DANCING ON THE TUNDRA by Bert McKenzie Copyright 2010
Disclaimer: This story is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to any real person alive or dead is coincidental and unintentional.
CHAPTER XXI
As the 80's continued, paranoia and repression became the rule. Many colleagues, friends and acquaintances came down with the dreadful disease. Terry was emotionally drained and devastated as he attended more and more funerals and memorial services. He stopped going to the baths long before they ever closed, and practiced the safest sex of all, which was no sex. It wasn't a physically fulfilling or emotionally satisfying choice, but it helped a little to keep the fear at bay. When an effective test for the AIDS virus was finally developed, Terry had himself checked and was relieved to find out he was HIV negative. He felt personally safer, but this did nothing for his friends who continued to develop the illness. His compassion was stretched to the limit.
When Mark Silverstien came down with it Terry was again devastated. His agent was an older man in his 50's. Terry didn't think of him as being promiscuous, let alone gay. "Straight men can get it too," Mark told him. "Just because I have grey hair doesn't mean I don't have a sex drive."
"Well, of course," Terry said quickly. "I didn't mean to imply . . ."
"It's okay." Mark leaned back in his chair, steepling his fingers and staring at the acoustic ceiling tiles of his office. "I'm tired. I'm tired all the time." Terry had never really noticed the changes in his agent. Now that he really looked, Mark did look tired. His skin had taken on a sallow color and he had lost a lot of weight, his clothes hanging on his thin frame as if they had been purchased several sizes too large by someone who didn't know him. "I think I'm going to leave the firm."
"No," Terry blurted out inadvertently. He calmed himself and then spoke again. "But, Mark, you're the best. I need you. You're still healthy."
The man only shook his head. "I think it's time for me to leave before I become an embarrassment. That's why I wanted you to come in today. I want you to meet someone. If you like him, he'll take over for me." The man stood up and came around the desk. He and Terry hugged, then they left the office together to walk down the hall.
Mark ushered him into another room, then knocked on a closed door. Not waiting for a reply he opened it and escorted Terry into a much larger office furnished in wood paneling with comfortable leather chairs and a big leather-topped oak desk. A young man, certainly no more than 23 or 24 was sitting behind the desk, talking on the phone. He waved them to two chairs. As Terry and Mark sat down, he hung up, jumped up and came around the desk to shake Terry's hand. "Hi, Pete Richards," he said introducing himself. "I've enjoyed your work, Mr. Michaels. Loved 'Morningside Park.' Too bad about the reviews."
"Thanks," Terry replied.
"Well, I can take it from here, Mark. Thanks a lot," Pete said as he returned to his chair behind the desk. Mark smiled and slowly stood up to leave. Terry gave him a pleading look, but the older man just smiled and patted him on the shoulder. Then he was gone.
"Terry . . . May I call you Terry?"
"Sure."
"Terry, let's get right down to business. Your career's on hold and we want to break this log jam immediately."
Terry felt a slight irritation at the brash young man's attitude. "I'd hardly say on hold. I was nominated for best actor, for Christ's sake."
"That's yesterday's news," the man replied. "You didn't win. What are you doing now?"
"I've . . . I've had personal business to take care of," Terry replied defensively.
"Can we be honest? You could have taken over the theatre world except for one mistake. When you received the Tony for 'Bridgette and Bagels' you made a speech that killed you. I know your lover just died, but when you admit you're gay on national television . . ."
"Now wait just one damn minute," Terry said, sitting up and leaning forward. "Wayne was not my lover. He was my roommate and a good friend. And as to my speech, I didn't say anything about my choice of sex partners."
"Well that's sure as hell what it sounded like. I'm sorry if I upset you, but if I'm to work with you we need to be totally honest with one another." Terry sank back into the leather and nodded. "Mark said you're gay. Is it true?"
"I don't see what this has to do with my professional life," Terry argued.
"True or not?" Pete continued.
"Yes, I'm gay. So?"
"So we have to cover this up. You can't be openly gay and have any great degree of success."
"Of all the . . ." Terry stood up and started for the door.
"I'm just telling you the truth," Pete called after him.
"I'm not ashamed of who I am," Terry said as he whirled back on the young man behind the desk. "But my private life is mine."
"I'm not trying to change that," Pete said in a conciliatory tone. "I'm just telling you that it has to stay private. Why do you think the critics hated you in 'Morningside Park' after you just won the Tony? There can't ever be any public knowledge of this or you'll be back to dancing in sleazy drag shows."
Terry stared at the man for a minute, then slowly came back around to take the chair. "I see you've done your homework."
"It's in our files. Now, to get on with new business, I think it's time for a change in your career."
"What sort of change?" Terry was instantly apprehensive. He was happy doing plays. If he never got another lead role or any other awards he didn't care.
"I've got a script here I want you to look over."
"What is it, a drama?"
