“Gone With the Wind”
from The Diamond Trilogy
Copyright 2021 by Jewel Diamond
Listen to this story, “Anniversary” (Music, Toccata in C, by David Hegarty)
Summary
Manager Tod Booth steps into the center of the room, his voice booming. “On behalf of the Castro Theatre and the entire community, I’d like to propose a toast.” He holds his glass high. “Happy twentieth anniversary to Michael Diamond, organist extraordinairé!” Again applause breaks out, filling the mezzanine with deafening adulation. Fans rush to gather around Michael, demanding more autographs and promises of more organ concerts.
Part I. The Concert
The last encore climaxes, its ending notes evaporating in the swell of applause that rises, punctuated by whistles and shouts of “Bravo!” Michael Diamond, seated at the console of the “Mighty Wurlitzer,” turns to face his cheering audience. Tonight, for the first time in its 76-year history, the Castro Theatre is packed nearly to its 1500-seat capacity for Michael’s 20th anniversary organ concert, not just the usual ten-minute intermissions between feature films.
For a moment Michael’s soft gray eyes scan the rows of seats, though he can’t see anything beyond the bright stage lights. The crowd is electric, filling the high-domed movie palace with a cacophony of animated chatter and a heady mixture of colognes and cedar chest scents emanating from the furred and jeweled ladies who came in on the arms of black-tied escorts. I wonder if Mom and Dad are here, Michael thinks, nodding his head to acknowledge the standing ovation of the crowd. Wisps of strawberry-blonde hair cascading over his forehead belie the half-century of years he always tries so hard to ignore.
From the left front side behind the heavy mauve curtains, Leonard Starr, young actor and playwright, watches Michael’s tall, thin body as he bows one last time. Then, with full energy, Leonard rushes center stage with his armload of red roses to present to Michael. The applause heightens, and Michael reaches toward his lover, pulling him slightly as he takes the roses into his other arm. Leonard’s face flushes with red heat from somewhere deep inside his body. Michael blinks a subtle glance that Leonard knows well, promising deferred fulfillment of Leonard’s unabashed passion. If Dad is out there, does he see Leonard’s devotion to me? Does he understand why we are more than just roommates?
The clapping is muffled now as Michael and Leonard exit through an off-stage door into a narrow darkened corridor outside the theater and head toward the fire escape that leads up to the back entrance of the mezzanine. Out in the cool November air, but secluded by building walls, Leonard stops and turns toward Michael, embracing him, leaving him no chance for protest. Their lips press together, and Leonard moans hungrily. Michael’s eyes are closed, his pulse pounding in his throat.
Guests are already gathering in the mezzanine reception room. Michael knows that among them will be his ex-lover Rob from Los Angeles with his new lover, Jon. And Jim, Michael’s close friend and booking agent for southern California performances, has planned to be there with Leonard’s ex-lover, Ray, whom Michael has never met and has no desire to meet. Jim is also a former ex-lover of Rob and has not spoken to him for ten years. Michael surrenders to Leonard’s kiss now, refusing to consider the possibilities of explosions, which could occur when that specific group of gay men discover themselves in the same room. It would only confirm Dad’s preconceptions about “that lifestyle.”
Michael and Leonard step into the syrupy sweet warmth of the buzzing mezzanine gala. “Darling, you were absolutely marvelous!” A blonde woman in a low-cut red taffeta gown and white mink ensconces Michael’s free hand in both of hers and lifts it to her matching red lips. It is always a startle to see her dressed up, out of her white starched nurse’s uniform, her bleached hair plunging toward her shoulders instead of pulled back into a tight French twist.
“Priscilla, nice of you to attend.” He smiles, not resisting her adoration. She had been one of his organ students until six years ago when he abandoned his token pedagogy for the more lucrative society appearances, such as the Christmas parties for Danielle Steele and Friday nights at Metropolitan Club where he plays cocktail piano for blue-haired ladies and fat bankers with pocket watches in three-piece suits. For years he has effectively thwarted Priscilla’s insistence that he needs only “the right woman” to make him go straight again. Dad would have liked that a lot. Once Dad had asked if he was engaged to Priscilla.
