Sid needed companionship, Barry needed to grow up and Ron needed a family to dote on.
That is why every Sunday—despite my histrionics—I truly thank God for my friends.
I glance at our home, Zsa Zsa.
If not for these boys, I would likely be renting an apartment with a drunken drag queen and working the night shift at Ralphs.
So we pooled our resources—some more than others, thank you very much—and Ron found us this pink palace we now call home.
Historically, the gay community has flocked together in order to protect ourselves from a world that has tried to harm us. We have done it in certain cities, neighborhoods, bars, beaches. We watch out for one another. We have each other’s backs. It is communal. It is safe. It is a tribe unlike any other. The Golden Gays have made that a reality in our home.
We four lost souls made a pact after a lifetime of loss, pain, humiliation and heartbreak—after losing our parents and most of our relatives to death or disownment—to live together and care for one another, just like the women we watched in our youth and now play in our golden years, in a fabulous mid-century modern home in Palm Springs that we could never afford on our own.
The faces of my friends glow as pink as our painted house in the morning sun.
We’re approaching Valentine’s Day and Modernism Week in Palm Springs, the two times of year in the desert that aging, single gays dread more than (1) Coachella, with its Kardashian wannabes swarming our town in daisy headbands, and (2) an eternal summer that’s like living in an air fryer.
“I love your bonnet,” Barry says to me. I nod my head to bounce the hearts dangling from it.
“Oh, I could write a sonnet about my Valentine’s Day bonnet,” I sing, changing the lyrics of the famed Easter song.
“Do you like my hat?” Barry asks when I finish.
“To be accurate,” Sid—ever the attorney—interrupts, “that’s not a hat. It’s a fascinator.”
“And Lord knows you need it to be fascinating,” I add.
“Touché,” Barry says, standing, striking a pose to show off his cropped sweater that features a bear on the front and shows off his too-tan six-pack. “Less is more, ladies.”
“I do love that sweater,” I say. “Does it come in men’s?”
Barry bows at my quick wit.
Barry is an actor who appreciates a great line. He actually has a more impressive body than body of work. He is infamousfor a starring role that no one ever saw. Barry’s career has seen a resurgence of late, thanks to our little show. And by resurgence, I mean he does gigs for local restaurants and hearing aid companies.
“Everythingoldis new again,” I always tell him to keep him grounded. “Just give it time. You’ll eventually come back in style like women with Farrah hair and men with moustaches.”
Barry is sixty-five and goes to the gym seven days a week. His muscles have muscles. His hair is cropped short and dyed black to match his ever-present five-o’clock shadow. He is what gays my age call a “bear” and what the young gays call a “daddy.” I just call him an old queen.
Barry is the living, breathing embodiment of the name of the vintage clothing store I own, Dorian Gay. Fashion, like Barry, will remain eternally young, even if both of them are beginning to show a little wear.
“Someone obviously brushed his teeth and sharpened his tongue this morning,” Sid says to me.
I laugh and tip my glass of champagne.
“You know how much this Dorothy adores Dorothy Parker.”
Sid takes off his pink bonnet—the same shade as our house—and fans himself.
