The Truth is Bad Enough: What Became of the Happy Hustler? (37 page)
Read The Truth is Bad Enough: What Became of the Happy Hustler? Online
Authors: Michael Kearns
This woman left Tia at the hospital, born two months premature, with no prenatal care, crack coursing through her tiny body, which weighed less than three pounds.
She visited once before Tia’s first birthday and held my daughter, reluctantly, for less than five minutes.
On Tia’s first birthday, she left a message, promising to call back in the late afternoon. She didn’t; in fact, she has never called before or since.
A few years ago, on the occasion of Marjorie Coleman’s death, she entered a crowded room where Tia and I were sitting with family members. She awkwardly said hello to me and then clumsily hugged Tia with an abruptness that could be read as comical if it weren’t so tragic. She then promptly made a deliberate exit. Again.
So Tia’s answer is “no” to her Facebook request. Unfortunately (but understandably), I believe that the mother’s behavior has tainted Tia’s potential relationship with her half siblings. “They are not my family,” she insists. “You are my family.”
Tia: “Knock, knock.”
Me: “Who’s there?”
Tia: “Madame.”
Me: “Madame who?”
Tia: “Ma damn foot’s caught in the door.”
We play this game, back and forth, and have for years, just to remind ourselves of our shared history; it’s one of the many ways we confirm our closeness. This PG-rated version of a knock-knock joke was taught to me by my step-grandfather, Poppy, the only male grandparent I knew. He tended to overcompensate for his harridan wife (my mother’s mother, who detested me) by being genuinely on my team. I think of him with great affection when Tia and I carry on the tradition of this flimsy silliness.
I have never been in a relationship, nor have I ever observed a relationship, like I have with Tia. Our connection to each other exceeds any connection we might make with others (and we both partake in some intense ones). There are only two incidents that could alter our earthly bond: marriage (Tia’s) or death (likely mine).
Love and death are the two most difficult subjects for a writer to talk about with a scintilla of clarity. Yet the combination proves irresistible: I find it peering at me from every page.
And those accusations of both my selfishness and my craziness in regard to adopting Tia often haunt me now more than they did when they were first verbalized. I often feel guilty that I have brought her into my death drama—an innocent baby who had no choice in the matter.
We talk about it, frequently joking about it. Before she goes to school in the morning, she says that she checks to see if I’m still breathing. Or she’ll sometimes say, without a trace of laughter, that if she calls me on my cell—at a time that she assumes it would be logical for me to answer and I don’t—“I think you’re dead.”
I have been as appropriately honest with Tia as I can be over the years, second-guessing my longevity, telling her only the details that she can absorb without terrifying her in the process. I try to maintain an upbeat demeanor without forsaking a strong sense of realism.
Two of her girlfriends lost their fathers—both to unexpected heart attacks, both younger than I am.
“I just want to live long enough to be a grandfather—that’s my goal,” I tell her.
“You’ll live to be eighty-five,” Tia proclaims, not joking but introducing a certain gravitas.
“Honey, what about my poor feet? I don’t think I can live twenty-five more years with this pain.”
“They’ll be able to make you new feet by then.”
I laugh. “It’s true, I suppose. I’ll be the grandpa with fake feet!”
As our years together have unfolded, it does seem that Tia may take the world by storm before I take my permanent leave. For so many years, my overriding fear was that I’d die before she was the age of emancipation. But it now feels like I’ll be chirping plaintively in an empty nest.
Aside from nurturing the Kearns family (changing my grandchildren’s diapers), I’ve established some goals: learn, teach, travel, read, take classes, get two or three more cats and at least one dog.
“You should get a husband,” Tia says, a suggestion that she’s been working on for years.
“I’m open,” I answer, not even halfheartedly.
I feel ambivalent about the man thing that previously consumed so much of my life. I count two and a half husbands: Thom Racina, Philip Juwig and Eric Lim (the half due to the velocity with which that marriage came and went).
“Is your daughter the love of your life?”
Asked by a man that I’m on a first date with, the question feels icky—too intimate and a bit confrontational, yet unquestionably astute. The dinner has been romantic and he’s as sexy as hell, but I decide it’s a trick question and I initially veer to the defensive track.
Even if the truth dilutes the frisson of the moment, I ultimately admit that it’s true: of the myriad friends and relatives and lovers, past and present, Tia is unequivocally the love of my life.
He seems to understand and then admits that he is “envious.”
Mr. Date doesn’t stop there. “Do you think her love has kept you alive?”
That’s a question I can’t really answer. It would put a lot of responsibility on Tia, wouldn’t it? I think she has been the great motivator, especially during times of despair. There is little question that she is something to live for. My responsibility to her as a parent is something I take more seriously than anything.
I will leave the planet longing for more time with Tia. I will likely continue to write, teach, direct and act, for either artistic or monetary reasons. But I have no grand desire in that department either, no desire to play King Lear. The only role I’d like to play into eternity is that of Tia’s father.
