A few years ago, I was looking to get a job in the music industry. Having no experience in the field, short of playing dirty, drunken cover tunes at open-mic night, I decided to approach a local record label and offer to help them out in any way I could.I had seen an advertisement in the Jersey City Reporter for a record label called John Doe Records (not its real name). I called them up and explained my situation.
The guy who answered the phone was John Doe (again, not his real name). He seemed enthusiastic about the idea.
“That’s great,” John said. “We’ve been here for blah, blah, blah.” He told me a little about his background. “And I was in [such and such a band].”
“Hold on,” I cut him off. “Did you just say you were in Such and Such?”
Well, it turned out that he was.
I was ecstatic. This was a bona fide rock star on the other end of my line. And I was going to work for him. What better way to start off your career than to have a celebrity, um, behind you?
The next weekend, I went over to John’s apartment, where the recording studio and label offices were. I had never been inside a recording studio before, and this one had a gold record on the wall. It was impressive.
The situation was great. John told me that I was to work with the two producers and do whatever they asked, which might include positioning the microphones or setting up the tracks for recording.
“I want you to ask questions, so soon you can do this yourself,” John said.
One of the producers was there, and he tried to get a little tough. He told me they might want me to mop the floor, and I’d better be prepared to do it.
Freshman year
No problem, I thought; it sounded like freshman year of wrestling, or freshman year of pledging. This was freshman year of show biz. I told them I was prepared to do anything.
Now normally, that’s a good attitude, but as it turned out, I was not prepared to do just anything.
John told me that the six singers and other related people were having a meeting the next week, and he wanted me to gofer the meeting – answering the door, getting drinks, and keeping things running, just to show that I was a useful person to have around.
Then the meeting wrapped up, and the two producers left.
“OK, I’ll give you a tour of my apartment now,” said John.
Um, that doesn’t seem necessary, I thought.
“OK,” he said slowly, and I followed him upstairs.
He led me to the kitchen.
“Would you like some wine?” he asked.
“No thanks,” I answered.
Then John started singing.
“La la la la la,” he crooned in a gentle, high voice. “What’s the name of that Liza Minelli song?”
Now, I figured out what was going on.
He was giving me the Gay Test.
The test
If I answered yes to any of these questions, it would confirm his hopes that I was thinking along the same lines he apparently was.
“Yeah, I don’t, uh, listen to Liza Minelli,” I mumbled, looking at my feet.
Now, you may be wondering what I was still doing here. You have to keep in mind, he hadn’t quite directly hit on me yet. All he did was ask if I liked wine and knew a song. If I told him I was straight, I would have been the one who brought it up. I like to think I’m a pretty good-looking guy, and if I’m going to hang around with six guys who are the epitome of ’70s gayness, I had to be able to handle this kind of thing without losing my head.
He walked out of the kitchen and strolled across the living room.
“This is the couch,” he indicated, as if I didn’t know.
“And this,” he said, pausing at the doorway on the other side of the room, “is the bedroom.”
He entered the bedroom. I stood outside.
Now, at this point, I still hadn’t given the message that I’m straight. Just because I don’t drink wine or listen to Liza doesn’t mean I’m not gay, and the fact that I refused to enter his bedroom just means that I’m not easy.
As far as he had determined, I could still be gay – just masculine, and not a slut.
Plus, I did want this internship.
Rock opera
To my relief, we then went down to the recording studio. He showed me some recording equipment and played me some tracks from a rock opera he was composing. I asked him a few questions about how he promotes his records, and he told me he just plays them in clubs. I guess that when you’re a gay icon and you record an ultra-gay opera, all you have to do is play them in one Village club and word gets around.
“The woman who sings this is very beautiful,” he said.
I perked up.
“Yeah?” I asked with as much enthusiasm as I could project. “Is she really hot?”
John sighed. “Yeah, she’s beautiful,” he said meekly. “So, you don’t go out to clubs much, do you?”
“No, I go to bars,” I said.
It was the wrong answer, I realized immediately.
“Where?” he asked. “Chelsea? The Village?”
“No,” I said, realizing I had an answer that would clear things up once and for all. “Hoboken.”
“Hoboken,” he said flatly.
Yes! I had my answer.
The song finished and he led me upstairs, holding his cat.
“Good night,” he told me.
I said the same, and we said we’d see each other next week for the meeting.
He turned around, petting his cat, as the door closed behind him.
“Let’s go to bed, Siddhartha,” he said. “Aloooone.”
Denouement
The following day, I got a phone call from one of the producers telling me that the meeting was cancelled because John had been in a motorcycle accident. He was OK, but the meeting was postponed.
Under other circumstances, I might have called in a week or two to follow up. But in this case, I decided to let it slide.
Note: The name of the cat has also been changed to protect the puss.
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