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Dropper PAGE
TWO: As I picked up the statuette, a wave of sadness overcame me. It was so tiny and inconsequential. In Garland's era, they occasionally (and wrongfully) gave miniature awards to child stars instead of the regular size -- as if to say, "You'll always be a child in our eyes." They eventually discontinued that practice, but never replaced it with a normal-sized one. No wonder the woman drank. Minnelli had a butler named Mohammed, the very same Mohammed who recently accused Liza of sexual harassment. A tall, Middle Eastern man in his 50s, he pulled me aside that day and said, "You be good to Miss Minnelli, she take good care of you." As Minnelli and I stood in the kitchen pretending to talk about the play, and watching Mohammed make our lunch, an extremely old woman rolled by in a wheelchair being pushed by a nurse. Minnelli looked at me, and in a tone reminiscent of a hateful thirteen-year-old girl talking about her mother said, "That's Kay. She lives here, so I live in a hotel. Go say hello." Remembering her flamboyant persona from film, I rushed down the hall to the bedroom. I half-expected some crazy Auntie Mame décor -- leopard skin this or that, but when the nurse opened the door, I found a plain beige room with an extremely old woman propped up in bed watching the U.S. Open. I introduced myself and we talked about tennis -- Kay's passion. We talked about Seles and Graf. We talked about whoever else was playing that I can't remember. We basically talked for 15 minutes about nothing but tennis, until she finally asked me about the play. My stomach became queasy, but I opened my mouth and lied. "Oh! It's going really well! Sadie is an extremely adroit, extremely gifted writer… and Liza! Well, who knew? Who knew Liza was such a producer! She's so on the ball. Incredible! Absolutely incredible! I think it's going to be really great -- an amazing experience that I will not soon forget!" Kay looked at me out of the corner of her eye. And then she slowly turned to face me, her eyes focusing on me directly. I had her full attention. "Young man, it has been my experience that it's really just about the work. Anything other than the work will just get you into a heap of trouble." And then she turned back to the game. I sat silent. I felt my face flush, turning hot. I had nothing more to say. And when I finally had the courage to move, I stood and meekly said goodbye. As I headed to the door, Kay, with her eyes still on the television, muttered, almost under her breath, her famous line from the film Funny Face. "Don't forget to think pink." I slipped out of her room and walked back down the hall. It felt like the moment you first leave a sauna and the cold air hits you. And it only took me about five steps to realize that I was ashamed and embarrassed. Ashamed because I had become the thing I feared most -- I had become nothing more than entourage. And embarrassed because I had been found out. Ten years later, as Peter and I watched a very young, vibrant, Technicolor Kay dance her way across the television screen, I decided to keep the story to myself.
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One
afternoon, after four weeks of getting together and accomplishing
exactly nothing, and with Sadie M.I.A., I traveled to the East Side
to meet Minnelli at her apartment instead of The Essex House. The
door opened to a penthouse filled with Warhols, Elsa Peretti Tear
Drops, the scent of sandalwood Rigauds, and finally, the miniature
Academy Award given to an adolescent Judy Garland for The Wizard
of Oz. I'm not a big Garland hysteric, but this little relic
was like the gay Wailing Wall -- I'd come all the way from the West
Side, so who was I not to pay my respects?
