Short Circuits (21 page)

There were very few people around, and while climbing the narrow path I passed a guy whom I had to step into the brush to get around. I passed him and went to the top. After watching the city for a few minutes, I headed back down, and passed the same guy on the path. He struck up a conversation, and I knew immediately he was a policeman. But the conversation was totally innocent until he asked “What do you like to do?” Alarm bells ringing, I told him I liked movies and TV and books and the beach, and I figured I was safe because I said absolutely nothing about being gay. We kept on talking and he kept asking what I liked to do.

I asked if he were a cop, and he laughed and said “no way!” I told him I had to get going, and started down the path. He followed, talking all the while. When we reached the edge of the parking lot I asked if his car was there, and he said no, he'd parked further down the hill. He asked if I would give him a ride, and I stupidly agreed. When he asked yet again what I liked to do and like a fool, I told him...though I did not use specific words. No sooner were the words out of my mouth than he nodded, and another man I'd not seen came toward me. I was placed under arrest and taken to the police station, where I called a friend to come bail me out, which he did within an hour.

I immediately made an appointment with one of L.A.'s best known gay attorney (upon whom the character of Glen O'Banyon in my books is based), and explained exactly what had happened. I told him I had not said one single word that I could not have said on national TV or at a D.A.R. luncheon. He merely looked bemused. He defended innumerable entrapment cases and became a very rich man as a result. He said he would represent me, but that I shouldn't harbor any wild illusions of the outcome of the court hearing.

When I met with him again just prior to going to court, he had obtained a copy of the police report, which he showed me. If the arresting officer wasn't gay, he certainly should have been… and he could have made a fortune writing gay porn. I apparently had told him I wanted to engage in just about every sex act known to the human species…all of which he lovingly detailed.

When I protested to the lawyer, he simply pointed out that it came down to the word of a minion of public decency against that of a disgusting pervert, and I agreed entirely, except that the roles were reversed in this case. I wanted to fight the charge in court, but he pointed out that that would cost far more money than I could ever afford, and that I'd lose anyway.

So I went to court with about 75 other entrapment cases, pleaded
nolo contendre
, was fined $365, and sent on my way. The L.A. police were happy. The city treasurer was happy. Even my lawyer, whose fees were in addition to my fine, was happy. I was not happy, but who cared?

And there you have it…the sordid story of my debauched life of crime. Move over, John Dillinger.

* * *

GNATS

The shore of Lake Superior is magnificent in summer…endless miles of pebbly beach where one can walk for hours without seeing another person. But on a warm summer's day with no wind, there is a reason why there are no people. To walk there then is to guarantee being enveloped in a literal cloud of tiny, swarming insects I assume are gnats. The locals call them “noseeums.” And their effect can be maddening.

Problems are like noseeums. One or two at a time and they can be shooed away with relative ease. We all have them, all the time.

But today is a Lake Superior lakeshore day. Why, you ask? Well, I'll tell you.

My friend Norman is being released from the hospital today and to save the $400-plus expense of ambulance transportation, it was agreed that I could pick him up and take him from the hospital to the nursing facility where he'll remain during the period covered by Medicare, and from there transferred to an assisted living facility.

But in order to let me transport him, he needs the oxygen tank from his apartment, which I arranged to pick up this morning before going to get him.

At 8:30 last night he called to say that they needed the oxygen tank immediately, in order to be able to check it out. I hate going out at night because I am never sure of being able to find a parking place when I return. But having little choice, I went down to my building's parking lot to get into my car.

But my car was not there. I was positive I'd left it there, though on rare occasions I will leave it for up to a day on the street. But I was positive I'd parked in the lot, and even remembered where. It was not there. I walked up and down the entire lot three times, then walked up and down the street in front of my building another two times. No car.

I called the police to report it stolen. Not having driven it in over a week, I had no idea when it could have been taken. They asked for my license plate number, which of course I could not remember (I'm very good about forgetting things under pressure). I looked everywhere through all my papers for the plate number and finally found it. I was told the car had been towed.

Since I have a parking sticker, I could only imagine I had somehow parked it on the street.

So this morning, first thing, I began trying to find out exactly where my car was and how I could get it. I made no fewer than seven phone calls. The police gave me a number. I called it. They did not have the car. They gave me another number. I called it. They did not have the car. They gave me a number. I called it…well, you get the idea.

