Loyalty, Love, & Vermouth, page 6
As soon as he left, I turned to Lee. “Oh shit,” I said. “It’s Friday.”
“You are not going into work today,” Lee said. “I forbid it.”
“No, but I need to call in. We have a new HR person. Her name is Muriel, and she really is terrible. Give me a minute.”
Luckily, I had a fantastic relationship with my boss. Agnes Roche was warm, smart, and funny. More importantly, she lived alone with a bichon mix named Morton and harbored a vague notion that all straight men were either idiots or assholes. So, when we found ourselves alone, we spent a lot of time sharing dog photos and extolling the virtues of the canine, especially as they compared with the male variety of the human species. She would understand.
Unfortunately, when I dialed her office, she didn’t pick up.
“Applewhite Learning Solutions, may I help you?”
“Um…hi. Is Agnes around?”
“Who am I speaking to?”
“This is Charlie Vernon.”
“If I’m not mistaken, Mr. Vernon, it’s past time you should be at your desk.”
I didn’t have to ask who I was speaking to. I recognized the condescending attitude, if not the voice, of Muriel Ball, our brand-new director of human resources.
“Muriel, hi. I need to speak with Agnes.”
“I’m afraid Miz Roche is unavailable at the moment.”
“Could I get her voicemail, then?”
“Mr. Vernon, why don’t you just tell me what’s going on?” When Lt. Herman asked a question that wasn’t really a question, it seemed authoritative, and a little badass. When Muriel did it, it was just annoying.
“I won’t be in today, Muriel.”
“I see,” she said. She was sitting up taller in her chair now, I could tell. “Have you requested time off on the intranet, and has your request been approved by your manager or myself?”
“No, that’s why I’m—”
“Are you ill? Will you be visiting a doctor, and are you prepared to bring written verification of a doctor’s visit if away for more than three business days—”
“I’m not sick, Muriel. Please, if I could just leave Agnes a m—”
“I’m afraid this is in direct violation of our policy, Mr. Vernon.”
“I’m dealing with a personal emergency today, Muriel. If you could please pass my message along to Agnes, I’m sure we can sort it all out when I’m back in the office.”
“And when will this be, Mr. Vernon?”
“Well, Monday. I hope.”
“And what is the nature of your personal emergency?”
“Well, Muriel, it’s of a personal nature, and—”
“No need to get snippy, Mr. Vernon. I adhere to a strict confidentiality policy when discussing HR issues with staff, and besides I’ll find out anyway.”
“Well,” I replied, “my home was broken into last night.”
“And?”
“And that’s my emergency.”
“Mr. Vernon, I fail to see how a break-in yesterday prevents you from being at work today.”
“Well, my home is still vulnerable. The robbers entered through a window, which needs to be repaired. Until that happens, I really shouldn’t leave the house.” I neglected to tell Muriel I left the house last night and hadn’t been back, but I wasn’t feeling especially chatty.
“So, you’ll be working from home today while your window is repaired?”
“No, there’s more to it. Look, my dog was stolen yesterday. So, I’m going to be spending the day working with the police and looking for my dog in the hopes I can get her back. That’s my personal emergency. It’s a family emergency.”
“Mr. Vernon, our policies are very clear as to the definition of dependents. That term applies only to spouses and children. So, I’m afraid our family leave policy won’t apply here, and I suspect you already knew that. I’m disappointed you would attempt to—”
“Yeah, well, I’m disappointed we hired you to do a job with the word ‘human’ in it.”
“Mr. Vernon! There’s no need to take a hostile tone with me. I’m simply—”
“You’re a replicant. After the apocalypse, there will be cockroaches, piles of nuclear waste, and you, citing policies and procedures to anyone who will listen.”
“I will certainly be speaking to Miz Roche about this.”
“You know what? Please do. Please relay the entirety of this conversation to Miz Roche, and in the meantime please take your employee handbook and shove it all the way up your ass.” And I hung up.
