Chapter 24 #3
“I’ll keep that in mind,” said Reggie. He and Chet looked at each other, with a sense of completion verging on justice.
They were both uncomplaining hard-asses, but they’d loved each other, and they’d been treated horribly.
If they hadn’t been outed, maybe they’d still be together, but maybe not.
Either way, I was proud to know them, and amazed by the arcs of their lives.
I was grateful to be anywhere near guys like this, who weren’t just role models but actual heroes.
And of course, everything about them was off-the-charts sexy: they were what every on-screen commando and resistance fighter pretends to be by scowling, swigging whiskey, and flossing with barbed wire.
Once we were on the street, Reggie said, “There’s one more thing. That first time we spoke, in your apartment, I made you a promise.”
“What?”
“I told you that the Tuxes show up at the Tony Awards.”
No. No. But this had been part of my bargain with the Fates, as my most ingrained and unquenchable childhood dream.
“So we’re going, tonight. Have you got your tux?”
I told myself that the Tonys were hopelessly retro, a curio from a previous century in which theater held a remnant of sway, and that I shouldn’t get so excited.
But I couldn’t help myself: the Tonys represented my Tween Andrew pining for sophisticated Manhattan and Broadway prestige.
I’d loved, and ranked, every awards show, and Libby and I had compared notes (she had a weakness for the Golden Globes, because “they’re an Oscar preliminary and the stars get drunk”).
I’d written a report for my third grade class comparing the Grammys, the People’s Choice Awards, and the Country Music Awards, concluding that “cleavage and sequins are a universal language.”
This year’s Tonys were being held at Radio City Music Hall, another of my touchstones, and the Tuxes had been slotted for various types of participation.
Daniel Narwell, who served as chief counsel for the American Theatre Wing, which oversaw the event, had orchestra seats, with Terry Swanberg and Miles Hespers as his guests, to assauge Miles’s Olympic debacle and to honor his previous status as a medalist. Mikaela and Pei-Sze were accompanying wealthy clients, and Reggie was working security, keeping an eye on a producer alleged to be laundering Saudi cash by investing in a doomed musical adaptation of Crime and Punishment (the first act ended with the title song).
Brock, Timothy, and I were seat fillers, so when a presenter stood to head backstage and prepare, we’d rush to take their place in whatever row, making the auditorium appear full for the TV cameras.
This was exactly the right task, because I wasn’t a nominee or a full-fledged member of the theater community.
I wasn’t a Broadway anything, but I was a bit more than a fan.
I was an interloper with a Tuxedo Society tattoo.
“This is so incredible,” I said to Brock, as we waited at the rear of the theater.
Aunt Libby had taken me to Radio City to see the Rockettes in the Easter and Christmas shows.
Neither of these had been ideal for a Jewish child, but Libby had figured, “Since most of the production staff are Jewish, the Rockettes might as well be high-kicking matzoh balls.” I’d been enthralled by the pageantry and the live camels and sheep, along with the heavily made-up actors in the Nativity scene, with Libby whispering, “It’s like a TV special featuring the baby Jesus and the Bethlehem Dancers. ”
The Tony orchestra rose from beneath the wide stage on a mechanical platform, and the crowd was formally dressed and appreciative, although I loved eavesdropping on insiders telling each other, as they applauded a musical number from one of the nominated shows, “It’s a total yawn, even if it wins it’ll close in two weeks. ”
As a winner from last year left her seat a few minutes early, en route to opening the envelope for Best Featured Actress in a Play, a teaser award, an usher with a headset beckoned to me and I raced down an aisle to plop myself into, that’s right, the very front row.
This was luxurious, because I could stretch out my legs, with the spectacle just a few yards off.
As I settled in, my scalp and every inch of me tingled, because seated to my left was Audra McDonald, and to my right, none other than Meryl Streep.
The Fates had come through big-time. The biggest.
I barely paid attention to the stage as euphoria walloped me: Should I greet these legends?
Which one first? Would they hate a fan’s gushing, so should I stay silently invisible?
Should I rifle through their evening bags for gum or hard candies?
Would the glorious Audra offer me a Tic Tac or one of her six Tonys?
Should the three of us join hands, in artistic solidarity?
I kept stealing peeks, unable to stifle my exaltation, until Audra whispered in my ear, “It’s fine.
Don’t have a stroke,” and Meryl touched my sleeve and said, “I hope you win.”
Thanks to the Tuxedo Society, I’d dodged bullets and blades (although not that rock), I’d visited world capitals, I’d tumbled from the high dive and modeled the Pope’s hat.
Beyond this, I’d acquired an extended LGBTQ+ family, and my love life was shockingly active, if often imaginary.
During a commercial break I checked my phone, to find a text from my sort-of agent, scheduling a callback for that off-Broadway show I’d read for weeks ago—maybe someone had dropped out.
I was inching closer to someday belonging in the vicinity of Audra and Meryl.
I scanned the overhead video monitors, to catch sight of so many Tuxes sprinkled throughout the theater. Brock was seated beside Olivia Colman, and they were laughing at something Patrick Stewart had whispered to them. I was exactly where I wanted to be, even as a functionary.
A cameraman, shooting live video from the apparatus balanced on his shoulder, was prowling the aisles for close-ups.
This would be my moment, to signal to my relatives watching at home, and especially my aunt Libby, who fasted during Tony week so the two of us could gorge on microwave popcorn, mini KitKats, and crappy orange soda (the traditional viewing treats) as we inhaled the broadcast from Libby’s couch, having made our selections on the paper ballots that Libby had printed out.
As the crouching camera operator swung by, Audra and Meryl both draped their arms around me, so our three smiling faces crowded the lens. I could hear Libby howling from her apartment, just the way I was doing inwardly.
“I don’t mean to be rude,” said Audra, “but are you by any chance a member of the Tuxedo Society?”
As I nodded, Meryl told me, “Because we need your help.”