Between the Lines

* Doug *

For my first morning in Austin, Todd and Aaron take me to a quaint little cafe for breakfast. That's how they describe it. Quaint. "You'll love this place, Dougie," Todd says enthusiastically. "It's so quaint."

"Quaint" is not quite the word I would use myself. Maybe "gentrified." It's an old house that has been converted into a restaurant and somewhat arbitrarily expanded into the neighboring lot to accommodate the scores of patrons who flock to it for brunch and coffee. It does have character, though, I will grant that much, of the exposed beams and uneven hardwood floors and art-by-local-photographers-on-the-walls type.

And even I have to admit, the food is top-notch. There may be a higher percentage of vegan dishes than I'm entirely comfortable seeing, but at least they offer a decent selection of food for carnivores as well. I succumb to my occasional sweet tooth cravings and order a side of lemon ricotta pancakes to follow my eggs (no doubt from free-range chickens) and organic spinach. Heaven. The kumquat marmalade is a nice touch, too.

Todd must have noticed the expression on my face when I perused the menu. While his partner is visiting the restroom, he takes the opportunity to tell me confidentially, "Sorry about the rabbit food. I go along with it because Aaron swears he feels so much better eating this way. And it's certainly helped him keep in shape—I mean, did you

see

my cub last night?" That's clearly a rhetorical question. I certainly saw all of Aaron there was to see, and fully shared Todd's appreciation for his lover's physique. "But I'll make it up to you later this week," he says. "I'll take you out for some real Texas barbecue one evening. It wouldn't be a visit to Austin without a rack of beef ribs!"

We are interrupted by Aaron's return. "So what did I miss?" he asks. "What were you talking about?"

Todd and I exchange conspiratorial glances. "Getting Dougie here a rental car during his visit," Todd improvises. "That way he can explore the town on his own without having to borrow yours while I'm at work."

I'm impressed by his quick thinking. So is Aaron, albeit for not quite the same reasons. "That's a great idea!" he exclaims. "And if Doug wants to stay out late—or all night—he'll have his own wheels and feel free to keep his own hours."

So it's settled. Todd drives us to the rental place and drops us off before heading to his gig at the university. Aaron helps me pick out a nice compact Hyundai ("Trust me, you'll want something small, parking is a bitch in town this week!"), then offers to be my personal tour guide for a trip around the city.

"Maybe later this week," I demur, not without regret. "I've got a lot of work to do before I'm ready for this meeting with Larry Ryan tomorrow."

Aaron's face falls. "You've written a ton of music already, and we recorded most of the best of it. What more do you need to do?"

I ponder this for a moment. What, really, do I need?

The answer comes surprisingly quickly and clearly. What I need, deeply and urgently, is to impress Larry Ryan, to blow all his expectations and preconceptions right out of the water. He said he liked what I already sent him, but I need to make him walk away from this meeting loving it.

I'm not sure exactly why I need not just Larry's simple approval, but his wholehearted support and encouragement.

I'm also not sure I can explain that in any concrete terms to Aaron.

Instead, I start randomly listing thoughts as they occur to me. "He hasn't heard anything with female voice yet. I need some demos of Evelyn's arias. You wouldn't happen to know a soprano in the area who's a kick-ass sightreader, would you? Oh, and a tenor. One of those love duets, he needs to hear those. I have to fine-tune the libretto. He wasn't happy about my cutting it into two parts instead of three, I need to rethink that. Maybe rethink cutting the parents, too, or at least the mother, a mezzo would be a nice addition to the cast. There's some connective tissue I haven't quite worked out yet..."

"All right, all right, I get it!" Aaron interrupts, laughing. "I doubt I can find you any singers by this afternoon, but I'll see about landing a soprano or a tenor for a mini-recital later this week, if you like." He sighs. "Well, it was a fun visit while it lasted. Time to roll up our sleeves and get to work."

"Your shirt doesn't have any sleeves." Indeed, I've been admiring his biceps all morning.

"See how well prepared I am? I'm already a step ahead of you!"

We hop in the Hyundai and Aaron helps me navigate back to their home, where the dining room table and the baby grand await.

I'm exhausted by the time I finally fall into the comfortable bed in the guest room. My head aches and my ass is sore from the previous night's escapades, but I feel confident that I'm fully prepared for my meeting with Larry tomorrow. In fact, I think I'm actually looking forward to it.

