I was two years when old when I fell in love with the stage. The Meglin Kiddies took a shot on me and my sisters. The year was 1928. They tell me that I stopped the show. At least, that’s how I would like to introduce myself. But, I’m sure you know, that’s little Miss Frances Ethel Gumm. Also known as Judy. Judy Garland! (He makes the “A Star is Born” pose.) I was five when I first heard her voice. Five. Imagine that. My grandmother was playing something on her tape deck. A compilation of sorts. But when Judy started to sing The Trolley Song? Ohhh, my heart stopped. I sat in front of the speaker in rapt attention and, when the song was over, I demanded more. Nan changed the tape and put on “something special”. It was a live concert, Nan said. A live concert at Carnegie Hall. She seemed thrilled to share this with me.
In just a moment the tape was going and the orchestra was playing something grand. I could hear bongos very faint! And the horns! Oh, I loved the way they wailed! And all the while there was this buzz... I didn’t know what it was then, but I know it now... this perpetual anticipation, this Waiting for Something Bigger and Better AND eeeeevvvvennnnntually... THERE SHE WAS! Judy! You could hear the crowd going fuckin’ bonkers! And me? I just continued to sit right there even through when Nan had to flip the tape over so we could hear the second half. I didn’t even mind it when Judy forgot the lyrics. But... eventually the tape ran out.
“I was there, y’know.” That’s what Nan said. Where? “At Carnegie Hall. That very night. I was... oh... around 30, I guess.” 30? I was flummoxed. Nan was there when she was 30? How old did that make Judy? And then, when Nan told me that Judy “wasn’t around anymore” I knew something was up. For the first time in hours, I moved from that spot on the rug.
There’s a famous photo – well, famous in my family, you know? – of me against a wall, hands at my sides in tight little fists and it looks like I’ve just tasted something awful. Truth was, I hadn’t tasted anything. I just tended to make this very pose whenever I needed a moment. My mother called it my “cool-down period”. Maybe you’ve seen it before? I assumed The Pose and proceeded to speak very slowly.
“Do you mean to tell me that Judy Garland is dead?”
My grandmother tried to hide her laughter as she confirmed my suspicions. Before she could even get the words out, though, I knew. I raced upstairs and locked the door behind me and I cried for days. Or hours. Or maybe... probably... it was minutes, now that I really think about it. But I cried big old crocodile tears, that’s for sure.
After a while, Nan came knocking and said it was time for dinner. We’d be eating it in the living room tonight. “Don’t get used to it.” And when I got down there, well, Judy was right there on the t.v. waiting for me. Her hands were at the sides of her face, fingers spread wide, and she had this giant grin from ear to ear on her face. That was the first time I ever saw her. And that’s how I’ll always think of her.
Judy died in 1969. Until I was old enough to go to the library and find out the truth, I never knew how she died. Nan wouldn’t tell me and neither would my parents. But, eventually, I learned she died of an accidental overdose of barbiturates. Wellllll, I had to look that up, too. Pills, dolls, drugs, y’now. Over the years, I learned more. I studied the films, I read all the books, I saw all the impersonations, I heard all the albums, discovered all the husbands. Whenever I needed a pick-me-up, Hello Bluebird was there. When I was old enough to know that a man could and would break your heart – I was 16, the first time... I remember... – The Man That Got Away was there. And when I needed to escape, I could go Over the Rainbow aaaand SURE! Sure, it was cheesey. Sure, it was predictable. But it was mine. You know? She was something I could claim. My Someone.
There were a few bumps, of course. It wasn’t always such a perfect relationship. There was the time I raided my mother’s closet for the closest possible match to Judy’s Carnegie frock and sent my parents invitations – via notes under their dinner tables that they’d find while dish-washing – to come to a special performance in my room. My mother spanked me for stealing her clothing and make-up. My father just retreated to the living room with a beer. And, years later, in college, I’d been listening to the Carnegie concert with the door open. I was hanging up the Carnegie poster and the enormous Star is Born canvas a friend got me for graduation. Judy was singing about Swanee. President Coolidge was a fucking friend of mine, okay? I was crazy about the broad, Alan! Surely, surely, someone else there had to like Judy. Maybe not as much as me, but... It was my first day in the dorm and I was determined to meet a like-minded fellow. Or anyone, really. Instead, I got a black eye and a two-day headache from a brute named Mike Puglisi. But even with the ice on my face and an R.A. asking for info, Judy was playing and somehow getting me through.
So, I’m sorry if it bothers you, Alan, that I want to listen to my records for a moment. You, when you’re... down or pissed or whatever... YOU drink. I turn to music. It might not be the most grandiose of addictions, but I do believe it’s far healthier than yours. And to you it may all be.... what was the word you used when you were insulting me in my own home? Juvenile? That it’s a fantasy? I know she’s gone, Alan. I don’t need you or anyone else to tell me that. But when she sang... ohhhh, when she SANG there was nothing that could get in her way. For those three or four or whatever minutes she was unstoppable, Alan. Even the pills couldn’t get her. So forgive me for wanting to listen to Judy sing the fucking song in hopes that you won’t drag me down into your pit of abasement.
(Beat. He starts to laugh.)
It’s a little funny, isn’t it? That I’d fall in love with someone as toxic as Frances Ethel Gumm at the age of five and then I’d find myself here. 26 and useless and in the most pathetic relationship one could imagine. They wrote songs about men like you. And... she sang them. And... they destroyed her.
Go on, Alan. Fix yourself another cocktail. Take another vicodin and walk out of the room and (raising his voice to call as ALAN leaves,) PRETEND YOU CAN’T HEAR ME AND GO. I’LL BE HERE. SWANEE AND JUDY AND THE FUCKING WIZARD AND ALL! (Beat. He hums something. “After You’ve Gone.” The hum turns into a lyric and the lyric turns into a laugh and the laugh turns into a smile and the smile turns into a blackout.)
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