Barry
The life of an artist is not that much different than that of a teenage girl: A large portion of our lives are spent staring
at the phone waiting for the one we desire to call us.
In my case—and that of most actors, writers, dancers and musicians—the voice of the one we want to hear on the end of the
line is our agent’s.
I stare at my silent cell as I float in the middle of our pool.
“A watched pot never boils,” I can hear my mother and Ron say in their Southern twangs.
I turn it upside down and then pick it up again to ensure the ringer is on.
I place it on my stomach, tilt my head back and watch the world slowly spin and sparkle before my eyes.
The desert sun glints off of Zsa Zsa’s windows, and I wonder if she ever waited for calls like this from her agent or one
of her husbands.
I see Teddy through the window. He is moving around the house more easily now and feeling more like himself every day. He
opens his robe and flashes me. I attempt to cover my eyes but am not quick enough.
Teddy flips me the bird at my reaction.
He knows I am nervous and is trying to distract me. That’s what a good friend does.
I flip him off. He laughs and walks away.
I spin on my floatie. Teddy returns to the window holding up a bottle of champagne.
He is more optimistic than I am. Where did that newfound optimism come from?
A surly teen along with a big dose of hope.
I shrug my shoulders, nodding at my cell.
Teddy walks away with the bottle.
Teddy is the one who inspired this potential celebration. After talking so openly and honestly with him the other day, he
inspired my idea for the project I’ve been waiting to write my whole life: my own screenplay, an updated version of The Golden Girls called—no surprise here—The Golden Gays. The sitcom features four best gay friends who are very much like Dorothy, Rose, Blanche and Sophia, except men of a certain
age living communally in Palm Springs confronting age, illness, family, secrets and estrangement.
I know the time is right for something like this. I know the world needs to hear our voices at a time like this. I know I
should be in control of my own career, not at the beck and call of someone like Kyle ever again.
And there are a lot of Kyles out there.
Mostly, I don’t ever want a character like Coco to be cut again.
My cell rings, and I jump out of my skin, nearly fumbling my cell into the pool.
“Hello?”
“Do you have a second to talk?”
The seven words an artist never wants to hear from his agent. It means the agent is calling with bad news. He is buying time.
He is trying to soften the blow. Otherwise, he would simply say, “Congratulations!”
“I’m too old for this horseshit, Stu,” I say. “Just tell me.”
“Netflix is greenlighting your project,” Stu says. “There was actually a bidding war between Apple and Netflix, but Netflix
came out on top. You’re welcome.”
For a moment, I am too stunned to speak. My whole career has been one rejection after another until now, when everything is
coming up roses. My body has learned to cushion itself for a no as if I am a self-driving car that knows it’s going to get
into an accident and engages its airbag just before the big blow.
“Did you hear me, Barry? Netflix greenlighted The Golden Gays.”
I still can’t find the words to sum up over forty years of frustration. Instead, a single whooping cry echoes through the
quiet canyon. Quail scatter from the surrounding underbrush and scoot across the desert floor.
“Congratulations!” Stu booms.
“Why didn’t you just say that in the first place?” I ask. “Why did you ask me if I had a second?”
“I actually didn’t know if you had a second to talk,” Stu says. “You’ve been doing so much press lately.”
“Tell me everything. Don’t leave anything out.”
For the next half hour, Stu navigates me through the process, who passed, who bid on my project, what studios loved about
it and why some were hesitant to bid. He tells me Ian McKellen is interested in seeing the script, and that Neil Patrick Harris—after
reading about what happened to me in the press—is interested in recreating the character of Coco.
“You know I admire the hell out of you for doing this,” Stu says when he is finished, “but I still think it’s a bit of a boneheaded
move on your part. You turned down offers for starring roles in sitcoms that you could exec produce, you turned down wonderful
supporting roles in feature films that could have made you richer than you ever imagined, and you chose this.”
“It’s not a vanity project, Stu.”
“I know that, Barry, but it is a career-defining project,” he says. “If this fails, you might be back at square one. Studios will be wary of hiring you again, and the folks who offered you roles this time might not be so willing to do so next time.”
“I hear you loud and clear, but I think my whole life has led me to this,” I say. “And if it doesn’t work, I’ll have fulfilled
my dream and will happily go back to doing car commercials.”