Tucker and Lee stared at me, mouths agape. “Well,” Lee said. “That escalated quickly.”
“Fucking Muriel. So, on top of everything else, I’ll probably lose my job today.”
“You hate your job anyway.” Which wasn’t exactly true. Lee hated my job, only because he thought they made me work too hard. I liked Agnes a lot. I’d miss her when I was fired. “And besides,” Lee said, “this ‘fuck you’ energy is exactly what we need if we’re going to get Mamie back.”
Then, suddenly, a knock at the door, followed by a howl of protest from Peggy, Russell, and Cass. Another knock, and then the unmistakable voice of Irene. “Hey! Let me in!”
“It’s Jean and Irene,” I said. “They’re here.”
Chapter Five
I first met the rhyming lesbians two decades ago, back when I still dreamed of a career in the theater. I had graduated from college four years before with an utterly useless BA in Theatre Arts, and I figured I’d come to Washington where I knew a few people, get some professional experience, and move to New York by my twenty-fifth birthday or as soon I earned my Equity card, whichever came first.
But work was hard to come by. I didn’t have the right look, I got too nervous at auditions, I was unlucky, or maybe I just wasn’t very good. In any event, by the time my quarter century came and went with no hope of gaining entrance into Actors’ Equity anytime soon, I decided the dream was not to be. So, I resolved to figure out what I wanted to be when I grew up. I put some of those theater skills to work in a corporate training gig, and I enjoyed it. Or at least I was good at it, and it paid well. And I did a little community theatre in the meantime because I still loved it.
I met Jean and Irene that year. One of the community theaters in suburban Maryland was holding auditions for The Heidi Chronicles by Wendy Wasserstein. I had read the play in college and loved it. I told some theater friends I planned on auditioning for it, and the responses to this news ranged from “that’s nice” to “I’d sooner die.” When I asked why everyone was so down on Wendy Wasserstein, I was told, “Oh, it’s not that. It’s Irene.”
Irene Epstein, I was told, was the meanest, toughest director in the history of theater dating back to Aeschylus. She had directed Barefoot in the Park the year before, they said, and had made the talented young actress playing Corie cry during almost every rehearsal. The poor thing never did learn all her lines, and after the show closed, she was never heard from again. There were whispers of a lonely suicide, but nothing had been confirmed. Irene Epstein was a monster, an authoritarian, and her—and this part must be whispered—lesbian lover was her stage manager. Who, they said begrudgingly, was very nice.
Frankly, I found words like “tough” and “demanding” appealing. Far from discouraging me, they made me even more determined to audition. In fact, I was not just going to audition, I was going to get this part.
Predictably, I was the first person to show up on the first night of auditions. I was met by a forty-ish woman with a shock of red hair. She had a warm smile and said I could have a seat anywhere in the lobby while they finished setting up inside. She doesn’t seem so bad, I thought. “Are you, by any chance, Irene?”
“No, sorry,” she said. “I’m Jean Muldoon. I’m helping Irene stay organized tonight.”
“Charlie Vernon,” I said, offering my hand. Smiling, she shook it. Can’t hurt to get in good with the girlfriend, I thought. She likes me. Also, how very open-minded of me.
When the auditions were scheduled to begin, the lobby was crowded with actors, most of whom I hadn’t met before, which was odd, as I’d already done three shows with this company. These must be the serious actors, I thought, the ones who aren’t afraid of being challenged. I was clearly where I belonged.
Jean appeared at the top of the hour and invited us into the main theater where we all filed in and sat down in the audience. Irene, a forty-ish woman with a shock of white hair, stood onstage. Everyone knew better than to speak in the presence of such a commanding personality. When everyone was settled, she told us about the play, why it was important, both theatrically and to her personally, and the high expectations she had of any actor who dared approach this monumental work. And then she began. I was asked to read twice, both times as Scoop, Heidi’s on-again off-again boyfriend and an early adopter of what we now call toxic masculinity. The way Irene thanked me and conferred with Jean after each of my reads made me optimistic about my chances. They both seemed to like me.
