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

dinner together, and witnessing Judy Garland at the Palace almost every night during her monthlong stint.
    “How did we afford it?” you ask.
    We paid only once, on opening night, and nearly every night for the next four weeks or so we managed to sneak in to revere our tragic idol. This was Garland’s last stand in New York City and she was in peak form, every tremor and gesture executed with ferocious theatricality to the unadulterated ecstasy of her devotees, most of whom were gay men over forty.
    Caroline and I “second acted” for several nights after the opening, a process whereby one waits until intermission and then nonchalantly mingles with the crowd as they return for act two.
    Problem was that Judy’s first act consisted of a delightful black vaudevillian and a few less-than-thrilling numbers from daughter Lorna, who probably should have been at home doing some schoolwork. Since Judy’s entrance, jauntily prancing down the center aisle as if on her way to Oz, occurred at the top of the second act, very few audience members departed, leaving virtually no vacant seats for these two rabid Garland fans.
    On one night, daughter Liza attended with new hubby Peter Allen. Judy insisted she come onstage to join her in what was clearly an improvised mother-daughter teaming. I can’t remember the song (was it “Chicago”?), but I do remember Garland moving to one side of the stage as Liza, in a purple sleeveless minidress, did an exuberant impromptu dance as mama belted. The queens went berserk.
    After we’d hovered for four or five nights in the standing-room area, the usher caught on to Caroline and me and suggested we quit sneaking in at intermission. Did that stop us? Think again. Limber of body and mind from our regime at the academy during the day, we scoped out the possibilities like only Garland fanatics could. In an alley adjacent to the Palace, there was a fire escape, and with unbridled energy, we hoisted ourselves up and grabbed onto the grilled stairway, managing to climb up to an unlocked door that conveniently led to the balcony. To avoid suspicion, we hid in the restrooms and waited for the opening strains of the overture before finding a place to hide as surreptitiously as possible.
    After learning Judy’s postshow routine—usually she didn’t emerge from the theater until nearly every autograph-book-clutching fan had given up—we camped out at the Howard Johnson’s across the street, sitting in a booth with a window directly across from the theater, drinking coffee to stay awake. Her limo, parked in front of the theater, waited with us. The minute we sensed her departure was imminent, we’d frantically pay the bill and run across the street.
    Sometimes it was an hour after the tumultuous curtain calls and other times it was nearly dawn when she emerged. Judy would be in varying degrees of coherence and sometimes actually dressed for bed in pajamas that Dorothy Gale might have worn.
    On nights that weren’t too late, after Caroline and I fawned over the doomed genius, I had a third act of drama to engage in. I’d walk Caroline to the Barbizon and as quickly as I could I’d get to the Village, where a life existed that extended the high-voltage histrionics that began with Judy. There was romance and passion and sadness and humor, all of it heart-poundingly intense. There were even some of the same characters, many of whom had changed from their conventional theater duds into something a bit more provocative, like skintight jeans and colorful Lacoste short-sleeved shirts.
    I had initially walked into the doors of this establishment almost by accident, following an exotic-looking creature who possessed a perky round ass poured into white sheer pants, leading me like a compass to nirvana. With my eyes on his bulging buttocks, after a quick turn and a few steps down, I found myself at the Stonewall Inn.

CHAPTER 19                
    “Pardon the way that I stare,” Frankie Valli