Ron
“Welcome to Palm Springs!” I say to a woman boarding the double-decker bus. She is sporting a sun visor, her face slathered
in zinc.
“Ah!” Teddy screams when he turns and sees her. “An apparition!”
Teddy tentatively pokes the woman’s shoulder.
“Ah!” he screams again. “You’re real! That’s even scarier.”
“The heat is bothering him, ma’am,” I say quickly to cover. “Please have a seat and enjoy the tour.
“Can’t you be nice for one day?” I hiss into Teddy’s ear. “I can’t believe you!”
“And I can’t believe you talked us into doing this,” Teddy says. “I’m not under court-ordered community service to be kind
to the locusts who swarm our town for Mid-Century Modern Week.”
I glare at him, but he continues unbridled.
“I swore I would kill myself before I stepped foot onto this . . . this . . .” Teddy glances around the top of the double-decker
bus “. . . this Hindenburg equivalent of a pedal pub party bike for old people. At least bachelorette parties have the dignity to get drunk
while everyone ridicules the spectacle of them riding all over town looking like idiots.”
“Lest I need to remind you, dear Teddy, we are old people.”
“Not this kind of old people,” he says, eyes wide, aghast. “The four of us are the only ones to have the self-worth to put on under-eye
concealer this morning before going out in public.”
Barry sidles up next to us.
“They don’t need it,” he says. “They have BluBlocker sunglasses to cover their entire faces.”
Teddy laughs.
“Just be nice,” I say. “I mean, look at Sid.”
Sid is assisting an elderly couple with canes up the steps.
“You and Sid have this yearning desire to be liked by people you don’t even know,” I say. “It’s sadder than listening to ‘Alone
Again (Naturally)’ on repeat.”
I feel a pang in my gut. That verbal spear hit an emotional organ.
“That was really hurtful, Teddy,” I say.
“No, Ron, this is really painful,” Teddy counters, gesturing dramatically around the bus.
“Just so we’re clear, I thought this would be a wonderful bonding experience with my three best friends,” I say, trying not
to sound like a child who got his feelings wounded by a bully. “As a board member for Modernism Week, I thought we could see
through fresh eyes what we all take for granted every day.” I gesture around the bus at the tourists and then at the palm
trees glistening before the mountains. “We chose to live here for a reason. Look at all of these people wanting just a piece—a
moment—of what we have. I thought it would be good for us to spend some time together other than two hours—hungover, mind
you—on Sundays. We’re barely together anymore except for the shows. And this is good for my business, too. Believe me, we
still need the money.”
Teddy and Barry look at their feet. This spear struck an organ, too.
“And I kind of wanted you all to see me in my element,” I continue.
“I see your talent on display, Barry, in our shows. I see your talent on display, Teddy, in your shop. I watch Sid bring financial clarity and security to older couple’s lives through the work he does as well as the joy he brings to children through his volunteer work at the library.
But you never get to see my design work.
You never get to experience my expertise on what makes this city so special.
” I wait until they look into my eyes. “You only see me in the kitchen, or cleaning the house, or complaining about the tasks you refuse to do.” My breath hitches in my throat, but I push on. “You don’t see me much of the time.”
“Like that woman with the zinc oxide?” Teddy asks.
“See what I mean?”
Teddy puts his arm around my shoulders. “I’ll try.” I raise a brow at him. “I promise.”
A younger gay couple appears wearing matching eyelet shirts showing off perfect bodies.
“I got them!” Barry says, rushing the couple. He slides between them. “Right this way, gents.”
A cacophony echoes up the stairs of the bus. Teddy and I glance down, and a very large bachelorette party—all wearing crowns and sashes—are boarding. They sound like grackles.
“Good morning, ladies!” I call. “This kind man will assist you to your seats.”
“Ah, hell no,” Teddy says.
“You were just asking for a bachelorette party,” I say. “Your wish came true.”
I push Teddy toward the stairs. The women screech when they see him and surround Teddy. When they part, he is sporting a penis
crown.
“How sweet,” Barry says. “They know a real dick when they see one.”
