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.
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