Aaron, bless his heart, has worked his furry butt off right alongside me, singing through snippets of music, notating last-minute changes as I dictate them, calling in favors from local talent, and cooking dinner for the three of us while I was buried in notes for the orchestration. Apparently, though, he has more stamina than I do: As I'm drifting off to sleep I hear him and Todd enthusiastically fucking in their bedroom down the hall. Maybe there's something to that vegan diet after all.

—————

* Larry *

Daniel runs a nervous hand over his recently shorn chestnut hair. It's the third time in the last ten minutes he has done this, and each time he appears startled to discover he no longer has any shaggy locks to push away from his face.

"I don't know what to do, Professor," he is saying. "Nicki won't stop asking about her motivation, Shawn and Tom still seem ill at ease with each other, I keep second-guessing all my staging decisions. We need more rehearsal time. We're just not ready."

He slumps down and chews on a fingernail. "I miss cigarettes," he complains. "I miss Angela. I miss Scott." Very quietly: "I miss Jeff."

I am not as ready to despair as my young novice director, but I would be lying if I said I was not concerned. Nicole Foster, playing Thomas's unsuspecting betrothed, is merely nervous. This is the first major role for the young actress, and she's overpreparing. I finally caught on to this after I found myself explaining to her for the third time that Evelyn is an entirely fictional character—neither Ron nor I ever had a fiancée to jilt—and that her portrayal is therefore highly unlikely to offend anyone's historical sensibilities. I am fairly certain she will be just fine come opening night.

Tom and Shawn, on the other hand, have me puzzled. Tom idolized Jeff, who kindly took him under his wing from the very start of rehearsals for the Lexington production, and they shared a very believable intimate chemistry onstage. Tom also brought a subtle spark of wit to the role of Henry, with my hearty encouragement. I have never understood why Ron wrote his fictional counterpart so strait-laced—in life he was full of mischief and sparkle, much closer to mercurial Scott than to sensitive Daniel. These plays may lay bare Ron's tender heart, but the madcap, irreverent

Queen Mab,

in which Jeff and company are currently shocking and titillating patrons hundreds of miles away, is a much better reflection of his personality.

With Shawn as his co-star, however, Tom's performance has become much more tentative. I have to admit, the awkward dynamic between them is actually quite charming in

Lamps by Day

as the two men find themselves gradually drawn to one another, but it falls far short of conveying the characters' overwhelming passion in

Likeness of a Sigh

and their devotion in the face of impending loss in

A Grave Man

. Despite all my and Daniel's coaxing, the chemistry between our leading men has yet to combust. I have charitably decided that they are simply saving themselves for the performance, but I completely understand Daniel's anxiety.

"Thank God for Joseph," Daniel mutters. There, I concur wholeheartedly. The senior member of the cast, and the only other holdover from the Lexington production, Joseph Hamilton is playing Walter Swanson: friend and mentor to Thomas, doctor to Henry, and godfather to Evelyn, a good man trying to faithfully negotiate his divided loyalties between all of them while battling his own ingrained prejudices. Joseph has been steadfast in his admiration and loyalty for Daniel from day one. I am grateful for his quiet dedication and nuanced performance.

Right now, though, even thoughts of Joseph aren't enough to raise Daniel out of his funk.

"Tell you what," I say to him, "Why don't I go hunt out Nicole and try to explain to her one more time the difference between truth and fiction?"

Daniel nods morosely. "Anything you can do, Professor." He looks almost ready to cry. I pat him on the shoulder and head backstage.

I don't find Nicole. But I do find something else.

Wandering the unfamiliar backstage maze of passageways at random, I turn a sharp corner and stop dead. Shawn Fletcher and Tom Buchanan are standing entwined with one another in the hallway before me, lost in a kiss that has clearly been going on for some time. Tom has his hands splayed possessively on either side of Shawn's face. His brown curls are more-than-usually disheveled and his cheeks are flushed. Shawn's hands are sliding all over the younger man's waist, hips, and buttocks. There's no mistaking what he's after. And that's even before he plunges them right inside Tom's loose-fitting jeans to cup his ass directly and pull their groins even closer together. Enough skin is revealed during that move to make it clear that Tom is not wearing any underwear.