Teddy touches his crown. “One of the sweeter gifts I’ve ever received, actually,” he says.
“Picture!” the bride screams. “We gotta get a picture!”
She doesn’t add with the gay guy!, but that is abundantly implied. She will likely show this photo to the gals in marketing on Monday when she’s back in the office, probably at lunch, with her voice husky and low as if posing with Teddy was the craziest thing in the world she might ever do.
And it just might be.
She is cute in a “I was just named Corn Queen!” sort of way, but I can tell she believes she is light-years ahead of her bridal
party in terms of looks.
“Gretchen, you take the photo!” the bride continues. “You’re always so good.”
My heart drops for the chubby girl who is already carrying most of the bags for the group. I smile warmly at her.
Have you ever noticed there’s always a Gretchen in a bridal party or group of friends? The pleaser? The one who will do anything
and everything—even sacrifice her dignity—to make the group not only happy but functional?
I glance at Teddy, laughing and posing.
I am the Gretchen.
“I’ll take the photo,” I say.
And there is nothing wrong with that as long as you’re shown a little damn respect.
Gretchen melds into the group, uneasily at first, but I wait until she finally smiles.
“Got it!” I say.
When everyone on the bus is seated, I ask them to put in their earbuds, and I turn on my mic.
“Welcome to Modernism Week!”
Those on the bus—young and old—applaud.
“You may proceed, Donna,” I say.
“You got it, Boss Man,” Donna says into my mic as the bus pulls out of the parking lot of the Hyatt and onto a backstreet.
Donna has been driving the double-decker bus for my tours during Modernism Week since the ’90s.
“What a shocking surprise!” Teddy said when I introduced him to Donna this morning. “A lesbian bus driver!”
I begin my spiel.
“Mid-century modern architecture is about stripping away unnecessary ornament. The spaces reflect the optimistic post-war era and focus on clean, straight lines . . .” I pause as Teddy laughs and mouths “straight, my ass!” but push on after shooting him a death stare “. . . as I was saying, clean, straight lines, simple forms and—most importantly—the seamless integration of indoor and outdoor spaces. It’s about being at one with nature.
When you look at homes and buildings today, focus on the unifying characteristics including flat roofs, large windows, and the use of materials like wood, glass and metal. ”
The bus edges close to the mountains. The streets begin to narrow and wind in all different directions.
“Welcome to Old Hollywood!” I say. “The neighborhoods we are about to drive through embody the Golden Era of Hollywood Homes:
Old Las Palmas, The Movie Colony, Little Tuscany, Vista Las Palmas. Throughout the decades, these were the homes or second
homes of stars like Elizabeth Taylor, Kirk Douglas, Cary Grant, Judy Garland, Goldie Hawn and Kurt Russell, Liberace, the
Reagans, Elvis and Priscilla, and . . . Zsa Zsa Gabor.”
I see Teddy’s, Barry’s and Sid’s heads pop up.
“Yes,” I say, as if only to them, “we are blessed to be in the midst of history and elegance.”
They smile. I continue, still looking in their eyes.
“As we make our way through these magnificent estates, imagine yourself living here. What would that be like?” I pause to
let that question sink in. “The beauty of a double-decker bus tour is that you get a glimpse over the hedges and into the
homes of those who came before us and those who seek to preserve such beauty.”
The bus ends up in front of Frank Sinatra’s original Twin Palms home in the Movie Colony neighborhood.
“Ol’ Blue Eyes,” I say.
Most on the bus—i.e., those of a “certain age” (read: older than dirt)—sit up like kids, showing more excitement for this stop than any other on the tour.
If you are of this certain age, then when I utter “Frank Sinatra and the Rat Pack,” you instantly think of Palm Springs. Not only did their music define
the era of old Hollywood glamour, Sinatra and his friends defined the desert.
However, if you are of a certain age—read: younger than thirty—you likely think of Coachella and all the stars from the Kardashians
to Leonardo DiCaprio who have made Palm Springs hip again.
The gay couple and bridal party on the bus have no idea whose house this is when I say “Ol’ Blue Eyes.” I might as well be
saying “typewriter,” “rotary phone,” “dial-up.”