After ninety minutes of readings, she asked if anyone had any final questions for her. I raised my hand.
“Who are you again?”
Jean whispered to her.
“Vernon, is it? Go ahead.”
I asked if I might read for Peter, Heidi’s onetime Plan B who dashed her dreams by coming out of the closet. Irene’s expression became pinched.
“I don’t really see you as a Peter,” she said, with some finality. But Jean whispered something to her, something which made her reconsider me. “If you don’t mind,” she said, “I’d like to ask you a personal question.”
“Okay.”
“Why do you want to read for this role? Is there something about Peter’s story that’s important to you personally?”
She’s asking if I’m gay, I thought. “N-no,” I answered. And I thought I was telling the truth, at the time. “I just think Peter is a better role.”
“And why is that?”
“He changes the most from the beginning to the end,” I said. “Probably more than any other character in the play.”
“More than Susan?”
“Well, if you don’t see me as a Peter, I really doubt you see me as a Susan,” I said, and there was a smattering of laughter that died down as soon as it was apparent Irene was not similarly amused. “But, um…I don’t think Susan really changes much. She tries on different costumes every time the culture changes, but Peter turns into his, y’know, authentic self.”
And this satisfied her for the moment. “Okay, then. Let’s see what you’ve got. Act Two, Scene Five. The monologue.”
I walked up onstage with the script in my hand. I had been looking at this monologue all day, the one about how friends are just as important as lovers and just as easily betrayed, and had practically memorized it. I gave it my all, and when I was done, I looked at Irene, who regarded me very coolly. Jean, on the other hand, was beaming—until Irene shot her a look, at which point her face took on a more businesslike air.
I was called back on a Wednesday, and I read only for Peter. On Thursday, I returned to my apartment and heard the message on the machine. The part was mine.
* * *
Those early rehearsals were great. Irene was demanding, but not the monster she’d been made out to be. Her vision for the play was clear and her direction precise. She wasn’t afraid of telling you what you were doing was wrong, but neither was she stingy with praise. And when she was pleased, you felt as if you’d earned it.
On Thursday nights, we’d typically adjourn to a nearby pub for beer and greasy food. Those nights were especially fun, as Irene would let her hair down. This was a metaphor if ever there was one, as she sports the short, spiky hairdo that says “I’m a dyke” in seventeen languages. One night, when it was clear Jean would be driving them home, Irene sidled up next to me at the long table we always occupied on Thursdays and said, “I really have to ask you something.”
“Shoot.”
She moved closer, with a conspiratorial look around. “Are you sure you’re not gay?”
“I’m sure.” And I thought I was.
“Why did you want this part so badly?”
“It’s a great role.” I eyed Jean, who was eyeing Irene nervously.
Irene narrowed her eyes, but what she was looking for I couldn’t tell. “Well. You’re doing a lovely job.”
“Thank you.”
“Tell me,” she said as she leaned back, surveying me. “Are you offended by my question?”
“No.”
“Because most men would be. Most straight men, I mean.”
“Okay, Irene, that’s enough,” Jean said, taking a seat between us. “Leave the poor boy alone. Charlie, tell us about where you grew up.”
The next week, we were off-book for the first time. Jean would call out our lines if we needed them, but I never had much of a problem with memorization, and it was good to get the books out of our hands. On Tuesday, we were running the second half of Act One, including Peter’s first big moment, coming out to Heidi in the middle of a protest in front of the Chicago Museum of Art. The scene ends with Peter introducing Heidi to his new boyfriend, who was being played by an actor named Brian.
Brian was openly gay and had lobbied to play Peter himself. Therefore, acting alongside him always felt a bit awkward. But, as I would find out years later, Irene thought he was “pretty, but dumb as a box of hammers” and “couldn’t be onstage for more than five minutes before he started farting rainbows all over the front row.” Also, he had “too many opinions,” one of which was Peter and his boyfriend should kiss each other at the end of the scene.