Behind the counter at the Department of Motor Vehicles, where Tia is applying for her driver’s permit, the black woman—with stern glasses teetering on her nose—scans the paperwork we’ve handed her and then looks up at the two of us.
“Where’s the mother?” she asks.
“There is no mother,” I say.
She looks positively baffled.
“What’s her mother’s name?” she persists, frowning, taking her glasses off to see us more clearly.
“There is no mother,” I repeat, as chipper as hell.
She returns to the application form as if it might hold the answer. Then she glares at me, as if I’ve done something terribly wrong.
“So you’re the guardian?”
“No, I’m not the guardian.
“I’m. Her. Father.”
Her discerning eyes move from me back to the paperwork and the oversize glasses are put back in place. “I guess that will be all right.
“It’s been more than all right,” I say, smiling.
When Tia was sevenish, she scrawled a virtual valentine for me on a raggedy piece of paper, measuring approximately six by two and a half inches. The letters of the words are inconsistent, spilling onto the page this way and that, in the manner that a child draws, rather than writes, before she learns rules about consistently shaping the alphabet symbols, maintaining straight lines and incorporating the use of punctuation.
Hi Dad I Love! You Love Tia Love You Dad
I got a second tattoo. Tia’s words, stenciled onto my forearm in the precise color of the ink she used, are part of my body, as permanently as anything can be.
Me: “Knock, knock.”
Tia: “Who’s there?”
Me: “Madame.”
Tia: “Madame who?”
Me: “Ma damn foot’s caught in the door.”
There have been so many forces that have helped me birth this book and nurture its evolution, beginning with Jan Breslauer, a former
Los Angeles Times
reporter, who insisted that my life was indeed worthy of being a mainstream offering. Unfortunately, the major publishing houses didn’t agree but Jan’s belief in me remained pivotal as I began tinkering with the material and finding a voice. I eventually showed
The Truth Is Bad Enough (
titled
Drawing Blood
at that juncture
)
to Mark Thompson, longtime editor
of The Advocate
and the author of several books, many of which traverse simpatico material. Mark’s all-encompassing enthusiasm spurred me on in spite of my own trepidation. His brotherly guidance infused me with the confidence to connect with Nick Nolan who has become a superstar in the Amazon marketplace. Nick’s mentoring pulled me through the final arduous process. I think of Jan, Mark, and Nick as my trio of shepherds.
A special acknowledgement to John W. McLaughlin who had the nerve to convince me that including the adventures of “the happy hustler” would be felicitous.
It is certainly part of my truth-telling and John was adamant that I should be authentic.
Adam Soch deserves a big hug for his titillating video promo that gave the book its initial financial kick.
My copy editor, Eileen Chetti, was on target and art director Jaime Flores was a dream to work with at every twist and turn of the process. Along the way, many other instructive voices played in my head as I wrote, including Chris Freeman’s. And let me not forget my contributors who infused the book with soul: Brian Clarke, Jim Cronin (Cronin), Alex Davis, Joe Gill, Zo Harris, Martha Murphy, Carole (Carley) Preston, Dale Raoul, Carol (Rose) Welty.
In addition, there are a host of inspirations—from Tim Miller to Ian McKellen—too numerous to list. But one person deserves my heartfelt appreciation; for decades, my work has been constantly and lovingly supported by David Roman. I have a family of friends, not to mention medical professionals at AIDS Healthcare Foundation, who keep me alive on a daily basis.
Last but certainly not least, there would be no me without my grandmother, Katherine Kearns; and I would not be who I am without my daughter, Katherine (Tia) Kearns.
SPECIAL THANKS
Tony Abatemarco
Teri Allen
Sharon Barr
Nancy Beranek
Jan Breslauer
Burke Byrnes
Bob Caputo & Frank Parr
Franc Caggiano
Mary Ann Cherry
Marc Clopton
Jean Colonomos
Amanda Dawson
Suzi Dietz
Paul Duff
John Faiola
Joseph Ferry
Jeanne Field
Patricia Hines
Jason Jenn
Bill Kaiser
Lotti Knowles
Daamen Krall
Susan Krebs
Rex Lee
Mollie Lowery
Mark Lucas
Ian MacKinnon
Ronna Magy
Patrick McGownd
John W. McLaughlin & Felipe Carrillo
Mark McNease
Randy Morrison & Richard Moyer
Shawn Morrissey
Martha Murphy
Luis Noel & Leonardo Valdez
Carole & Dave Preston
Dale Raoul & Raymond Thompson
David Roman
Corey Roskin
Steve Schulte
Jeffrey Schwarz
Karen Skinner
Kerry Slattery
Gene Franklin Smith
Janet Song
Steve Tyler
Tony Valenzuela
Tom Viola
Andrew Wellman
Carol Welty & Arthur Stephens
Sheri Werner
