Barry #2
stair climbers and bikes to stay thin; the Yoga Queens come seeking calm and a lithe body only to emerge from class, get in
their cars and cuss you out if you back out before them; Dancing Queens listen to music so loud it blasts from their earbuds,
dancing around the gym as if they’re at a circuit party; Quiet Queens go about their routines silently and with a sense of
purpose as if they’re cleaning house; the Silver Sneakers are seniors—like Sid—who do chair classes and walk the track, often
six wide, blocking the path; the Professional Gays rush into the gym for a forty-five-minute exercise sprint and then disappear
like ghosts; and the Selfie and Social Butterfly Queens don’t really work out. They walk around the gym, often shirtless,
taking selfie after selfie, giggling, FaceTiming with friends about who they’re dating.
“Thanks, Daddy,” Cole says, finishing his set. “Do you need a . . . hand?”
He jerks his head toward the gym bathroom and showers.
I hesitate just a moment, hearing Teddy’s voice in my head.
“If you’re really worried about your health, I’d do a spot check down south.”
I look into Cole’s amber eyes, seeking some sort of connection, anything.
I hesitate just long enough for Cole’s phone to buzz, telling him someone else—someone better, hotter, richer, ready now!—is
waiting. He begins to tap on his cell and walks away without another glance.
Next.
Just like Hollywood.
I check my watch. I have to finish and get ready for my date with destiny.
Or rather, infamy.
“You’re out of paper towels.”
I am standing at a card table at the end of a long hallway somewhere in the labyrinth of the Palm Springs Conference Center.
I am not simply far removed from the Nostalgia Con stars speaking in conference rooms, I am parked directly in front of the
men’s and women’s bathrooms.
“I’m not a restroom attendant,” I say. I grab a headshot and hold it next to my face. “I’m Coco from The Golden Girls.”
“Who?” the woman asks, giving me a once-over so severe that even God Himself would second guess His choices. “I thought they
were all dead. And there wasn’t a man on the show.”
“There was! Me!”
I hold up a cast photo. I jab a finger at the man in the middle of the four women. “See?”
“You’re charging twenty bucks for a creased picture autographed by an actor who wasn’t even on the show?”
“I was in the premiere!” I insist. “And a question on Jeopardy!”
“Just let somebody know the women’s room needs paper towels,” she says.
Over the PA system, I hear, “The stars of Saved by the Bell and ALF will be appearing in Conference Room A in one minute!”
“Mario Lopez!” the woman screams. She begins to run. “I’m going to faint!”
The woman at the table next to me looks over and smiles. She is selling Mr. Belvedere T-shirts.
“First time at this convention?” she asks.
I nod.
“I’m Heather,” she says. “This is actually good placement.”
“You mean, as in next in line to clean the toilets?” I ask.
She smiles. “I’m serious. After this session, everyone will be lined up to use the bathroom. People get desperate when they
have to tinkle, and they’ll buy stuff like crazy just to keep their minds occupied. Better yet, most of the attendees usually
don’t buy tickets for the whole weekend, so they get desperate for merch at the end of the day.”
She picks up a cast photo from her table and points at a young girl.
“That’s me,” she says. “I was the daughter on Mr. Belvedere. People only remember the butler and Bob Uecker. TV fans tend to only remember kids on their favorite shows as they were
when they were young. It’s too painful to realize we’ve gotten old just like they did.”
“Like Thindy Brady?” I ask with a lisp.
Heather laughs.
“At least your show ran a long time,” I continue. “I was cut before I could even get canceled.”
“Just gives you a chance to reinvent yourself,” she says. “I’ll forever be Heather to those who watched our show. My acting
career is over. You can still be anything.”
In the distance, a small roar grows.
“I think Conference Room B with the former MTV veejays just released,” she says. “Brace yourself.”
A rush of Nostalgia Con attendees swarms the bathroom after ingesting a gallon of Coke Zero.
But Heather is right. People are ready to reminisce and buy merch while they wait.
“Oh, my God, I read about you,” a gay couple says to me. “You would never be cut from the show today.”
“Didn’t I see you in a commercial out here for that new Indian restaurant?”