"A western."
"A western? That's certainly different."
"It's a film. You'd be shooting in Utah and Nevada."
"A film? I've never done movies," Terry protested.
"Acting's acting. Take it home. Read it over. Think about it, but not too long. Let me know, because if you don't want it, I can easily find someone who will."
Terry grabbed the script from the desk and left. He went back to his cavernous, empty apartment and fell on the couch. How he needed to discuss this with a friend, but there was no one. The tundra wouldn't let anyone close enough. He closed his eyes and thought. There was always Paula, but his last contact with her wasn't exactly cordial. He hadn't even received a Christmas card in several years. And even so, what could she know about career changes? What advice could she give him on the way to direct his life? He was so tired of living in the snow and ice. He longed to break free, let down his guard. But now his new agent came along with a shovel to pile the snow deeper. He felt as if he was suffocating and couldn't get a breath of clean air. Terry picked up the script and began to read.
Compared to a Broadway show, the film budgets seemed phenomenal. Terry was lodged in a resort hotel in Salt Lake City while they were shooting in the area. He had his own trailer on the location, and when he wasn't on camera he was given riding lessons. His part was fairly short. He played a ranch hand who gets romantically involved with the rancher's daughter. About halfway through the picture he is hanged by a gang who then rape and kidnap the girl. Terry enjoyed the process of filming more than he ever suspected. It was a real craft and he found all the hard work done by the large crew fascinating. Although he was paid a hefty salary and treated like a star, he felt that the actors were a very minor part of the whole creation.
Once his scenes were finished, Terry flew to L.A. to wait for the rest of the company to return for the studio shots and sound looping. Pete had lined up some work for him, and he was being considered for a musical opening on the west coast. This excited Terry much more than the film. He enjoyed doing a movie, but he felt his real calling was dancing, something he was sure had little place in film.
"I've got a part of you on 'Murder She Wrote,'" Pete said as Terry picked up the phone.
"Television? Have I sunk that low?" he asked.
"It pays good money. It's great exposure. You'll be working with an all-star cast."
"Okay, okay," Terry agreed. The next day he started looking for an apartment. It was clear that Pete intended to keep him in California for a while.
The TV episode was even more fun than the movie. The budget was tighter and the pace a lot faster. They tried to finish the episode in a week's time. Terry was astounded at the amount of work that went into filling sixty minutes on a Sunday evening.
But the best thing about doing the TV show was meeting Wesley. Wesley Strothers was a west coast actor who had done guest appearances on just about every television program in production over the past five years. He even had a series of his own for nearly half of a season. Before getting into the acting end of the business he had been a makeup artist and hair stylist. Although he was four years older than Terry, his sandy hair and youthful appearance won him the role of Terry's younger brother in the episode. Angela Lansbury did her best to prove Wesley innocent and finger Terry as the guilty culprit.
When the week's filming was over Wesley invited Terry over for a barbecue at his condominium. He explained that it was to show their were no hard feelings since Terry's character had tried to blame Wesley's character for the murder. Assuming this was a form of cast party, Terry accepted the invitation. On his arrival he was surprised to find that he was the only invited guest. The two men laughed and jokes and generally had a good time, Wesley telling stories about the Hollywood divas he had worked with when he was still a struggling makeup artist. He told Terry how his job ended rather abruptly when he put itching powder in a famous leading lady's wig who had been a bitch to the whole crew. Fortunately, he got an on-camera role the next week and had been acting ever since.
"So are you out here for good or do you want to go home?" Wesley asked after Terry had told him about New York.
"I guess that depends," Terry replied. "I like being on stage more than on camera, but I guess I'll do what I have to."
"You know," Wesley said seriously, suddenly looking away from Terry's eyes, "there's a lot of incentive to stay out here."
"Such as?"
The man glanced around, then caught and held Terry's gaze for a long moment. He then broke into a mischievous grin. "Such as the climate. You can go swimming all winter long. Come on. Let's go for a dip." He jumped up and raced out the glass doors to his private pool.
"I didn't bring a suit," Terry said as he followed his new friend out onto the terrace.
"So, I haven't go one on either." Wesley began to quickly shuck his clothes, tossing them into a pile on a lounge chair. Once naked he dived into the water, then surfaced and turned back to watch Terry. "Come on in," he called. "No one's going to see you . . . except me."
The water did look inviting on the hot evening, so Terry shrugged his shoulders and began to disrobe. When he slowly slipped off his shorts, Wesley whistled at him. "You should have been a stripper," he called.
"I was," Terry said with a laugh and jumped into the cool water. He swam to the edge of the pool and came up for air, only to find Wesley next to him.
"Really, you were a male stripper?"
"Yeah, in New York before I got in 'Chorus Line.' I worked as a dancer in this drag show/strip joint."
"You were a drag queen?" Wesley's eyes opened wide in surprise.
