The Hitmen

The first week was a blur of starting classes and buying books and auditioning and trying to get settled, and, though still shy, I knew nobody really had an advantage over me and I kept my eye out for potential friends. It wasn’t long before I found one.

It was one of the first nights and I had gone down to the Dance Building, stomach all a-butterfly, to audition for the higher-lever dance classes. Levels 1 and 2 you could just sign up for, but you had to audition to get into 3 or 4, and your placement was dependent on the teachers’ evaluation. It was a tense process because, in addition to the stress of auditioning, most people built their schedule around the assumption that they were getting into a particular level and, if they didn’t, not only would tears be shed, but then you’d have to go through a mad scramble trying to get your schedule worked out. I knew the dance teachers very well (one being my mom, after all), and had gone through the first two levels with them, but 2 didn’t necessarily lead to 3, and many hopefuls were turned away. It was a common situation at Interlochen, a double-edged sword. Most of the students who came there were the best in their school or community at whatever they did, be it acting or music or dance or writing or painting or whatever. On one hand, it was often a relief for these people to come to a community in which their passion – that which had branded them a hopeless outsider at home – was encouraged. But, invariably, those that were the best in West Elbow, Nebraska were in for a rude awakening when they found themselves to be merely mediocre in this new, rarified context. Many dancers (and musicians and so on) were shocked and discouraged to suddenly find themselves not at the top of the ladder, but at the bottom of a much higher ladder.

So, anyway, there I was at the auditions, greeting old acquaintances, many of whom were surprised but encouraging to find me there, and checking out the new meat, nervously warming up and staring googly-eyed around the room. One newcomer I didn’t recognize was a boy named Troy, or, at least, that’s what was emblazoned across his tank-top in giant red letters. The teachers came in looking official and serious, greeted everybody solemnly and told them to find places at the barre, and auditions began.

I did what I could, I tried my best and, although I was clearly out of my league in some aspects, I thought I did alright. But it wasn’t up to me. Even though I had an inside in the department, I knew they weren’t going to cut me any slack and that I’d have to wait for the lists to be posted the next day, just like everybody else. So, I went back to the dorm and took a shower.

Trying to take a proactive stance to making friends, I forced myself out of my room (I was, ironically, the only person in the dorm who didn’t have a roommate), and wandered the halls, seeing what I could see, making myself available. Going through the basement, I poked my head into the laundry room and saw Troy, washing out his tights. He smiled, I smiled and said hello, and I walked in to chat.

It was one of those moments that I look back on as a life-changing event, like feeling a stranger’s hands on my tense neck at college years later or getting a message to call the sheriff’s office in Kodiak years after that.

His name, as it turned out, wasn’t Troy, it was Eric. Troy was the suburb of Detroit from which he hailed. He was well-built, with beefy arms and the kind of broad shoulders that girls – and lots of guys – were suckers for. He had brown hair and a very open and friendly face and, although I didn’t really see it at the time (still don’t, frankly (sorry, dude)), he was apparently classically beautiful, a feature that would actually land him in the pages of GQ years later. He was friendly and easy to talk to and we got along very well and, from almost that moment on, we were inseparable. He and I both made it into Level 3 that year and became roommates and danced together for a couple of years, and lived together for a couple more, becoming so close that people didn’t know which of us was which, we were Eric-and-Chris or Chris-and-Eric, one entity with two names.

I had never met anybody like him, and I still haven’t. I’ve heard people describe the concept of a soul-mate, one who is indelibly a part of you, one without whom life pales. In many ways, Eric was one of the great loves of my life. I felt such comfort around him and we both grew so much in each other’s light, exploring our darker, scarier sides with the knowledge that the other was right there beside us. When we lived together with Bruce in NYC and would meet him at one of his gay bar hang-outs, Eric and I would always unquestioningly become each other’s lover while we were in that world. It wasn’t a suppressed sexual longing so much as just a knowledge and a comfort that we really did love each other, and that was a beautiful thing. We’ve been through many things together, some good, some bad, and we don’t get to spend nearly enough time with each other, now that he lives a thousand miles away (or is it me that lives a thousand miles away?), but when we do see each other, the distance evaporates instantly and we’re right back where we were the last time, arm in arm, heart in heart.

Moving into the dorm was the best thing I did that year, because it finally opened me up to the kind of friendship I craved, and my relationship with Eric still stands as one of the absolute pinnacles of my life. And I knew early on that we were going to be good friends. How could I tell? He loved the Hitmen too.