THE NIGHT CHRIS GORHAM DISSED MEfrom Two Gemini of Verona
“Look!”
“Chris, I need help with my tux,” I mumbled back.
“You’re not looking!”
“Chris…” I moaned, turning around. There, in the middle of our dressing room, was Chris, wearing nothing but a dance belt and a look of total dismay. Correction: a pink dance belt.
OK, I should back up and set the scene a little better. It’s 1990-something, Spring Quarter at UCLA. I’m in the Theater department’s production of Two Gentleman of Verona. The musical. Yeah, you heard me: The musical. As in singing, dancing and general faggotry. It’s like someone decided performing The Bard’s least interesting play wasn’t bad enough, no, there should be singing. And a big Chinese dragon, for no particular reason.
So why did I participate? Well, that’s another story. Let’s just say I had my reasons. Anyway, so I’m cast in the chorus (I was robbed, I tell you), where I met plenty of interesting characters. Among them was the dream Christopher Gorham, from like, Fresno, or Bakersfield, or something. He was (or is, I guess) super-talented, and super-disciplined: A total pro. His stint on the WB’s Popular, some years later wasn’t a surprise to anyone who worked with him. Chris has a masterful ability to walk that wicked line between black humor and camp/drama. Delish, for sure.
Anyway, the process of rehearsing for a main stage production at UCLA’s School of Theater, Film and Television is a rigorous one, as you might imagine. During the almost 10 weeks we slaved, learning dance routines, etc., Chris and I walked that same line he walked so well on stage. I think I annoyed the sh!t out of him. No, I’m pretty damn sure I annoyed the sh!t out of him, but he seemed to enjoy hating me. He more or less steered clear of me, unless I was making a total ass of myself, which even I must admit can be pretty entertaining.
This particular production of Two Gents was meant to be a multi-cultural celebration—the kind of show where you lower a kitchen sink on stage at the end, just for good measure. In one scene, towards the end of the second act (“Milkmaid” for you B’way geeks out there) the director had three couples singing back-up: One hetero couple, one lesbionic couple and two guys. Guess who was part of the faggotry? Yup. The end of the song has one of those cute little “button” endings, so the director had all the couples turn and kiss each other on the last note. No problem.
We’re in one of those warehouse-style rehearsal spaces in McGowan Hall, the building housing UCLA’s Theater Department. It’s very, behind-the-scenes; think of PBS’s Stage By Stage: Achingly glamorous dancer girls stretching on the bars by the mirrors, tape on the floor, black boxes for stage pieces strewn about. Very Fosse, but nowhere near as sexy. We’re running through the number for the first time, full-staging. The kiss comes and goes, and I’m off for a quick sip of water.
“Juan, have you ever kissed a guy before?” I hear from behind.
I turn around, and there’s Christopher Gorham, tormentor and tortured hottie.
“Yes,” I sneer, starting to walk away.
“Really. Cause you looked scared as hell up there… right before that kiss, s'all.”
Now, let me be clear: I had, in fact, done more than kiss another guy, just not in front of a bunch of other people. To top if off, the other guy was a smelly (but talented) straight guy. Oh, no, the topper is that my parents were coming to opening night, and bringing my dear-sainted grandmother. You know, the cute little old lady with a direct line to God, and a Bible in, oh I don’t know… every room in her apartment. But I digress.
Yes, I was terrified. Scared sh!tless. I’d kissed other guys in public, only those times, I was too drunk to care who was looking. But now, there was a roomful of people. I had spent the first two years of my sentence, er, undergraduate at UCLA building up a reputation of sorts. I was funny, fabulous and no one was going to rob me of that, least of all some twat from Fresno.
“Fresno? Nobody goes to Fresno anymore.”[1]
But Chris was on to something. What the heck was so afraid of? Everyone knew I was gay. And I mean, everyone. I’ve never really dug too deep into the subject. Let’s just say that after graduation, I lost 65 pounds, and worked my inner sh!t out.
For one, brief moment, Chris’ usual attempt to amuse himself, and make me squirm in the process had failed to amuse him, and actually had impact. Nevertheless, I had the last laugh, of sorts.
So, back to that dressing room. It’s the quick-change, between Verona and Milan. A killer number, where we start in hand-dyed peasants clothes, sandals and bongos and finish the number in city-wear. For Chris, this meant some pleather-lycra outfit from hell, and rollerblades. (He was a bike messenger.) For me, the opera-diva/club-kid, it meant a tux (tails, ya’ hear?), platform disco heels and a ton of Liberace jewelry. This was the meaning of quick-change.
Oh, and on top of that, we had to stay on stage for about 90 seconds after the peasants’ exit, to make sure the set pieces were locked and pinned in place, so Milan wouldn’t go rolling all over the place once the Afro-Cuban-Ghetto-Queen dance number kicked in. (Apologies to Mr. Director, but it was pretty ghetto.)
Well, like any properly trained, disciplined actor (about to go on stage in lycra shorts), Chris wore a dance belt. Don’t know what a dance belt is? Imagine a jock strap with a big, silky padded cup in front, instead of the sexy mesh you’re used to. It served the same purpose, only in a more, theatrical way. Well, Chris provided his own dance belt, but the theatre techs insisted on doing all the laundry themselves.
Now, in their defense, it was the only way for them to get all the credits they needed to graduated, but from the outcome, I’m guessing someone wasn’t paying attention the day they talked about, oh, I don’t know, LAUNDRY. See, someone threw Christopher’s pretty, white dance belt in with those red, hand-dyed peasant shirts. And hence, the pink dance belt.
It was a sight I’ll never forget, In an instant, he was human again. My tormentor, taken down a notch: There, he stood, in pink, before that fag who he was sure had been checking out his ass in said dance belt (um, duh—and it’s a nice as you’d expect).
Like the pro he was/is, Chris got dressed, helped me go full-on Liberace, like he did every night (OK, I had to put some of the rings on myself) and we still made our respective entrances. And only I knew he was skating around the stage, singing (perfectly in tune), wearing a pink dance belt.
JG (Revised 12/05)
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[1] from Airplane, bitches. Oh, go out an rent it!
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