Or Cher.
“Frank Sinatra,” I say. “The iconic singer and actor.”
Finally, they nod.
“The two palm trees that stand next to the Sinatra house are the reasons for it its name,” I say. “This house epitomizes a
style that would become known as desert modernism, but the playboy crooner didn’t want this type of house at first. No, no. Brash Ol’ Blue Eyes, whom MGM had made a millionaire with a brand-new contract, came to Palm Springs looking to escape the
snooping eyes of the studio and the press following a series of romantic scandals. Palm Springs became the hot spot for Hollywood
royalty in the 1940s and 1950s largely because of new clauses that were built into actors’ contracts.”
I take a breath and continue.
“After surviving the Great Depression, Hollywood studios made sweeping changes. They agreed to avert a showdown with the Roman Catholic Church by adding a morality clause to workers’ agreements, and they sneaked in the so-called ‘two-hour rule’ that mandated that talent—when in production—had to stay within a hundred miles, or a two-hour drive, of Los Angeles in case they needed them for reshoots.
Where could celebrities go to avoid snooping studio eyes and paparazzi?
Palm Springs! The weather was consistently nicer than Laguna or Santa Barbara, and a celebrity could slide behind a ‘Hollywood hedge’ and into a pool and keep their private lives private.
Studios had such control over actors’ personal lives, public image and relationships that many gay actors started flocking to Palm Springs to be themselves.
During the AIDS crisis, gay men battling pneumonia flocked here as well for the humidity-free weather and endless days of sunshine. ”
Murmurs now. Always murmurs.
“The Sinatra story goes that the singer marched into E. Stewart Williams’s office wearing a white sailor cap and eating an
ice cream cone and asked the architect to design a Georgian-style mansion with brick and columns—heresy in the desert. Williams,
thankfully, didn’t listen. Instead, he ignored Sinatra and created renderings of a house composed of long, horizontal lines
and built from nontraditional materials, a style more ‘desert-appropriate.’ It also included an owner’s suite that occupied
a private wing of the house. Sinatra loved it and immediately handed over one hundred fifty thousand dollars to build it.
When it was completed, the home and desert setting set the standard for postwar Hollywood glamour and resort living, including
cocktail hour. Twin Palms became not only home to Sinatra’s family but also the setting for his off-screen drama: His marriage
to Nancy ended in 1948 while the couple lived in Palm Springs. Ava Gardner replaced Nancy as Frank’s second wife, but the
drama continued. In fact, one of the original bathroom sinks retains the crack in the basin from a champagne bottle Sinatra
hurled at Gardner. He then tossed all of Gardner’s possessions onto the driveway and kicked her and Lana Turner out of the
house.”
I stare at the two palms towering over the low-slung linear masterwork like two parents watching over their sleeping child.
My eyes drift to my three best friends listening to me.
How many fights have we been in? How many losses have we endured?
I think of Teddy losing John and finding him face down floating in the pool—three bottles of champagne and an empty bottle of pills on the edge—me fighting to breathe life and hope back into Teddy again.
I can still see Sid after his family disowned him for many years, his wife remarrying, and how he would sit on the patio and
stare at the mountains for weeks at a time as if they were speaking only to him in silence.
And the men that Barry has kicked out and discarded onto our driveway like Frank discarded Ava and Lana.
A house can be filled with historical significance and unparalleled beauty, but it is simply walls and a roof without love,
family, struggles and stories to fill it.
My Golden Gays sense that I am staring at them—BFFs have that instinct, don’t we?—and when they look me in the eye and smile, I know that I am seen. Even if just for a moment.
“Hey!”
Someone on the bus yells, and I look up to see a man in Sinatra’s backyard giving us the finger. This house is now, sadly,
a VRBO—like too much of Palm Springs—and clearly this renter paid a pretty penny for privacy, likely not realizing his home
is on tour every hour of every day.
I weigh how to react, but Teddy beats me to the punch.
“Fuck you, locust!” Teddy yells, flipping him off.
Then Teddy winks at me and says, “I got your back, buddy.”