“And you know acting is all about luck and timing,” he says. “You’ve always had bad results with both of those.”
“So why does losing that role and losing you still feel like it was yesterday?” I ask.
“I’m sure it still stings. Let me put some salve on it.” He winks and raises his glass. “A toast: to old times and old friends.”
Did I judge him too harshly at first? Has he changed? He seems to be going through so much.
“Old?” I wink, sipping my champagne, which, by the way, is damn good, smoother than Veuve. “And friends? We haven’t spoken in decades.”
“It’s just like in the movies,” Kyle protests. “I think we were meant to meet-cute again.”
I take another hit of champagne, and as the bubbles begin to obliterate my brain, I ask questions I might not otherwise venture to ask.
“Have you ever thought about me?”
“All the time,” he says. “What could have been, whatshouldhave been...”
His voice trails off.
“Why didn’t you ever reach out?”
“Life got crazy.” Kyle sighs. “Everything blew up. It took me a decade to come back to earth again. But I credit you for helping me get here. Nobody believed in my dream until you did.”
“But...” I start. I have no idea what to say because I don’t know if I believe him, or if I just want to believe him.
“I was such an asshole,” he says. “Young and in love. I’m sorry.”
He just apologized? Is it sincere? Or does he just want to sleep with me?
But I do see an opening. And those have been few and far between in my life the last few decades.
“I was an asshole, too,” I say.
“Maybe that long, winding road finally led us back here.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning, maybe we can help each other.” Kyle pops a canapé in his mouth. “We’re actually going to be shooting in the desert. Some of the areas in Joshua Tree and Idyllwild resemble the Ozarks, and we’re close to LA.” Kyle turns his gaze upon me. “Let me help you.”
“How?”
“So I googled you, too, after last night,” Kyle admits. “Searched you on IMDb. Nothing much there except a few cameos on shitty shows. Then I did a deep dive. What’s the deal, Barry? You do some sort ofGolden Girlsdrag show with a bunch of old queens? That’s kind of...” he pauses “. . . fuckedup, don’t you think? That’s gotta be like rubbing salt in an old wound every day. I just don’t get it.”
His words sober me for a split second.
“It actually started as a way to cope,” I explain. “Like I said, I’ve been in therapy for the longest time. When I got cut from the show,” I begin cautiously, “everyone looked at me like I was contagious. I couldn’t get a gig, not even one line onSaved by the Bell. I starved myself. I thought if I were thinner or more attractive, I would get the call. I tried to change my voice. I tried to changeme. But it never came. But all those closeted producers still called. So I made a little cash off camera and got the hell out of LA. I came to the desert, where I was surrounded by gay men dying of AIDS, who came here for the community of support. I actually got a little bit of perspective and the help I needed. I began to work out and eat well. I took care of myself. My friends and this stupid little community theater act saved my life. Now I’m the only one still alive fromThe Golden Girls, and—as you know—everything old is new again. I’ve fought to stay in the game. I had to learn to overcome all the rejection. I finally feel...” I stop, searching for just the right word “...safe.”
“But not successful.”
“I’ve tried to come to terms with the fact that maybe safety is what I need most in my life.”
“Bullshit,” Kyle says. “Safe is sad. Safe is for losers. You gotta be scared out of your wits to be a success. You have to want it again, and there is nothing safe about that. Everyone wants to be rich and famous. I know you, Barry. You want that, too.”
Kyle rubs his knees against mine.
“Is that why you never married?” he continues. “Still hung up on me after all these years?”
“I have a lot of companionship,” I deflect.
