Teddy #2
I feel as if I’ve already emerged from surgery: I’m numb. I can’t feel anything.
“If this happens,” Dr. Ferguson continues, “you won’t be able to have spontaneous erections, but you might be able to with
medications, aids or pumps.”
“Lions and tigers and bears, oh, my!” I sing in my best Judy Garland imitation.
“Again, my hope is we can preserve the nerves.”
“When would I know for sure?” I ask.
“Erectile function often returns slowly, from a few months to two years or more.”
“Two years?” I ask. “So I won’t get a boner until I’m in my coffin?”
“Language!” Ava says, wagging a finger at me, mimicking her grandmother.
“Yes, Trudy.”
“It’s important to regain potency by trying to get an erection once your body has had a chance to heal,” the doctor says.
“I believe your potency is helped by attaining an erection as soon as possible. It’s called penile rehabilitation.”
“Is there a nice treatment center on the ocean where I can go for that? With a slew of nurse’s aides who all look like Ricky
Martin?”
“There are many options for treating ED. Oftentimes, the sensation is there, but . . .” He turns to Ava. “Pardon my language
here . . . but your orgasm will be dry.”
“Welcome to the desert.”
“Much of your recovery will depend on your attitude, treatment plan and care team,” the doctor says. “Our ultimate goal is
for you to be cancer-free, and to live the rest of your life healthy and happy.”
“But not hard.”
“Language!” Ava says again.
“Teddy, this surgery will give you a second chance at life.”
There is a sudden strobing in my brain. I shut my eyes and see John. John with no second chance.
What is the point? Life ends badly no matter the veneer we place on top of it.
When I open my eyes, Ava is staring at me. She gets up, walks over, leans against me and holds up her cell.
“Selfie,” she says. “For Gabe. He wants to see a picture of the new old man in my life.”
Ava snaps a photo and shows it to me.
Ava is young. I am old. She is healthy. I am not. Neither of us is smiling in the picture.
It looks as if we are holding one another up, unsure as to who is the child and who is the adult, eyes stunned by the hardship
of our histories, both long and short. I know that, taken in context, her life has not been so tough, and much of her problem
is just teenage angst. And yet to be a salmon constantly swimming against the current is exhausting and isolating, no matter
the age. I look at the photo. And yet—and yet—our set chins seem to say, Be damned, inhumanity of the world, I will fight on if only the slightest bit of hope remains.
As Ava hits Send, she rubs my back with her free arm and then takes my hand in hers. She nods at me, willing me to try.
And in this child’s eyes, I finally see it: a reason to fight.
“Okay,” I say to the doctor. “I’ll give it a shot.”
Our Golden Gays performance Saturday night is one of my all-time favorites entitled “Scared Straight.”
I asked Barry at the last minute if we could rearrange his carefully preplanned performance to do this particular show, and
he was shockingly amenable.
“Just this once. Consider it our finale.”
Barry eyed me suspiciously when the word finale came out, almost as if he were hiding something, too.
“Consider it done.”
“Thank you.”
What Barry doesn’t know is that I plan to improvise part of our performance when the time comes.
Barry hates when actors improvise his scripts nearly as much as he hates a man on Medicare. I tell him these aren’t technically
his words—though he does update the old Golden Girls episodes to make them even more relevant to today’s time—but artists and old men are sensitive. Don’t change Barry’s words,
don’t mess up Ron’s hair, don’t wrinkle Sid’s suits and don’t mess with my mannequins.
And don’t ever rain on a gay man’s parade.
This particular episode has deep meaning to me. It was one my mama and I watched together when she was sick. She wept like
a baby. I’ve seen it many times over the years since then.
In the classic Golden Girls episode, Blanche’s bachelor brother comes to Miami for a visit, and his sister fixes him up on countless blind dates, only
to discover her brother is gay and too afraid to tell her. He goes so far as to tell Blanche he is dating Rose, who is keeping
his secret.
Many episodes of The Golden Girls centered around secret-keeping just as many episodes centered around being gay. In many ways, the show was way ahead of its
time with sensitive issues that society was grappling with and wished to ignore. Almost as if the creators were intentionally
trying to make up for cutting Coco.
