The story is essentially true. The author welcomes comments.
You might say I went straight from high school to a gay nightclub.
The key word there is "straight."
At least that's what I thought.
When I was in high school in South Carolina, I played the guitar in what you would probably call a boy band. It was a bunch of us from school -- all reed-thin except for our portly drummer -- all of us with long hair and androgynous features, just like the big-time rock bands.
None of us, unfortunately, with much talent.
After high school, the band dissolved, and we were probably the only ones who noticed. We all went our separate ways. For me, that meant college in upstate New York, which I have to tell you was quite a departure, weather-wise, from what I'm used to in South Carolina. I love my folks dearly, but I felt like if I didn't get out of that small town, I would burst. The college had a good music and theater program, and was about a four-hour ride from New York City. That's where I wanted to perform someday when I got good enough at the guitar.
I didn't see any reason why I couldn't be a star someday. I was voted "best-looking boy" in my high school senior class, and even though there were only about 50 boys graduating that year, I still got my picture in the yearbook under "Best Looking." I'm about 5-foot-8, very thin, and I haven't cut my straight, blond hair since junior high. I usually wear it in a pony tail, and it goes down past my shoulder blades.
Other than my lack of great talent, there is one other thing that could hold me back.
My name. It's Wendell.
Granddad was a big Wendell Wilkie supporter in the '40s, so he named my dad, Wendell. Dad somehow thought it would be a great idea to name me after him, so I became Wendell Jr. It wasn't so bad growing up, because everyone in town knew me as "Junior." But going off to college with a name like Wendell was tough.
Once I got to college, I looked around for a part-time job to help make ends meet. It wasn't easy, because all I know is music. I looked all over, but the only place hiring was McDonald's. Nothing against flipping burgers, but it wasn't my dream job.
Then I noticed a small classified ad in the local newspaper for a disc jockey to play music each weekend at a local club. It seemed perfect. If there was one thing I knew a lot about, I thought, it was music. I called the phone number in the ad, and someone with a gruff voice told me to come by that afternoon and gave me directions. It was a good thing, too, because I never would have found the place. It was about 25 minutes from my campus, out in the middle of nowhere, a lone, large building off a hilly country road. As I parked my car in the spacious lot, I wondered what kind of business the club could be doing at such an out-of-the-way location.
The door was open, and I was pleasantly surprised when I walked in. There was a hallway with large photo portraits of movie and music stars like Judy Garland, Barbra Streisand and Madonna. I peeked into the ballroom. It was quite large, and I could see that it had modern lighting and an expensive sound system. Off to one side was the DJ's station with what looked like an impressive collection of CDs and a microphone. Not far from there was a spacious bar with lots of glasses hanging up in front of big mirrors.
Down the hall from the ballroom entrance was a heavy door with a sign reading, "Private." I knocked, and soon I heard footsteps. The door opened, and I was greeted by a tall, heavyset man who very well may have had the saddest face I'd ever seen. It was hard to tell how old he was, but he looked at least 60. (I was later to learn he was 62.) He was bald on top, with brown-gray hair on the sides. He had combed a few long hairs over his bald area in a vain attempt to cover up his baldness. He had three or four jowly lines that ran from his plump cheekbones to his double and triple chins. He was dressed nicely, though, with expensive slacks and a golf shirt under a button-up sweater.
He looked at me a bit disapprovingly.
"You're ...?"
"Wendell," I said. "We talked on the phone about a job?"
"Right, kid," he said. "C'mon in."
I was led into a well-furnished living room in what was obviously his apartment. He told me his name was Les Blanchard, and he was the owner.
"So," he said. "you're a DJ, huh? How old are you, kid?"
I told him I would be 19 in a couple of months, and he asked me about the music young people liked nowadays and what I thought of it. I told him I liked most of it. He said he liked Sinatra, Tony Bennett, '50s music and songs with words you could understand, but that "the young folks today, they like to listen to crap, so that's what we give them while they dance and work up a thirst" to buy drinks at the bar.
The pay wasn't great, but he said if I did the job well, I'd get lots of tips. I would work from about 6 p.m. until the place closed at 2 a.m. every Friday and Saturday night. He noticed what he called my Southern accent (actually, I don't have an accent -- everybody up North just talks funny), asked about my background and told me he needed a DJ right away because the last one had gotten a job out of town and quit without giving notice.
"If you can start this Friday night, kid, the job is yours until you screw up, OK?"
I told him I wouldn't screw up, and thanked him for the opportunity. I asked him how I should dress, and he advised me that the less I wore, the better my tips would be.
I looked at him with what must have been a puzzled expression.
He smiled for the first time.