I back away from the unsuspecting lovebirds a few steps, hoping to make a quiet exit before they can notice me. But my hormones kick into overdrive, and my traitor eyes cannot tear themselves away from the spectacle of Shawn's hands kneading his costar's buns beneath their denim casing. I mentally curse both Ron's shade, for ceasing his nocturnal visitations, and myself, for obstinately refusing to take matters into my own hands to relieve the tension. What was I thinking, that by abstaining I could somehow persuade a ghost to manifest itself?

Tom moans—I'm guessing Shawn's busily exploring fingers have finally found their target between his flexing cheeks. Involuntarily, I moan myself in response.

Shawn's eyes fly open.

Shit.

The boys spring apart and stand gaping at me. My mind is unhelpfully blank. I can't help noticing that Tom's lips are fetchingly reddened from kissing, and that Shawn is sporting a truly impressive bulge in his trouser front. Right now, I just might be sporting one to match.

They still haven't said anything. I suppose that means I have the floor.

"Gentlemen," I begin. All right, that will work. "As much as I appreciate the show, might I offer a small suggestion?"

They regard me warily.

"If you could possibly see fit to redirect some of the abundant passion I just witnessed into your performances, I think you'd find your director eternally grateful."

Tom blushes. Shawn coughs and, finally, speaks up.

"We... look, I know this is completely unprofessional and I'm sorry, it's just that we... we got carried away. It won't happen again."

Tom flashes him a hurt and bereft look. These waters apparently run somewhat deeper than just a casual fling. Oh dear.

"I'm not swearing you to celibacy," I answer, "though I would strongly recommend restricting your, ah, extracurricular activities to behind closed doors in the future. I merely thought I should let you know that, in your no doubt laudable efforts to keep your conduct professional onstage, you may have—overcorrected somewhat, shall we say?"

Shawn looks puzzled. Handsome, but not too quick on the uptake, this one. Tom, on the other hand, nods his understanding. Encouraged by that response, I appeal to his better sense.

"Mr. Buchanan, I see you take my point. If you could just explain to Mr. Fletcher here what I'm driving at before this afternoon's rehearsal, you might be able to save poor Daniel a few premature gray hairs."

Tom cracks a half smile. Good. I believe I can count on him.

I hope I can count on him.

"Very well, then. I won't intrude any longer. Er, carry on," I lamely conclude, and flee.

Is this to be the rest of my life, however much remains of it, dispensing professional and personal guidance to all and sundry while nursing a perpetually unrelieved erection?

I find Daniel still fretting in the theater, and tell him, "I couldn't find Nicole, but I just had an interesting talk with Shawn and Tom. Gave them a little pointer I think might help considerably, at least if they take it in the spirit intended."

Daniel's face lights up with surprised gratitude and hope.

I have to get out of here. "I have an appointment to get to," I tell him. "I'll see you tomorrow morning. Let me know how this afternoon's rehearsal goes."

I'm nearly out of the door before Daniel even has a chance to respond. His belated "thank you" trails out into the lobby behind me.

"Thus goes everyone to the world but I, and I am sunburnt," I mutter to myself. "I may sit in a corner and cry 'Heigh-ho for a husband!'"

—————

* Doug *

Todd and Aaron were right. Austin during South by Southwest turns out to be a madhouse. Coffee houses, bookstores, churches, bars—every possible venue has been claimed as a stage, crowded with performing acts hoping to attract enough attention to move them to the next level in their careers. The whole town is abuzz with creative energy and with frayed nerves: caffeine jitters, stage fright, and road rage from navigating the city's overtaxed streets amid the never-ending hunt for elusive parking spaces.

When I finally connect with Larry over coffee (a better-than-expected guitarist playing in the background) he appears to be sharing the general affect of the city. He is slumped in his seat and there are dark circles under his eyes. But his handshake is firm and his voice warm as he greets me. I feel myself relax into that rich baritone. I've been looking forward to hearing it, I realize.

My preparation with Aaron yesterday has me confident and focused. I have my sketches, my outlines, some rough recordings we threw together at the last minute so Larry can hear my concept for the musical development of the characters.

Last time we met you had me at a disadvantage, Professor Ryan. Let's see what you think now.