Finally…
finally
…I found it, in a city impound lot so far away from where I live I was surprised that it is still in the City of Chicago. To get there by public transportation will take well over an hour, I'm sure.

When I called Norm last night to tell him I'd be unable to pick him up today, he suggested I go and get
his
car, which has serious front-end-wobble problems.

So now, when I finish typing this gnat-filled note, I shall take the elevated over to Norm's condo (half hour plus), get his car and his oxygen tank, go to the hospital, pick him up, take him to the nursing home, return his car to his condo, take the Red Line downtown to the Blue Line, get off at Western and take “a bus”—they didn't specify which one—to the impound lot, where I shall hand them $275 and they, with luck, will hand me my car.

On pondering why they had towed my sticker'd car from the sticker-required parking lot, the only thing I can think of is that the stickers might have an expiration date…something, of course, no one ever bothered to tell me.

Oh, the fun we have.

They're just gnats, and they'll all be gone tomorrow. But for right now….

WE TWO

TRIUMVIRATE

I was sitting here a moment ago having my afternoon cup of coffee and chocolate covered donut (one of my primary sources for calories) and found myself having to painfully pry my mouth open with my free hand far enough to get the thickness of the donut into my mouth. I was not happy, but Dorien found it very amusing. And in that small incident lies a partial explanation of just why there
is
a “Dorien and me.”

I have increasingly found myself to be a rather distinct trinity (hardly in the biblical sense, I assure you): physical, mental, and…well, Dorien, who both bridges and transcends the other two parts. Each part has its own distinct function. My physical “third” is solely concerned with maintenance and upkeep of the flesh, bone, muscles, and organs. It doesn't have the time or need to think much, but it has served all three of “us” amazingly well over lo, these many years.

The “mental” third is in charge of those aspects of daily existence not directly under the purview of basic body functioning, though it shares some responsibilities with my body such as eating and dressing and scratching where it itches. It tends to be unrealistically set on itself, and I am ashamed to admit that it is all too often dismissive and sometimes almost contemptuous of my body. It cannot or will not accept the notion that as my body ages, I simply cannot do those things I once did with such ease. (“Look!” my mind tells my body. “
He
can run:
he
can turn and lift his head;
he
can open his mouth wide enough to eat a double-decker hamburger! Why can't you?”) My mind knows it is cruel and unfair to do so, but it can't help itself. And my body just goes quietly about its business. It is well aware of what my bout with cancer did to it, and it grudgingly accepts it even though my mind will not. It knows I am lucky just to be alive.

And Dorien, bless him, remains removed from it all. Totally free of physical limitations or restraints, he can and does do anything or be anything or go anywhere he wishes. Dorien is everything my body and mind want to be and am not. Into his safekeeping my body and mind have entrusted the majority of my hopes and dreams, my faith and fantasies. It is Dorien who provides the imagination for my writing. It is Dorien who creates the stories—my body merely types them out. My mind…that part of it which is separate from Dorien…truly takes great delight in watching what appears on the screen, and is often totally unprepared for what shows up there.

All three parts of me share great concern and infinite regret in the realization that while Dorien could, and I hope will, live forever, my body, again, is subject to all the laws of the physical world, and the years, however hard we fight, do take their toll. It is a battle we all must eventually lose, and my mind knows all too well that when my body dies, my mind, like the captain of a sinking ship, must go down with it.

Death does not frighten me: it never has, for I know that, as I've said so often before, it is merely a return to the nothingness from which it emerged. But oh, the thought of everything I shall miss: the people, the sunrises, the fun, laughter, and even sadness…everything that makes us all human and alive….

So I constantly remind myself of what a marvelous gift life is, and try to treasure every second I am given, for as long as I may have it.

May you do the same.

* * *

THE MAN BEHIND THE CURTAIN

Little epiphanies pop up unexpectedly, like the prize in a Cracker Jack box, and I always delight in them. I had occasion, a minute ago, to think of Frank Morgan's line from
The Wizard of Oz
, when Dorothy, standing in the Great Hall of the palace of the wizard, pulls back the curtain to see a little man frantically working levers and pushing buttons: “Pay no attention to that man behind the curtain.”