Irene was against it. “Brian, no.”
“It would be a stronger statement,” he argued.
“I understand what you’re saying. I really do. But this scene takes place in 1976. It was a different time.”
“I also don’t think Peter would kiss a man in front of Heidi,” I said. “I mean, he’s just come out to her, and she was kind of maybe sort of in love with him? It’s fraught.”
“Okay,” Brian said, “what if…hold on, what if…Mark is the one who kisses Peter, like that’s their usual thing, because he doesn’t know Heidi or doesn’t think it’s a big deal. That could work.”
Irene wasn’t happy, but she backed down. “Let’s see what it looks like. You okay with this, Charlie?”
“Fine,” I said. My heart was beating so hard I thought it might escape my rib cage.
“Are you sure?”
“We can try it.” I was short of breath. My mouth was dry.
“Okay, take it from your entrance, Brian.”
I gave Brian his cue. The erection in my pants wasn’t just rising up, it was waving a flag over the battlements like an extra in Les Misérables.
Brian, smiling and affable, ran onstage and gently placed his hand under my chin, but the kiss he planted on my lips was a little showy, a little too long for Irene’s taste.
“No, no, no,” she interjected from the audience. The sky was opening above me. Angels were singing hymns in the distance.
“Brian, if we’re going to do this, it has to be quick and casual. He’s not showing off for anyone.” I thought I was going to have an orgasm on the spot. “Try it one more time,” she instructed us. I was dizzy, almost faint.
* * *
The show opened three weeks later. The kiss never made it into the show as Brian simply couldn’t master quick and casual. Every time he’d kiss me, it had the weight of a political statement. It was always ardent and a little sloppy, with lots of tongue. I didn’t really mind while it lasted. Brian wasn’t an unattractive fellow. Sadly, neither was his boyfriend.
Even without the spectacle of men kissing onstage, the show was a big hit.
By then, of course, my identity as a gay man who’d been in the closet my entire life had sunk in. It was liberating, of course. Also awkward. I wasn’t embarrassed to be gay, but it was humbling to admit I’d been clueless about myself for so long.
At the opening night party, held at the Epstein-Muldoon home, I deposited wine from a box into a red plastic cup and wandered aimlessly by myself through throngs of well-wishers and congratulations, politely accepting their praise. “Thank you,” I’d say, in a heartfelt way. Suddenly, I felt the urge to smoke a cigarette, and headed for the back porch where I hoped someone might be kind enough to spare one, but halfway through the kitchen I was intercepted by Irene Epstein holding a martini glass that contained only two gin-soaked olives on a spear.
“I want you to know how good you were tonight,” she said.
“Thank you,” I replied. Very heartfelt.
“You’re really not what I had in mind for Peter, and I had my doubts about you at first. But you proved me wrong.” I wasn’t sure how to respond, so I simply nodded. Then, not wanting to appear arrogant, I abruptly stopped nodding and just stood there, mute. “If you knew how rarely I said those words, you’d know I’m offering you a very serious compliment.”
“I appreciate it. I do,” I assured her. “But listen, can we talk about something?”
“Of course.”
“Maybe in private?”
Her eyes narrowed for a moment. Then a slight nod. “Meet me on the front stoop in five.” And then, like a lesbian secret agent, she spirited away without a trace.
Exactly five minutes later, I stepped outside the front door where Jean and Irene were waiting for me. “So,” Irene said, “what’s this all about? It couldn’t have been anything I said.”
I don’t remember how exactly I made my confession, but it all came pouring out. About the rehearsal, about the kiss, about how I had lied to her before at the pub but it wasn’t really a lie because I hadn’t known I was lying, about growing up in a Navy family and going to a Catholic college, about how free I felt but how humiliating it was to be finally coming out in my mid-twenties. When I finally stopped to breathe, I looked at them, waiting for a response.