Only Larry isn't paying attention. Oh, he's trying his best to be polite, but I watch his focus drift away from my words time and again. I've been anticipating his keen insight and intellect, his uncanny ability to see past my awkward sentences to my intended meaning.

At first I'm hurt. Has he lost interest in this project? Will he pull the plug after months of work and more than an hour of music written?

But no. Paying closer attention, I see that his smile for me is genuine, even affectionate, which causes a strange sensation somewhere below my breastbone. Something else is troubling him, then. Something serious enough that I start to become honestly concerned.

Realizing his attention has begun to wander yet again, for, what is this, the fourth time now, I trail off. Larry shakes himself, murmuring apologies, and with a visible effort brings his focus back to me. But I shake my head.

"The last thing you need today is a sales pitch. I'm sorry, Larry. This was a bad idea. Let me make it up to you. If you'll excuse the presumption, you look like you're in need of some distraction. Would you like to take a walk?"

At first he looks as though he's going to refuse. Then, slowly, a relieved smile spreads across his face.

"Thank you, Doug. No need to apologize, you're not to blame. You've come a long way and put a great deal of work into this, and you deserve a more attentive audience. Yes, I think some distraction would be just what the doctor ordered. Maybe we can pick this up again tomorrow."

So instead of losing ourselves in words and music, we find ourselves spending the rest of our afternoon exploring Austin. Our trip, first on foot, then by car, takes us from the enormous red sandstone state capitol building; to the Congress Avenue Bridge, home of the city's famous bat colony; to the luxurious performing arts center with the sweeping circular terrace; to the artsy, bohemian SoCo district. With each new sight and fresh experience to remind him that there's still life outside his lover's plays, Larry seems to stand a little taller and breathe a little freer. I'm fascinated watching the transformation. The leading man has returned, charisma and confidence restored. We laugh and chat and generally bask in our newfound camaraderie.

And when we bump shoulders standing in line for the State History Museum and find ourselves exchanging grins, I'm amazed to realize I fully intend to take him to bed tonight, if he'll have me.

—————

* Larry *

Doug is a saint. Midway into his enthusiastic and no doubt well-prepared presentation about his opera project, he checks himself.

"You're not listening. Is everything all right? Forgive me, but you seem awfully tired."

"I'm being rude. I'm sorry. Rehearsals have been stressful, and I'm distracted. You came all this way, you at least deserve my full attention."

He waves off my apology, and instead offers to table the discussion and take me for some sight-seeing. I almost refuse, then take a second look at his face. He's sincere in his offer, the gray eyes warm and concerned.

Doug likes me, I realize. Not just as a means to an end, as Ron's literary executor to be courted and won over to grant access to his property, but as a fellow human being.

When did I last make a new friend?

I wonder.

So I accept. And thus an afternoon of discovery begins.

This man is interested in things. I had pegged him as a head-in-the-clouds, abstracted artist, living in his music, but today he's putting me to shame. New to this city, he wants to soak it all in, absorb its soul, find out what makes it tick, and he's eager to share each experience and tidbit of knowledge with me. In his presence I find new appreciation for Austin's frantic hum of creativity and the collision and fusion of cultures and traditions it represents.

"Todd and Aaron are always telling me I need to get of Lexington more often," he confesses at one point. "Maybe they're right."

If a new environment can bring out this complicated, intense man's lively curiosity and playful spirit so effectively, I am inclined to think Todd and Aaron—whoever they are—have the right idea.

In a museum's darkened theater, watching a dramatic recreation of Texas' founding play to the sparse mid-afternoon weekday crowd, I feel an arm steal across my shoulders. I tense briefly, then relax. I feel safe with Doug. As astonishing as it seems, I trust him. So, with a very conscious effort, I reach over myself and squeeze his knee. He leans in and whispers in my ear, "I know I'm misbehaving. Tell me if I'm out of line and I promise I'll stop. I'm just really enjoying spending time with you."

I whisper back, "I'm beginning to think I've been well behaved a little too long. I'm enjoying this as well, so please carry on."

He nuzzles my ear, eliciting a surprised gasp from me and a chuckle from him, before he withdraws to a more socially acceptable distance just in time for the theater lights to brighten.

Not such a saint, then.

But for the remainder of the afternoon, Doug remains a perfect gentlemen, though I do catch a certain gleam in his eye now and then when he looks at me. I may or may not have a similar gleam in my own eye.