I pull on my tunic and watch my friends get into character with my trademark Dorothy side-eye.
Ron teases his white Rose wig, which does not look that different from his real hair. He picks and sprays, over and over—though
a hair on his wig would not move in a Florida hurricane—using a can of old-school Aqua Net, our dressing room turning as foggy
as a London winter’s night.
I remain incensed at Ron. He is kind to a fault, and I know that will never change, but his acquiescence to Trudy’s arrival and kindness to her have flummoxed me.
Why is he being so sweet to a woman whose cruelty and rejection not only shaped my existence but nearly ended it? What kind of friend is that?
I watch Sid straighten his gray wig and adjust the collar of his sweater as he transforms into Sophia.
Sid seems distanced lately, and yet he has not disclosed—as he and Sophia would have in the past—exactly what is going on
in his life via his typical nonsensical babble. In fact, he has been MIA of late and has already told us he will miss Church
of Mary this week to have brunch with Leo. He also told us that Leo wants to speak with us. Is Sid pregnant? I mean, what
in the wild, wild world of gay sports is going on there?
Barry adds another layer of lipstick. Blanche has a signature lip: an undercoat of gold glimmer with a bright pop of party
red over it.
It always baffled me that Blanche had the most difficulty with her brother, given that she was the character most gay men
identified with. She owned her sexuality, slept around without any remorse or regret, and did not let age diminish her fierceness.
She dressed provocatively, she flirted and she didn’t care what people thought of her.
Barry and I are probably the closest to our counterparts in both look and demeanor. Barry got a firsthand look at the makeup
the ladies used and has tried to help us over the years. But has all of this—this show, living with his BFFs—helped him or
hindered him? Our Palm Springs man magnet has not only been MIA of late as well, but his late-night boy toy rendezvous have
stopped. Is it because we have company? Or does he have a secret, too?
And yet I cannot judge as I may be hiding the biggest secret of all. I’ve kept it from my friends because I did not want to
burden them.
Or is it simply because I’m scared? Teddy? Scared? I never would have pegged myself as a run-away-from-a-fight type of guy,
but I’m actually scared.
To die.
For this show to end.
There is a knock on the door.
“Five minutes to curtain!”
The voice of Bette Davis pops into my head, as it does many a gay man my age:
“Fasten your seat belts, fellas, it’s going to be a bumpy night!”
I give myself a final once-over and stalk from our dressing room onto the back of the stage.
I peek through the curtain.
Ava and Trudy are seated in the front row. It takes me a second to recognize Trudy. I’ve been avoiding her, and she has been
avoiding me. But her new hairstyle is shockingly youthful. Her outfit is updated. Ron appears backstage.
Someone has been playing Dolly Levi, I see.
I watch Trudy attempt to talk to Ava, who remains glued to her cell. I’m confident Ava will either pass out or storm out when
she is informed by the announcer that all cell phones must be silenced and not in use during the performance.
Barry and Sid join us on stage.
The set is divided in two by a wall with a door. It looks exactly like the living room and kitchen of the ladies’ home in
Miami, down to the bamboo sofa, floral cushions and linoleum.
We move into position. Patty O’Furniture greets the sold-out audience and informs them to silence their phones. I can hear
Ava groan.
“Ladies and gentlemen!” Patty says. “The Golden Gays!”
The curtains open, and our little show begins.
I glance at Trudy and Ava as the scenes progress. Trudy’s face remains stoic. Ava is laser-focused on me for much of the performance.
On occasion, she looks over at her grandmother to gauge her reaction.
Finally, it comes time for a scene between me and Sid.
“What’s wrong, Ma?” I ask.
“I got three days to live,” she says.
“Fine, Ma,” I say in a low tone, my voice filled with withering sarcasm. “I’ll scratch the Bengay off the grocery list.”
I put my hand on Sid’s shoulder. I move forward.
He looks at me, confused. This is not part of our blocking.
“And, Ma,” I continue. “I might only have a short time to live, too.”
I leave my mark and turn to my friends.
I can feel their eyes on me.
“Teddy?” the stage manager says into my ear. “What are you doing?”
I move downstage until I am front and center. I lift my arms to the audience.
“I really might,” I repeat. “I have Stage 3 prostate cancer.”