Stu laughs. “Yeah, right.”
“Well, not happily,” I amend. “I just want to say thank you, Stu. I know those car commercials didn’t make either of us rich,
and I damn well know you could have cut me at any time and never thought about me again.”
“Do you know why I never did?”
“Why?”
“You refused to give up, Barry. I’ll take you as a client over some of my biggest clients any day. They whine and complain
because they didn’t have the right Smartwater in their trailers, or only got paid two million dollars for an eighteen-minute
speaking role in a film. They have zero idea how to survive when the tough times come to call, and believe me, they will come.
That phone will stop ringing, and they will wither. You, my friend, are now poised to change the world because of everything
you and your friends have endured. You are a survivor.”
Stu whispers something to an assistant and continues.
“Run with this break, Barry. You finally you got one forty years after you became an overnight success. Control your own destiny
and don’t ever look back. I want to call you in a decade and tell you that the studio has renewed the show for another year.
I want to call you and tell you that you’ve been nominated for Emmys and Golden Globes. I want the next chapter of your life
to be the best because you never, ever gave up.”
“Thank you, Stu.”
“Don’t thank me, thank yourself.”
Stu’s voice actually breaks a little bit.
“Are you getting emotional?” I tease.
“I’m an agent,” he says, clearing his throat.
“I have no emotion. My blood runs cold and deep. I eat studio executives raw for lunch. Now go celebrate. I’ll get the contract over to you ASAP.
Start pulling together your writing team, because you know the studio will want to push their folks on you. ”
“I will.”
“Bye, Barry. I love you, buddy.”
My heart leaps into my throat.
“I love you, too, Stu.”
I paddle to the edge of the pool, set my phone down and climb out of the water. I dry off, grab my cell and race inside to
the living room. Teddy is seated in a chair watching, of course, an old episode of The Golden Girls. He is still holding the bottle of champagne.
I throw my arms up in victory. “Netflix!” I yell.
Nonemotional Teddy bursts into tears.
“I’m not crying, you’re crying.” He laughs. “Congratulations!”
Teddy pops the champagne.
We don’t have glasses. Old friends don’t need glasses. Teddy holds out the bottle, and I take a big swig and hand it back.
He puts it to his mouth and drinks.
And drinks. And drinks.
“Leave a little for me,” I say, grabbing the bottle.
“I’m rich!” Teddy yells.
I laugh and take a seat in the chair next to him.
We sit in silence for a moment, watching The Golden Girls.
I know this episode by heart: It’s the series finale in which Blanche’s uncle falls in love with Dorothy and proposes. She
accepts and tries to convince her mother to move with her to Atlanta, but Sophia realizes Dorothy is finally strong enough
to be on her own, and Dorothy says goodbye to the girls for the last time.
“It’s okay,” Teddy says.
I pivot in the chair to face him.
“I know you’ll have to go,” he continues. “I’m okay. We’ll all be okay.”
“I don’t want to go,” I say.
“I know, my friend. But I want you to go without any guilt. Go only with joy. Go knowing we are all still here because of
one another. We will always be here.” He gestures at the TV. “Sound familiar?”
I nod my head, not wanting to cry.
I take another swig of champagne.
“Damn bubbles always make my eyes water,” I say.
Teddy winks.
“We have to make room for one more anyway,” he says. “I think Leo will be joining us soon. Just know your bedroom will always
be here waiting.” Teddy smiles. “It will never be the same, but none of us are guaranteed forever. We had a good run, didn’t
we?”
“We had a great run.” I lift the bottle. “A toast! To friends!”
I drink and hand the champagne to Teddy.
“To friends!” he says.
My cell rings.
“I really have to take this,” I say.
“I know.”
I answer.
“Oh, my gosh, what an honor to speak to you, Sir Ian! Thank you for calling.”
As I walk away, Teddy calls, “Hey, movie star!”
I turn.
“You still owe me twenty bucks. Remember? You stole it from my wallet to buy Starbucks when you were poor?”
“Can you hold on for just one second?” I say into the phone.
I walk down the hall, into my bedroom, and return with thirty dollars.
“Plus interest,” I say.
As I slip the bill into Teddy’s hand, he grabs mine and squeezes it with all his might.