"No, I was the strip part of the show. They always thought I was too masculine to be a drag queen. My shoulders were too wide."
"I think your shoulders are great," Wesley said, reaching out and running his hand over Terry's bicep. He then reached up, tracing a finger along Terry's jaw line. "You do have an awfully masculine face, and such full lips." He leaned forward and kissed Terry gently on the mouth. "No, you don't kiss like a woman." He leaned forward again and the two of them joined, meeting in a passionate, emotion charged kiss. Wesley ran his hands down Terry's chest, feeling his body.
Suddenly a warning bell went off. "No," Terry said as he broke the kiss and pushed away. He swam to the other side of the pool and pulled himself up onto the edge, shaking the water out of his eyes.
Wesley followed him, coming up between his legs and grabbing him by the thighs. "Oh, this is perfect," he purred and leaned forward to take Terry in his mouth.
"Don't," Terry said, pushing him away and climbing to his feet. He took a step back from the side of the pool.
"What's wrong?" Wesley asked as he tread water.
"I think I better be going."
The host swam to the side and hoisted himself out of the water. "I'll get you a towel," he said as he went back inside the condo. He returned a minute later carrying a big, fluffy bath towel. He had another one wrapped around his waist, forming a skirt. Terry accepted the towel and began to dry off. "I'm. . . I'm sorry," Wesley said as he sat down on a lounge chair. "I didn't mean to . . . I thought you were gay. I mean with that story about working in a drag show and all."
Terry slowly pulled on his clothes. "I am gay," he said softly.
Wesley's head snapped up at this statement. "Then it's me," he said with a surprised laugh. "I guess I just don't turn you on."
Terry sat down beside him. "Yes, you do, very much," he confessed.
"Then what's wrong?"
"I just don't think it's a good idea. If anyone ever found out this could end my career."
"Well what about my career, asshole?" Wesley said, suddenly getting angry. "You think I want to end my career just for a poke from a fucking faggot? Go on! Get the hell out of here!" He dropped down again into the chair and began to cry. Terry came around to him and held him while he wept. "I'm sorry," he said between sobs. "I didn't mean it. I just want you so bad and I don't deal well with rejection. Dr. Bowen, my therapist, is working on that."
"I'm not rejecting you," Terry said. "I'm just frightened. It seems like every time I get close to someone, something terrible happens."
"Then . . . then you like me, a little?" Wesley asked as he looked up into Terry's blue eyes. In response Terry kissed him again passionately. This time it was Wesley who broke the kiss. "I have some condoms in the bedroom," he whispered.
"I don't think this is a good idea," Pete said when he flew out to meet with Terry. "I'm only thinking of your reputation. Two guys do not share a house. It looks bad."
"Wesley is still going to keep his condo for a while," Terry replied. "Besides, with our schedules we'll probably never be here together. You talked me into that spy thriller in Mexico and by the time it's over he'll be in Montreal."
"Terry, you've just made two successful pictures. You're on the right track. Why louse things up now? And for what, just a nice piece of ass?"
"You may be my agent and manager," Terry said angrily, "but I still make the decisions in my private life."
"Fine. You go ahead and screw up all the hard work we've done. But don't come crying to me when your name's plastered all over the front page of the Enquirer."
"Don't be silly, Pete. They wouldn't run a story this tame. It's too boring. Now if I was doing it with an alien from outer space . . ."
Pete grabbed his brief case and turned to go. Wesley was just coming into the den, dressed in skin tight shorts and carrying a tray with a pitcher of iced tea and three glasses. "Hi, Wesley. It's good to see you again," the agent said with a warm smile.
"Why Pete, what a warm greeting for a piece of ass," Wesley replied and crossed the room to put the tray down on the table beside the couch. "Can't you stay?"
"No," the man said and walked out of the room, heading for the front door.
"You heard?" Terry asked.
"I heard."
"He's just upset that I bought this house without talking to him."
Wesley shook his head as he poured the tea. "He's upset that you're living with a faggot, or maybe that I'm the faggot you're living with instead of him."
"Pete Richards?" Terry laughed.
"You're right. He's too tight assed," Wesley said then picked up a glass and walked over to the doors opening onto the ocean side terrace. "But you know he's got a point."
"I thought we were all through that."
"You were all through it, not me. Terry, I'm just starting to get good roles. Don't do anything to fuck it up."
"Now what would I do?" he asked in exasperation.
"I don't know, but sometimes you're not very careful. Just watch out, okay? Oh, I've got to run," the man said as he glanced at his wrist watch. "I've got a date with Gina."
"If I didn't know for a fact that she's a dyke I'd be awfully jealous," Terry said as he sat at the desk and began to check over the papers Pete had dropped off.
"She may have my body, but my heart belongs to you," Wesley said as he blew Terry a kiss then started for the door.
"See me off at the airport tomorrow?" Terry asked.
