There Will Be Wailing In Winchester (And Not Just Winchester, Either) “The Boy Next Door” 1950s Actor Tab Hunter Has Caught The West-bound Freight-Passes At 86

There Will Be Wailing In Winchester (And Not Just Winchester, Either) “The Boy Next Door” 1950s Actor Tab Hunter Has Caught The West-bound Freight-Passes At 86

By Si Lannon

Yes, there will be wailing and weeping to in towns like Winchester, Westchester, Westwood, West Hollywood, and West Wildwood in certain precincts where women of a certain age (maybe men too which I will explain later), came of age, started male gazing in the 1950s now that heart-throb Tab Hunter, the consummate “boy next door” (that boy next door would not be the one in the next cold water flat in some urban tenement but out in lush lawn Levitt-town, Andersonville, Peoria, Modesto where the winds of change were blowing fierce as the post-World War II generations were beginning their short, too short golden age) has caught the west-bound freight, had passed away at 86. Were weeping, as I will admit I am too but for different reasons, for their virginal lost youths when all seemed possible and now have nothing but burdens and too much time fighting their own wars against the ravages of time. Yeah, thinking back to the first time they heard Tab Hunter singing the forever version of Sonny James’ Young Love coming dreamily through the ubiquitous transistor radio attached closely to their heads to keep prying parents at arms-length. Then they saw him on television and the movies and the swooning began.         

I have my own Tab Hunter freaking boy next door story which I have to get off my chest, fifty years plus off my chest, before I can go on and pay certain respects to Mr. Hunter’s career and his “secret” life. See faraway “boy next door” guys had it easy they just had to look pretty, okay, handsome, have clean fingernails and wavy hair. Above all only stink of sex in a most indirect way to not scare off hovering mothers. Tab Hunter (and some others like Fabian and Conway Twitty) were like catnip to dream-crazy daughters-and their mothers in the 1950s. And therein lies my tale. See I was the real boy next door to a young woman, a girl really, Rosalind O’Brian (I will not get angry at anyone if that name evokes thoughts of princesses in towers awaiting rescue by errant take no prisoners knights or sweet summer nights filled with flower fragrances before the sun goes down since that was what the name evoked in my forlorn heart as well) who would not give me the time of day in sixth grade when I first started doing my own male gaze at the opposite sex. Sure, Rosalind would talk to me, talk a blue streak in class, laugh at some of my sixth-grade nervous humor but when I asked her to go to the Sacred Heart Friday night church dance which were held to keep errant real youth, young bravos, from temptations path in that silly way that priests did everything talk straight about sex, leaving us to learn what we learned on the street, half of it bullshit and dangerously wrong.

Cut to the chase. The reason she gave me for not going to the dance with me was that she had a “crush” on the real boy next door-Tab Hunter-and implied that she was saving herself for his attentions. Here is the kicker, the kick in the teeth, dear sweet Rosalind O’Brian actually went to the dance I asked her to attend with Rod Roberts, a dreamy guy who looked exactly like a boy next door, had wavy blond hair and a winsome smile. Perfidy thy name is Rosalind.             

Well I have gotten over that slight, almost, and now can pay a certain homage to Tab Hunter, especially with what he must have gone through as a female sex symbol when he was as queer as a three-dollar bill, was a closeted gay man until he came out in a memoir in 2006. Damn. Even though Hollywood was a closeted safe haven for gays and lesbians along with places like the Village in New York and North Beach in San Francisco the seals were wrapped up tight with seven seals about “homosexuality” in the community. What we out in the working- class precincts of North Adamsville called faggots and every other foul name before we found out what does it matter who you love, more importantly, that it was not the state’s or any other person’s concern who did what with who. But that was much latter.          

The irony is that we, I, had a beef with Tab Hunter when he could have given a damn about Rosalind’s saving herself for him, would have been more likely to have done his male gazing at one Rod Roberts later in life since the last I heard balding and rotund Rob had gotten married to some guy in Madison, Wisconsin. But what was a sixth-grade kid, a kid raised up in the high holy Roman Catholic religion, to know of such things. Knowing only then the admonition from dear mother to not take rides, candy, from strangers, meaning strange men, perverts lurking in every dark cover waiting to spring. Knowing only that in secret whispers there was talk in the family that one of my cousins was “different.” I have already recounted our ignorant terms for those who we called “light on their feet” and even fag-baited each other just for kicks. Jesus what we went through.     

If you had asked me back in 1957, 1960, 1965 if I would be paying homage to an openly gay man I would have said you were crazy, had a screw loose which is an expression I liked to use then or worse. But you can learn a few things in life. Learn also that fame is fleeting as happened to Tab Hunter once the boy next door lost its appeal to young women. Learned that guys with talent and it is obvious that Tab Hunter has it could have a second career ignited by playing opposite the eternally great Divine in John Water’s Polyester. Could “come out” eventually. Yes, there will be wailing and weeping now that Tab Hunter has caught the west-bound freight. Including a tear here. RIP, Tab Hunter, RIP.