Now Michael glimpses his ex-wife Jewel, a computer systems analyst who works in Silicon Valley. She stands by the piña colada bowl in her long black silk skirt and silver brocade buttoned jacket with a single strand of pearls at her neckline. She glares at Priscilla, unable to conceal her disdain for the other woman, the one who had been there for Michael when his marriage to Jewel had ended twenty years ago. Priscilla had been there with the gifts, the plane tickets, and the beachfront condominium left to her by her wealthy deceased husband. Michael had not resisted her then. Dad never knew that once—but only once—Michael had gone to bed with Priscilla.
“Please, Mr. Diamond, sign this for my son Morton!” begs a matronly stranger in a turquoise cocktail dress, pushing toward Michael, unwittingly separating him from both Priscilla and Jewel. She holds a copy of his newly released CD recording, “Phantastic!” which she has just purchased at the table behind him. He writes his name deliberately across the inside cover, careful to keep all the letters legible.
“Michael,” an all-too-familiar voice intrudes. It is Robin Lind, his lesbian business partner and bookkeeper, who stands behind the CD sales table. She is ever charming, ever gracious, but ever alert to his lack of concern for annoying financial details. “I really hate to bring this up tonight,” she whispers, “but your car insurance has to be paid by ten o’clock tomorrow morning. Final deadline.”
Only the threat of losing his beloved VW “bug” necessitates any action on his part. “Okay,” he sighs reluctantly, turning toward Robin, “I’ll stop by your office first thing in the morning, I promise!” He places the rose bouquet on the table, arranging the stems and greenery to make a striking decorative piece in the middle of the diminishing stacks of CD’s. He had already mailed Mom and Dad a copy of “Phantastic!” the day they released it.
Michael turns now, thinking Leonard is still by his side, feeling some panic to find him not there. What if Leonard—or any of the others—have stomped off with wounded egos? Or, worse, have stomped on each other with their words? But Robin grins, motioning with a slight turn of her head for Michael to look behind him. There, swooning over the “Phantastic!” CD’s they each hold, Leonard and Ray and Jim and Rob and Jon stand in a circle, chatter tumbling out, like women ogling over a new baby. Michael sighs, visibly relieved, musing for a moment. We are a family, Dad, and they are the brothers I never had.
Part II. The Family
Jewel is beside him now, smiling, her dark eyes looking directly into his. Michael feels a distinct relaxation, a comfort in her presence. She has been his best friend since their sophomore year in college, when they studied Bach and Hindemuth together and explored each other’s naked bodies in their friend Hazel Dell’s off-campus studio apartment on Saturday nights. He can’t remember when they stopped having sex—it was long before the divorce; but they never stopped loving each other. Now there is no pressure from her, never, only an intimacy he cannot explain, a meeting of their intellects, an understanding that does not require words. They embrace lightly, kissing each other’s cheek at the same time.
“Are your mom and dad here yet?” Jewel’s voice is quiet, sisterly.
Michael looks hard through the sea of faces and bodies, the green aprons of the theater staff weaving through like lifeboats as they refill silver hors d’oeuvre trays and bring out more black crystal stemware. Dad will undoubtedly have something trite to say about “the funny little sandwiches” with stuffed olives on them. Michael shifts uneasily. “I don’t see them. Mom has a hard time now, you know. I’m afraid she might have had to go back to the hotel.”
Jewel nods. Michael visits his aging parents every Thanksgiving. They still live in Bemidji, Minnesota, in the same white frame house where he grew up. As far back as he can remember, Mom was always affirming and supportive, so proud of him, no matter what. It pains him now to watch helplessly as she gradually succumbs to gentle senility. But Dad has not lost his sharp-witted caustic humor, the chauvinistic sarcasm that never allows him to fully accept Michael’s orientation or his choices in music. Michael endures the three days “back home” every year for Mom, and mentally tunes out the country-western slurp that flows from Dad’s radio. Once Michael wondered fleetingly why Dad kept his grandmother’s guitar in his closet.