And it suddenly occurred to me that Dorien is “the all-powerful Wizard of Oz,” and I am a flustered Frank Morgan. And that got me to thinking of how, even in childhood, things which went so smoothly for others as to not create so much as a ripple on the little pond of their self-confidence would be, for me, rather like dropping a bowling ball into a cup of tea.

Those of you who've known me awhile have undoubtedly heard these stories, and to them I apologize for the repetition. But they do go to prove my point here, so I'll repeat them yet again

Children's radio programs during World War II often offered “prizes” and incentives to buy the program's sponsor's products. Decoder rings were a popular prize, though I loathed rings even then and would never send off the required coupon from the sponsor's product to get one.

There was an air of mystery to these prizes, and they were supposedly the key to let you in on the program's protagonist's secrets and inner thoughts. You could, by drinking several gallons of some unappetizing liquid and thereby collecting enough coupons, receive Captain Midnight's Decoder Badge. At the end of each program, the announcer would read off a coded message from Captain Midnight (or whoever), which only those with the decoder badge…Captain Midnight's pals, as it were…could decipher. I sent off for a badge and stood by eagerly, pencil in hand, awaiting the first personal message from my buddy Captain Midnight to me. It said: “Drmpf Freqitlgm Smpretreb.” Excuse me? I'd written down every single letter or number or whatever it was the announcer read, and diligently did whatever the badge said to do. “Drmpf Frequtlgm Smpretreb.” My friend Jerry, who had also gotten the decoder badge the same day I did, had not one whit of trouble. “What did Captain Midnight say?” I demanded, feeling really hurt to have been left out of my hero's confidence.

“Drink Delicious Ovaltine,” Jerry replied. I threw the badge away.

Another time I sent off for a Jack Armstrong Pedometer which fit on your belt and would tell you exactly how far you'd walked between two points. I got it and wore it proudly to school. When I checked how far I'd walked it said “3,246 miles.”

Considering that none of the other kids ever seemed to have any problem at all with these wondrous devices, is it any wonder that I have occasionally tiptoed perilously close to the edge of paranoia?

So that's why I created Dorien. To be all powerful and all knowing, and to get messages from Captain Marvel saying: “I love you and want you to be my special friend forever.”

* * *

TO EACH A DORIEN

I got my hair cut (long overdue) the other day, and decided that one reason why I wait so long between cuts is to avoid the ordeal of having to stare at the portrait of Dorian Gray in the mirror. My Dorien, bless his ever-protective heart, assured me that it is not a mirror, but a window into the next room, where my barber's identical twin was working, with synchronized movements, on a much, much older and terribly unattractive customer.

Each of us has our own way of coping with the world, and Dorien is, to a large extent, mine. I'm truly grateful to him for helping me bail out the leaky little boat of my life.

Those whose boats ride high in the water, not constantly preoccupied with the little swells of annoyance and frustration that eternally threaten to swamp those with gunwales almost at the water line, may have little need for a Dorien to help with the bailing.

I deeply admire those who simply live their lives and go about their business without the continual distraction of wondering why something is the way it is, or who can simply ignore the ignorance and stupidity of the world. Each of us possesses a degree of egocentrism to be used when occasionally wondering about our role in life, and help serve as ballast in stormy emotional seas. But some were given an excessive amount, so large as to be disruptive to normal functioning in the world. I am one of those. And for those like me, I strongly recommend a Dorien.

Everything, of course, is in the mind, and to create a Dorien requires a bit of practice. It's very much like one of those optical illusions one sees from time to time, like the classic black-and-white silhouette in which one sees either a vase (the white) or two faces facing each other (the black). One element is “Dorien,” the other is “you”…and it really doesn't matter which is which.

Dorien not only helps me cope with things, but is rather fun to have around. You can give to your Dorien whatever parts of “you” you wish. Roger, again, is largely my body, Dorien my mind. Roger pays the bills and moves about and goes grocery shopping and mans the oars of our little boat. Dorien is therefore totally free to do whatever strikes his fancy. He sits in the back of the boat and writes blogs and books.

This division of responsibilities has proven very effective…for me. While I was dealing with my bout with cancer, it was Roger who underwent the radiation and the chemo while Dorien told him stories and kept assuring him that everything was going to be all right. And it was. I'm sure the outcome would have been the same had Dorien not been there, but I am glad he was. And then, as now, Dorien's greatest contribution to my life is in never allowing me to take myself too seriously.