“You’re Blanche in The Golden Gays, aren’t you?” an older man asks. “I saw it with my family when they visited. You were so good. What are you doing now?”
Nothing.
“Still doing the show,” I say with a big smile. “Come see it again. We reenact different episodes every month and give them
our own unique spin.”
“There’s so much streaming content now,” he says. “You’d think you might get a part in something.”
And, punch to the gut. Barry nearly goes down but remains standing and smiling like the loser he is.
“I’m up for a few parts. Fingers crossed.”
I sell about twenty headshots during the break, enough to keep me from locking myself in a bathroom stall and weeping, enough
to shut Teddy up for another week or two, but not enough to keep me here to endure this new-school/old-school humiliation.
After everyone disappears, I’m packing up my wares when I hear, “Barry?” My heart stops. I would know that twang anywhere.
“Kyle?”
Kyle looks around, concerned I’ve said his name too loudly. He puts a finger over his lips and winks.
Everyone in the world knows the famous face of Kyle Moses. It’s featured in People and the trades nearly every month. I also—between us—might have been stalking him online for decades out of jealousy.
“What are you doing here?” he asks.
I deserve to be punished for being so . . .
Kyle glances back at the men’s room.
. . . shitty.
“Doesn’t every A-lister get the table just outside the bathroom?” I quip.
He laughs.
I know he likes funny men because he’s said his perfect husband (Brent, but of course, right?) makes him laugh harder than anyone.
I also know that he has two Labs (named Pride and Joy, of course) and that his favorite paint color is Elephant’s Breath by Farrow & Ball (Architectural Digest said this was a “very bold color” when he chose it for both his library and bedroom in his Malibu home).
“What are you doing here?” I ask.
He leans over the table until his face—which, for God’s sake, still looks the same—and his mouth—which, kill me now, looks
even better—are inches from mine.
Kyle stage-whispers, “I’m a surprise guest tomorrow. They sneaked me in the back to show me where I’ll be going tomorrow.
We’re announcing a new Billy the Hillbilly sequel: Billy’s Back. The TV show Ozark made the whole genre popular again.”
“Congratulations,” I say, my heart sinking into the gray carpet. “That’s amazing.”
“You should come,” Kyle says. “I’ll put your name on the list.”
“Sure,” I lie. “That’s very sweet of you.”
“So?” Kyle shakes his head and stares at me for the longest time. “Barry freaking Goggins? How have you been? It’s been way
too long.”
“Forty years,” I say. “Give or take a few.”
“Jesus,” Kyle says. “That long?”
It feels even longer. Years in Hollywood are measured like dog years: Every year is like seven you age on screen. I nod.
“I can’t believe our paths haven’t crossed,” Kyle continues.
“I’ve been red carpet–adjacent these last few decades,” I say. “And by that, I mean men’s room–adjacent. And all the friends
we used to know gave up the dream and moved back home to start families. They’re grandparents now.”
“What are you up to? Are you married?”
I want to tell Kyle there’s this thing called social media now, which is how I know so much about him. Obviously, I’ve never
crossed his mind. Not even one time where he might have thought, God, what happened to the man I used to love?
But isn’t that just like rich, famous people: They simply erase their pasts under a mantra of positivity that says I am constantly evolving.
I embrace change with an open mind and heart. But what if you can’t let go?
Kyle puts his hands on the table, and I suddenly remember when I would hold them as we ran dialogue together. They were smooth
and strong. I glance down. They still are.
I open my mouth to answer, to say I’m sorry for hurting him, to ask why he was never happy for me, to tell him I’m still running
and lonely and hanging on to the last rung of hope with my increasingly arthritic knuckles when a woman yells, “Billy the
Hillbilly!”
From every corner of the Palm Springs Conference Center, people run, swarming Kyle until he’s in the eye of a hurricane.
I grab my stack of headshots and disappear into the darkness of the desert, walking—faster and faster—until the pandemonium
becomes a dull din.
When I reach my car, I place the headshots into the passenger seat, lock the doors, turn on the engine, turn up the radio
and finally allow myself to scream.