Barry #2
Kyle reaches out and slowly grazes my fingers holding the flute.
The beast inside is now controlling me once again.
“I forgive you, Barry,” Kyle finally says, his fingers remaining on mine. “I forgive you.”
The thrumming in my head grows louder.
For what?
Kyle leans closer and whispers, “Now I know you’ll never leave me again.”
He sits back and reaches for the champagne bottle, and I flinch.
“Kyle?”
One of his PR people approaches.
“We have a table of reporters over here from Deadline, Variety and The Hollywood Reporter who want to ask you a few questions. Do you have a moment?”
“It that okay?” Kyle asks me. “I promise I’ll be back in a few.”
“Okay? This is your night,” I say. “I’m just stargazing.”
He laughs and moves toward the reporters.
I try to quell my growing anxiety from my interaction with Kyle and feeling so out of place here that I down my glass of champagne
and head to the bathroom.
I lock myself in the men’s room, lean against the sink and shut my eyes. Over and over, I see Kyle throwing a champagne bottle
at me. I can hear him yelling.
“You will regret this, you piece of shit! I hope you fail! I hate you! And so will the world!”
I turn on the faucet and splash water on my face. I shut my eyes and count breaths until my heart slows. I open my eyes and
look in the mirror.
What the fuck are you doing, Barry? Get out of here now.
I unlock the door, ready to leave this mistake of a night.
As I open it, Kyle appears. He puts his hand on my chest and pushes me back into the bathroom. He attempts to lock the door behind us when it pops open again and a man enters, drunkenly stumbling toward a urinal.
“Knock much, asshole?” Kyle mutters.
We walk out, and my instinct is to run like hell and never look back, but Kyle has his arm around my back and is holding on
to me closely. People are watching. I feel as if I need his attention, their attention, his eternal forgiveness, his . . .
Power.
We take a seat again at the bar. Kyle looks at me for the longest time as if we’re in a movie together, and—even for one moment—I
know I am in control. I have regained a little bit of power.
Perhaps I just want my power back.
I take a sip of champagne and ask, “So, where is Brent? Home watching Pride and Joy?”
“Talk about a buzzkill,” Kyle says, finishing his glass and pouring another. “Please don’t mention my bore of a husband again
in my presence.”
Kyle turns from me and begins to scan the crowd.
“Sorry,” I say. “You’re known in paparazzi as one name: Bryle. I thought you were the perfect couple.”
Kyle turns to me again, smiling that megawatt smile.
“Bryle?” He laughs. “You want to know about beautiful Brent?” Kyle spits his name. “Brent absolutely hates this shit. He likes
his alone time. He’s fucking boring. He’s like talking to a candle, but at the least the candle has some light to it. Brent
is an idiot, and we’ve gotten used to leading separate lives.” Kyle stares not at me but through me. “Want me to be completely
honest?”
“That wasn’t completely honest?” I say.
He laughs. “See, you have a spark, Barry. Damn, I need a spark. And I really needed this new movie, man. I can’t be a fucking character actor playing the bad cop in a two-series arc on a shitty TV drama or some teenage brat’s unhip grandfather on a multi-camera sitcom anymore.
It’s like being a trained gorilla performing before a live audience of applauding baboons.
” Kyle shakes his head. “Not to mention, the paparazzi is all over me right now. Lots of stories about how much time Brent and I spend apart. Is Bryle headed for a breakup?” he asks in an announcer’s voice.
“And there’s a lot of money at stake on this new project—my money!
—and so much pressure on me. I haven’t had a major movie role since I came out.
The studio is banking on the fact that an
audience will turn out to see a gay leading man who is seen as the grandson every grandmother wants and the son every mother
adores. Brent and I are like Neil Patrick Harris and David Burtka. America doesn’t think of us as gay, they think of us as
sexual spores, as nice boys. But what if we broke up? What if they found out we play separately? What if they found out we’re
not into each other anymore? Gay don’t sell tickets, my man. Family does. Brent and I have grown apart, but we’re golden-handcuffed
together.”
“So, there are strings?” I ask.
“There are always strings, Barry. And maybe some ropes, clamps and gags, too, if you want.” Kyle leers at me and then shakes
his head. “It’s fucking Hollywood. You gotta learn to play the game again.”
“I’m not in the game,” I say. “You know that.”
Kyle puts his hand on my arm.
“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, what should have 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 of Golden Girls drag show with a bunch of old queens? That’s kind of . . .” he pauses “. . . fucked up, 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
on Saved 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 change me. 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 from The 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.
“I’m sure you do,” he says.
“I’m the one who does all the rejecting now,” I say. “Makes me feel powerful.”
“But you want more, don’t you?” he presses. “Don’t you want what you should have had from the very beginning? Tell me the truth, Barry. You want real power.”
“I do. Yes.”
Kyle leans in close and whispers in my ear.
“Then let me help you.”
His tongue lingers on my earlobe.
“It’s time for a second act,” he continues.
I lean into his hot breath.
“How would that work?” I ask.
“I was about to show you earlier, but let’s take a walk.”
Kyle stands and heads toward the door, high-fiving and air-kissing one beautiful man and woman after another. He stops abruptly.
