The Voice of a Man with Nothing to Say
Coming out of the closet was difficult. Not the gay closet. That was simple. Once I met Roman there was no need to come out of any closet. Life started making sense.
The difficult closet was The Residents' one. The idea of working on music without being bothered by people was utopian. Even personal friends and neighbors didn't know what I did for a living. The brief explanation that I scored gay porn films usually kept people from wanting to know more.
A couple of years ago when Randy decided (after suggestions from his wife) to go to Hollywood to be a star, my reaction was along the lines of, "Why would you ever want to leave this fantastic situation?"
Writing music was a form that suited hermits and thrived in privacy. But Randy was a performer and a performer needed applause from strangers to make what they did feel complete.
The moving truck had taken everything away. Randy would be next. The three of us stood in his empty living room: me, Randy and Peter. Peter was a large stuffed bunny. Peter was Randy's best friend when he was a child and deserved to make the trip to LA in the air-conditioned car rather than a cardboard box. The late afternoon sun lit the floor at an angle and I could see where the rug had been. A darker stain in the middle made me think of red wine I spilled on that rug years ago.
I told Randy that I was happy not being a person. There was safety and security within The Residents and Roman made me happier than a person had a right to be. Why would I want anything to change?
Randy said, "It already changed, you just didn't notice." A flash of anger rolled up my spine, then was gone. He was my family and he was leaving. He jokingly added that some people were starting to credit him with being the composer because he was the only person anyone could point out. I said I didn't care, that I wasn't on that kind of ego trip.
The only problem was that it did bother me. Randy put his arm around me and said, "You are so full of shit." I said, "Yeah, I know. I don't want you getting the credit."
He added with a chuckle, "and I don't want the credit because your music sucks."
Randy shoved me out the front door, pointed at me and shouted, "Chuck!" The few people walking on the sidewalk ignored him. In San Francisco, crazy people shouting was nothing special.
"Chuck is not my name," I sighed back to him.
He looked at me with a taunting grin and whispered back in his creepiest voice, "Chuck Chuck Bobuck."
I waved as he pulled from the curb honking his horn. A startled baby passing in a stroller cried.