The need for a Dorien is not so great for those who have another, separate human with whom they can share their life, but for those of us who do not, a Dorien can help to create a sense of balance. In my own case, whenever I do or say something totally stupid, something I immediately regret and curse myself for—which happens far too frequently—it's Roger's fault, and Dorien can look at it with a degree of objectivity Roger cannot. In such cases, when Roger is consumed with fury or frustration, Dorien is the voice of reason. And difficult as it may be for someone without a Dorien, it really works.

If you don't have a Dorien but need one, just open your mind. He's there.

* * *

DREAMS AND DORIEN

I suppose it's not surprising that someone so disenchanted with reality as I would take such pleasure in dreams. And though I'd never thought of it until this moment, I suppose a strong case could be made for the idea that books are in effect their writers' waking dreams.

Dorien is to Roger what dreams are to reality. Neither Dorien nor dreams are constrained by the laws of physics, and I have delighted in that freedom all my life. I dream constantly, and vividly, and most often in color. I almost never have what I would consider to be a nightmare. The vast majority of my dreams range from interesting to fun to pure joy. I have dreamed entire original Broadway shows, complete with songs, choreography, and costumes. I have dreamed in linear thought, in freeform, and even, though it is impossible to describe, in boxes, weights, and reams of paper.

Something like talent show hopefuls, most of my dreams just wander in, do whatever it is they came to do, and leave. I may or may not remember them, but I always know they were there.

But then there are the very special dreams, and the variations-on-a-theme dreams. Two of my favorite theme dreams are of flying (one of the most common dreams) and of exploring houses. In the former, I on occasion soar high above the earth and over hills and valleys (I can close my eyes now and recall a couple of them quite clearly). But more commonly I am walking or running down a street and suddenly decide that I don't want my feet to touch the ground…and they don't. I'll run, take a small jump, and then just coast above the sidewalk for very great distances. Another of this type of dream involves being in the upper balcony of a very large theater and deciding to fly, skimming along just below the ceiling. Or I'll be in a stairwell high up in a building and will simply jump-float from landing to landing, often grabbing a railing lintel to swing myself around to go down the next flight. Sometimes I'll just float down the open stairwell from top to bottom.

Overanalysing dreams tends to destroy their beauty, like taking the petals off a rose to try to see why it smells so good.

Dreams are and should be first and foremost fun…sometimes euphoric. And the best dreams of all are those very rare ones in which, soaring among the clouds, looking down at the earth below, we
know
it is not a dream.

The house dreams, which I delight in because their meaning is so clear it doesn't require analyzing, always involve my going into a house I've never been in before, entering a room, and seeing another door which I did not expect to be there, which leads to yet another room or suites of rooms, or entire apartments, all with other doors.

I know these rooms are my awareness of life, and life has endless doors and endless new rooms, and there is wonder in opening them.

But the single most significant dream of my entire life was dreamed when I was probably around 7 years old. I see now that it is quite closely related to my house-and-door dreams.

Again, I have only to close my eyes and I can see every detail. I am in what I somehow know to be some sort of basement, standing in the center of an endlessly long aisle flanked on both sides by an unbroken surface of control panels with buttons and switches, levers and knobs and dials that stretched as far as I could see and disappeared in darkness. And I knew that every switch and knob and dial had a specific purpose and that in that huge room was unlimited power.

And as I was standing there, there appeared in the darkness at the very limit of my line of vision, a grey light which glided slowly up the aisle toward me. I was fascinated, but not frightened. As it got closer, I could make out that it was the transparent, grey ghost of a woman with a very large hat and clothes from the early 1900s. And I knew that this was my grandmother Annabelle Fearn, who had died in the flu epidemic of 1918 and who I of course had never met.

And at the instant that I recognized her, I also realized I would never know what the buttons and knobs and dials and levers and switches on the control panels actually did, and that I would never be able to find out.

And that single dream has proven to be the story of my life.

* * *

TEETER-TOTTER

Life is a lot like a teeter-totter—balance is always strived for and seldom if ever achieved. We are all constantly going through the ups and downs of happiness and misery, between success and failure, and too often slamming our rear-ends on the ground. Getting both ends of the board level is one of those forever-elusive goals of which life is, in fact, made. And once balance is achieved, either in life or on the teeter-totter, it never lasts long.