Kevin Armstrong - Burmese Boy

However the die was cast as it is all too often in life. Early rehearsals went amazingly well. The amateur cast were very talented and we’d found an exemplary pianist called Mona who could make the battered upright piano in the old Bijou Theatre sound like an orchestra.

One Saturday afternoon just before rehearsals got underway I was approached by a very cute young man who curiously enough was wearing a tartan tie. He had jet black curly hair, the smoothest olive skin and I couldn’t help noticing a prominent package. This young “man” I figured was really a boy, probably eighteen at the most. He introduced himself as Christian Beaman, Cadet Journalist with the local Times. Could he interview me for the paper?

“Well, sure Chris…”

“Christian, it’s always Christian” he laughed cheekily.

“When?”

“Tomorrow afternoon?”

“You work Sundays?”

“I work most days… but my Editor wants to run the story on Tuesday.”

He gave me a knowing look.

“I want to give this real depth. It’s not every day we have a big cheese director come to town.”

“Well we’re not rehearsing tomorrow so sure, should I come to your office or shall we meet here at the theatre?”

“Nah, I thought I’d come round to your place?”

“My place?”

The drama committee had accommodated me in an old weather-board cottage on Robinson Avenue.

“Yeah, I’ll come round about one if that’s okay.”

I was only just starting to realize that in a town like Esperance you could have no secrets. Everyone knew your business. This was back in the days when each town had their own manually operated telephone exchange. One evening I wanted to ring Josie who was playing the role of Fraulein Schneider. I rang the exchange and asked Julie the operator to put me through to Josie’s number.

“Nah, I reckon you’re out of luck Kev” drawled Julie in her gravelly smokers’ voice. “I heard Josie’s gone over to the Birmans’. You want me to try their number?”

Anyway, I was finding it difficult to get the boy journalist out of my mind. Roll on tomorrow. No point in getting my hopes up. How could there possibly be any gay guys in Tiny Town? What would they do? Who would they do? But then… Christian had the longest eyelashes I’d ever seen on any boy anywhere. And then he’d been kind of insistent about meeting up at my place for the interview.

On the appointed day I showered in the antiquated bathroom and put on a shirt, a tie and a jacket. I’d recently been working in Europe and this is how I would normally present myself to a journalist. I’d not had time to get settled back into the informality of Australia. And – and I kept telling myself, this was business, a professional appointment. Also, I was not a child fucker. This boy was barely out of high school. Barely out? Forget it. This is Tiny Town.

The doorbell rang at five minutes to one and there he was on my doorstep. Mr Long Lashes. He was dressed in jeans and a sensible open-necked shirt. Feeling somewhat foolish and rather pre-historic I took off my jacket and loosened my tie. I got a couple of beers from the kitchen and we settled down in the tiny cane furnished lounge room. I noticed that Christian had a copy of the C.V. I’d sent to the drama group. Mr Efficiency, very professional. I’d been so stupid getting my hopes up. I’d just have to save my cum until I got back to the Big Smoke. For the past few days I’d been able resist even my usual early morning wank.

First of all we talked about my adventures in London and Vienna. My professional adventures – I wasn’t going to make a fool of myself by making allusions to my rather spectacular love life. Besides, this was a small town and I didn’t want the local gossips dining out on my fucking escapades.

I told the boy wonder about how I had to take over a production of Carmen at the Royal Opera House at the last minute. I’d been working there as an assistant director, mostly acting as a go-between between the director, the singers and the stage crew. We were approaching the opening night when there was an outbreak of dysentery. There was shit everywhere. A fresh tenor was flown in from Madrid and I found myself in the director’s hot seat. I’ve always admired this about opera singers – actors need weeks and weeks to rehearse a play but opera singers, they can fly from continent to continent, take one or two rehearsals and if they already know the role they can walk onto the stage of the opera house and sing it with aplomb. If they know the role that is… Perhaps our fresh tenor from Madrid had been desperate for the work for, to my horror, on the opening night, I realized that he wasn’t at all secure with the role of Don Jose. Half way through the first act he stumbled and then tried to recover, groping for the words. Then, I could have sworn, he started singing his shopping list during the Toreador Song!

“One stone of spuds and three pounds of peas.

Two capsicums, four corn cobs,

Three tins of baked beans and two chicken breasts,

Rolled oats, raisins and soap!”

I could see the boy reporter rolling his eyes. He laughed: “You’re making it up Kev!”

So it was ‘Kev’ already? Progress?

“Not a bit of it young Christian. I thought we’d be slaughtered by the critics. But did they notice? Not a bit of it! However after a few more corn cobs and tins of beetroot Tizzy Madonna – that’s what we called him – got back on track and, believe it or not, he brought the house down. There is no justice.”

Tizzy Madonna? Had I just shown my hand? Well at least I wasn’t showing my cock, not yet anyway. The boy screwed up his delicious lips in concentration.

“Do you reckon Kev that the stage… show business, you know what I mean… my headmaster used to tell me it’s controlled by queers.”

“Something of a cliché I would imagine Christian but perhaps your headmaster knows something I don’t…” I teased. “And I’m not sure I’m comfortable with the term ‘queers’.”

“Poofters then.”

“I don’t really think that’s an improvement.”

I had a sinking feeling that my young guest was revealing himself as a rural backwoods red neck. Was he going to wind up the interview by giving me a good bashing so he could boast about it to his mates down at the pub? No, I was becoming paranoid. Perhaps it had something to do with the atmosphere of Tiny Town.

“Well, you’d have to admit Kev… the theatre has more than its fair share of… queens.”

“I’m sure I don’t have the statistical information to hand Christian” I said rather huffily. “Perhaps you should ask your editor – do a bit a bit of a story on it.”

“You gotta be joking Kev! Have you seen my editor? I’d be run out of town. But let’s get back to the show. Cabaret . What made you choose Cabaret? I mean, do you think Esperance is ready for it?” He fluttered his eyelashes at me.

“I don’t really know what you mean Christian. Besides, when I suggested the show the drama committee went ape.”

Christian shifted uneasily in his cane chair. “I mean, this bloke, Cliff Bradley, the hero… he’s a bit of a poof isn’t he?”

“Bi-sexual actually. He hasn’t made up his mind. He’s fucking Sally Bowles the alcoholic singer at the Kit Kat Club. But at the same time both he and Sally are fucking Max the millionaire.”

“See? It’s hardly wholesome material for the whole family.”

Was the boy simply being deliberately obtuse? I stomped off to the kitchen to get some more beers.

“Christian, you seem to be hung up on sex!” I shouted from the kitchen.

“I don’t know about being hung up. Well hung for sex maybe!” There was that crackling cheeky laugh again. As I came through the door bearing the beers I could have sworn he was adjusting his genitals.