“They haven’t been to San Francisco since 1985,” Michael says now, more to himself than to Jewel, his eyes staring blankly through a casement window past the huge blinking pink “O” in the vertical C-A-S-T-R-O neon letters above the roof of the marquee. “That was the last year Mom and Dad went on a cross-country motorcycle tour.”
Now Michael’s thoughts race back far past that year, back to a stinging frosty November morning when he was seven years old. He and Mom had stopped by Hensen’s Garage where Dad had worked as a mechanic from his high school graduation until retirement. Michael remembers well the loathing Dad always had for his menial labor job, and how he, Michael, decided resolutely that he would never get stuck in a position that would make him so miserable. On that day, Michael had overheard him say the words to Mom that he has never forgotten: “If Michael ever so much as picks up a wrench, I’ll hit him over the head with it!”
Michael never picks up a wrench, or any other garage tool. Michael seldom gets his hands dirty with anything other than sweat from practicing organ on a hot day, and even that is rare in the Bay Area. Michael has never in his life been incarcerated by a despicable job. He is living his dreams. He composes, rehearses, performs, and travels abroad, most recently to Paris with Leonard. But Dad would never understand that. “Why would you want to go to a foreign country,” Michael can hear him say, “when you got everything you need in the U.S.A.?”
Jewel is the first to see Rita Diamond, slowly but steadily ascending the elaborate staircase from the main lobby of the theater. At 78, she walks with the poise and dignity she has always possessed. Her amiable smile disguises her lack of recognition of anyone other than her only son and her husband, whose arm she clasps. Jewel nudges Michael. The others pay no attention to yet another couple of Michael Diamond fans entering the reception. But Michael sees them, and the entire world stands still.
Harold Diamond wears a charcoal suit, which he rarely does, even for Sunday school. And cowboy boots—no matter what else he wears, there are always the boots. His thick black hair has become totally white since the last time Jewel has seen Rita and Harold over twenty years ago. Michael watches now as Jewel moves down the stairs, greeting them, hugging them both, exchanging words that Michael does not hear.
It’s so strange to see all of them together in my world again, Michael thinks. The last time he was here, Dad couldn’t resist commenting on the male couples in Twin Peaks bar on the corner. All that really mattered that year was how the IRS was screwing me. How dare the government garnish my wages to get their stupid taxes!
Now his full attention turns to Dad. At once, Michael sees a reflection of his own body image, the slightly bowed legs, the way Dad shifts one foot directly in front of the other when he stands. At the top of the stairs, Dad helps Mom into one of the plush Victorian side chairs by a gray marble table. He adores Mom, always has, protects her, schedules her days around his own, Michael observes—just as I did with Jewel, just as I do with Leonard now.
Manager Tod Booth steps into the center of the room, his voice booming. “On behalf of the Castro Theatre and the entire community, I’d like to propose a toast.” He holds his glass high. “Happy twentieth anniversary to Michael Diamond, organist extraordinairé!” Again applause breaks out, filling the mezzanine with deafening adulation. Fans rush to gather around Michael, demanding more autographs and promises of more organ concerts.
When the crowd begins to disperse, Rita stands up beside Harold. Michael walks toward them. Harold’s tired brown eyes look directly into Michael’s, and Michael sees in his dad’s eyes the ultimate pride of accomplishment, an ultimate achievement of lifelong dreams. They are Michael’s dreams, but they are Dad’s dreams, too. “I always wanted to play,” Harold says, his eyes dancing, a smile escaping from one corner of his mouth. “You know, I even have a guitar in the closet at home.”
Michael chuckles, nods, feels a strange new warmth as he embraces both his parents and says, “I’ll be home for Thanksgiving.”