“Mitch, my man!” he calls to a rugged-looking fellow in the center of a circle of onlookers that I recognize as Kyle’s director.
“I wanted you to meet Barry Goggins. Crazy story, dude: Barry was originally cast in that ’80s sitcom, The Golden Girls, as one of the main characters, but he got cut after the pilot.”
“No shit?” Mitch says, running a tan hand through his long, silver hair.
“He’s a helluva actor, Mitch,” Kyle says. “I think he’d make a great Levi in the new movie. I know all this early publicity
was to attract some big-name stars to the project and supporting roles, but do we really need anything other than a great
actor for the part of Loretta’s long-lost older brother—the only one who got away—who shows up seeking forgiveness, but we
don’t know if he’s good or bad? Can’t you see him as that guy?”
Mitch swivels on his stool, scrutinizing my face and body for much too long, as if I’m prized cattle. I shift on my feet,
uncomfortable.
“I can,” he finally agrees. “You’ve got a look . . . hard but vulnerable. I see it, Kyle.” He hesitates. “But Billy Bob Thornton
has this pretty much sealed up already. His audition tape was perfection. And he’ll bring the buzz. Sorry, man.”
The earth shifts underneath me again.
I start to walk away, but Kyle grabs my arm and stops me.
“Power,” he mouths. “He’s the right actor for the role, Mitch,” Kyle says, leaning in to talk to the director, his voice suddenly
threatening. “Remember, it’s my fucking money that’s making this fucking movie.”
Mitch’s smile is tight as he extends his hand. Finally, he nods, and Kyle releases his grip.
“Let’s talk, Barry. If Kyle says you’re the man, then you’re the man.” He holds out his cell. “Give me your agent’s number.”
I tap in his number. He puts his into my cell.
“Have your agent call me.”
The world stops.
“Thank you,” I finally manage to say. “It was a pleasure meeting you.”
I follow Kyle into the dark. He knows I would follow him anywhere now.
Kyle nods at a guard, who disappears behind a thick ficus hedge. He obviously knows this game well.
Kyle moves next to me until our bodies are touching. The silhouette of the mountains hovers in the distance as if we are on
a movie set standing before a green screen.
“Thank you,” I say, my heart racing. “I can’t believe you just did that for me.”
“Now it’s your turn to do something for me.”
Kyle grabs me and kisses me, his tongue going deeper and deeper.
“But you’re married,” I finally gasp when we come up for air.
“You’re the one who dumped me, remember?” Kyle whispers. “You used to want to conquer this world. What happened?”
“I got old.”
“No one ever gets old in Hollywood. They just get forgotten.” Kyle’s hands slide to my hips, and he keeps moving them lower.
“Let me help them remember you again. Let me remember you again.”
“How would this work exactly?”
Kyle laughs softly. “Ah,” he says. “We always have to negotiate a contract in Hollywood, don’t we?”
He stares into my eyes.
“Let’s just say, I get what I want, and then you get what you want,” he whispers huskily. “Whenever I want.”
He kisses me again, slowly at first, and then harder. I stumble backward. The hedge catches me.
I kiss back. I lose myself in Kyle, who we were, what I could still become.
The power.
“Yeah,” he murmurs. “That’s the Barry I remember.”
Kyle is rubbing against me. His breath is hot. He smells like too much Tom Ford cologne.
Everything feels right.
And so wrong.
My body may be fully into this, but my head is not.
I may be a whore, but I have never been this.
I may break men’s hearts, but I don’t break up their marriages.
Fuuuuuuck! What has therapy done to me? And why do I hear Ron’s voice in my head saying a prayer for me?
But if I push Barry away, I lose a second chance at everything I ever wanted.
“Barry.”
A movie star whispers my name. I’ve dreamed of his voice saying my name again for so long. I press against him, panting. Control your own destiny, Barry. You will never get another shot. You’ll be signing headshots by men’s rooms and doing denture
commercials for the rest of your life.
He starts to push me to my knees.
I’m not doing anything anybody else wouldn’t do right now . . .
“Kyle? Kyle, where are you, handsome?”
Ida Red stumbles out of Counter Reformation.
Kyle quickly pushes away from me.
“There you are,” she slurs. “Why are you hiding from me? And who’s this fine piece of man meat?”
“This is Barry,” Kyle says, “and he just may be your long-lost brother.”
Ida puts her arms around me and gives me a sloppy kiss on the cheek.
“My big brother is back,” she says. “I missed you.”
As Ida is draped on me, I catch Kyle’s eye.
Me, too, he mouths.
“You need some water,” Kyle says to Ida. “Press day tomorrow, remember?”
“Boooo!” she yells. “No fun!”
Kyle puts his arm around Ida and begins to escort her back inside.
“It was nice to meet you, Larry!” she yells.
“Barry,” I say.
The security guard moves back into place.
“Let me show you to your car, sir,” he says to me.
Something tells me he’s seen this movie before.
When I get home and crawl into bed, I cannot sleep.
A mockingbird calls outside my window.
It is a single, lonely male—probably very old—seeking a mate in a world that is already coupled. It only wants its voice to
be heard.
Its song is loud, desperate, and I pull the pillow over my head, knowing it will not stop calling.