"Hell no. You know I've got my session with Dr. Bowen. But I'll drop by with a going away present tonight after my date." He winked and left.
Terry flew out to Acapulco the next morning. He began work on a spy film, casting him as an unwitting secret agent working for the wrong side and caught up in a war between rival drug lords. The shooting schedule was hectic and incredibly fast paced, but he appreciated the fact that it kept him too busy to think about much else. He received several calls from Pete who was very upset to find out Terry was doing most of his own stunts, but Terry was enjoying it and having too much fun to sit back and let someone else do all the physical work as Pete had demanded.
He tried to call Wesley almost every evening but rarely found him in. Usually he just got the answering machine. When the man did answer the phone, he told Terry that Gina and her lover were keeping him busy.
Then one afternoon, between takes Terry chanced to see Wesley's picture on the cover of a tabloid that one of the crew was reading. Terry stepped closer to see the headline. "TV Personality's Gay Orgies Revealed." He grabbed the paper out of the technician's hand. "Hey, wise ass!" the man began, then realized who stole his paper. "Oh, I didn't know it was you, Mr. Michaels. That's some article about Wesley Strothers. You know him?"
"Not as well as I thought I did," Terry said angrily. The inside story told of orgies being thrown almost every night at a beach house in Malibu. There were even photos showing very clearly that the house was Terry's and that Wesley was definitely holding and kissing another young man. Terry thrust the paper back into the technician's hand.
"We're ready for you, Mr. Michaels," the assistant to the director called.
"Not now," Terry growled as he stalked back to his dressing room. He went inside, chased out his makeup man, slammed the door and grabbed the phone. He dialed his beach house, but there was no answer. He dialed Wesley's condo and got the answering machine. Then he dialed his agent in New York.
"I've been expecting your call," Pete said when they were connected. "I just saw the papers myself, but I must admit, I'm surprised they got to you that quickly."
Terry started to say something, and then stopped. He suddenly realized he had no idea why he called Pete. There was nothing his agent could do for him from New York. "I'm coming home," he finally said.
"No you don't. That'll only make things worse. I'll fly out and handle things; you just finish that picture."
"I want to talk to him," Terry said. "I can't believe he'd do this. I thought he . . . I thought he cared about me." He could feel the catch in his throat. His anger at Wesley's actions was quickly changing into despair over his betrayal.
"Terry, pull yourself together. Be a professional. A lot of people are depending on you, on this film. Just don't think about it. Just relax and concentrate on your job and let me handle this."
The next day "Entertainment Tonight" did an interview with Pete. He admitted that the beach house belonged to Terry Michaels. They would have found that out soon enough anyway. But he denied that Mr. Michaels knew anything about the party that had occurred there. Mr. Michaels was a friend of Wesley Strothers and had loaned him the house while filming on location in Mexico. They were not close friends and Mr. Michaels had no idea that Wesley Strothers was gay. Mr Michaels would certainly be more careful in the future in choosing his friends.
Later when Terry heard about the interview he was furious. "You put lies in my mouth," he said when Pete flew down to meet with him. "You made me sound like a homophobic jerk. What's Wesley going to think?"
"He's not going to even know about it. His shrink has him so tranquilized he'll be zoned out for about a month."
"Great, and what about his picture in Montreal? They start shooting in a week."
"No," Pete said. "They pulled out on him. They can't afford the bad publicity."
"What bad publicity?" Terry screamed. "He didn't murder anyone. He didn't sacrifice a baby or consume human flesh. He's just gay! What is so terrible about that?"
"To you evidently nothing. To Mr. and Mrs. Middle America, quite a bit. And besides, why are you defending him? He played you for a sap."
"I'm defending him because I understand him," Terry replied. "Okay, I was a fool, but just because he's gay is no reason to fire him from that picture." Pete just stared blankly at Terry as if he didn't understand. "I'm gay too, Pete."
"I know, and if the media ever got wind of it, you'd be out on your ass just like your little buddy."
Terry assumed that at least the termination of his picture would allow Wesley to recover from the emotional trauma. He tried to wrap up the filming of his own movie as quickly as possible so he could be home with his lover. Although he was still angry and hurt that Wesley had been cheating on him, he knew they could work things out.
Terry climbed out of the cab, paid the driver and ran into his house, dropping his bags just inside the door. He picked up the phone in the hall and dialed Wesley's number, but as he had received every other time he called since the day of the news story, he got the answering machine. "Wesley, it's Terry. I'm back in Malibu. Call me or come over. I want to see you and talk about this." He then walked through the house and into the den.
Wesley was stretched out, asleep on the sofa. Terry smiled and ran to his lover, but as he approached he noticed the oddly blue cast to his skin. Then he noticed the empty pill bottles on the table next to the bottle of Scotch. Terry grabbed him, but the lifeless body was already cold.