The audience gasps and then begins to murmur, wondering if this is real or a part of the show.
“What?” Ron says too loudly into his mic. A loud pop explodes through the theater, and the audience groans. They look around
at one another, finally realizing what is happening is completely unrehearsed. Many ignore the rules, grab their cell phones
and beginning recording the spectacle.
“I didn’t know any other way to break the news to my best friends. My entire life, I’ve been a fighter. I’ve always been strong,
but I lost the will to live a long time ago when I lost John. I thought cancer would be my way to exit stage right.” I turn
and face my friends. “I didn’t know how to tell any of you. I didn’t want to burden you. I didn’t want your golden years to
be filled with caregiving and medical bills.”
I turn and train my eyes on Ava.
“But lately I’ve found the strength to fight.”
“You knew?”
Trudy’s voice is audible on stage.
“I paid attention, Grandma,” Ava says. “I actually asked how someone else was feeling for once in my life instead of acting
as if everything was going to be okay because, guess what, it’s not unless you ask.”
“Cancer is my secret,” I say. “I didn’t know any other way to tell my best friends—those I love most in the world—than on this stage. I’m scared. I don’t want to be scared any longer, and I didn’t want there to be any more secrets in our home. I’m sorry. I hope you can forgive me.”
Sid moves downstage with me and takes my hand. I can see the audience collectively sigh and settle back into their seats,
thinking the show is back on track and Sophia is going to recite her next zinger.
“I have a secret, too,” he says, taking me by surprise. “I’m in love.”
A few people in the audience applaud.
“What?” I ask. “With Leo?”
“Yes,” he says, pointing into the audience at the handsome man I recognize from Streetbar seated in the front row. Sid stops
and looks at the audience, quipping in Sophia’s memorable voice, “He’s so young, and I’m so old, I just won’t buy any ripe
bananas.”
The crowd roars.
“Are you really in love?” I whisper to him.
“I am.” Sid smiles at me. “And—I have one more secret, too.”
My eyes widen.
“I was attacked by a woman after my Reading Hour to kids at the library when I was dressed like Sophia.”
“What?” I exclaim, as the crowd boos what happened to Sid.
“The police can’t identify her, but I am speaking out: Leo is doing a story about the incident on his new news segment.” Sid
takes my hand. “Let’s fight, Teddy. There are so many reasons for us to fight and live.”
I feel a body beside me and turn to discover Barry standing next to us.
“Et tu, Brute?” I ask as Dorothy would.
The audience titters.
“I have a big secret, too,” he says.
The audience goes, “Woooo!” as if they are on a roller coaster.
“I have been cast as Levi, Billy’s long-lost brother in the new Billy the Hillbilly movie.”
The crowd explodes in applause.
“No!” I exclaim. “Really?”
“Nobody ever believes me when I’m telling the truth. I guess it’s the curse of being a devastatingly beautiful woman.”
This is a line Blanche has uttered in the show many times before, but it seems to have more nuance when Barry says it tonight.
“Congratulations,” I say. “Your dream came true. How? When?”
“That’s for after the show,” he says.
The crowd expresses their disappointment.
Finally, we all turn to Ron.
“Last but not least,” I say. “Let it rip, Ron. The stage is literally all yours.”
Ron turns as quiet as the audience. He leans toward me, covers his mic and his mouth and whispers, his voice trembling, “I
can’t share this secret. That’s between you and your sister.”
I look into the audience. Ava and Trudy are as bewildered by tonight’s show—and secrets—as I am. For once, I have no cutting
words, no one-liners, no pithy comeback. I simply stare into the front row, wondering what could possibly top tonight’s confessional.
I turn to my friends. We all stare at each other, wondering what to say or do next.
Patty O’Furniture bursts onto the stage sporting a red Reba wig, bejeweled cowboy hat, sequined halter and Daisy Dukes while
holding a mic and a bottle of whiskey.
“Leave it to a diva to close a show. Maestro? Hit it!”
Music swells, and Patty croons “Friends in Low Places” as she dances around the four of us.
The curtain closes.
“Honey, that show was so bad,” Patty says, taking a healthy slug from the bottle, “it made my tits look good.”