The Truth is Bad Enough: What Became of the Happy Hustler? by Michael Kearns Page B

comprised primarily of extremely handsome men wearing business suits and acting with all their might. The content, beyond my grasp, didn’t matter; the players were role models in the flesh.
    We usually had a quick dinner in a cafeteria before he pointed me in the direction of the theater. His transformation, from hospital gown to tuxedo, was more significant than just a costume change, and although remnants of his depression lingered, we did converse.
    “How’s your mother?” he said, by rote.
    “Fine,” I said, by rote. “I’ve got a girlfriend,” I said, even though he never asked.
    “Good, that’s good,” he muttered. “I don’t.”
    Meal over and with time to spare, I took my time exploring the foreign streets of downtown and inevitably sensed that I was being pursued. In most cases, I was right. A fairly nondescript man, about my dad’s age, would trail me, then manage to slink in front of me and, glancing over his shoulder, indicate for me to follow him. Follow I did, into a restroom, where the anonymous man would drop to his knees, open my fly and give me a blow job. No discussion of apple pie and no reciprocation required. I was content being the object of their obsession.
    This happened numerous times. Different men, different restrooms, different cocksucking techniques. Always linked to theatergoing, these T-room liaisons intensified my love affair with the theater.
    Summers were devoted to building up my acting credits while honing my entrepreneurial skills. I founded and presided over Carsonville Players, a community-based theater that was run entirely by teenagers. While we did shows throughout the year, our summer productions were considerably more elaborate.
    My ambition never abated. Juggling two or three plays at once, I continued to appear in traveling children’s theater productions and with other semiprofessional companies in St. Louis, often taking on the only kid role in an adult play. One of my favorite roles was Helen Keller’s angst-ridden brother, James, in The Miracle Worker .
    Meanwhile, the dramas being played out on the home front needed the intervention of a miracle worker. One winter of severe discontent found Mommy in the throes of pneumonia after finally kicking Charlie out of the house. Her mother, my wicked grandma, moved in to take care of her.
    At one point, when several inches of snow had accumulated, Grandma Mamie dictatorially ordered me to go outside and shovel the driveway. When I refused, she came after me with a broom, threatening to whack me over the head. When I warned her I’d tell my mother, she left me alone.
    Grandma Mamie’s allegiance was to my brother until he did the unthinkable. At eighteen years old, he married a fourteen-year-old with hair that was dyed bright red (not unlike the color of Mamie’s) and ratted to hysterical heights.
    When I excitedly told Grandma Mamie that my new sister-in-law was going to have a baby, Grandma slurred, “Big surprise.”
    From her false eyelashes to her tacky bejeweled shoes, I adored everything about Sharon, my brother’s wife. Decades later, Sharon would be the one who tearfully recounted an incident when my mother had left me alone for several days without food or money. Even though she was only three years older than I was, she took it upon herself to get something to eat in the house.
    Our kinship was based on some inherent understanding that we were both misfits; both of us prematurely living life out loud.
    Junior high school (seventh and eighth grade in those days) was forgettable except for the increasingly romantic yearnings I harbored for my male friends. While I knew these attractions were not considered “normal” by many, I did not attempt to squelch them. I wanted to do the apple pie tango with someone I really cared about.
    I scanned every boy’s face for a sign that he, too, might be experiencing these unique feelings. There was one: Art Robinson, a teenager created in the James Dean mold. With