London Calling



"Hello, this is George, " said the voice on the phone. "George Michael." The twice-repeated first name, easy familiarity, and British accent reminded me of another iconic greeting ("Bond. James Bond") Surely, I must be dreaming about this George. George Michael. Then again, this "George Michael" voice triggered memories: "Freedom," "I Want Your Sex," and "Club Tropical." For a closeted 16-year old driving around in his red Karmann Ghia and loudly singing off-key, George's songs promised something unspoken, urbane, and sexy.

Still dreaming, I listened to "George Michael" describe reading my article "Hiding Out" in Attitude, a U.K. glossy. I got out of bed and looked outside. It was dark. I wasn't dreaming. George Michael really was telling me, "I was very moved by the story. I want to make a video." Could I hook him up with the kids who'd escaped from gay-to-straight "hospitals" into an underground network of safe houses?

"No," I said, taking notes. There were two weeks to find the safe house kids, edit their interviews, and deliver the video (“Freedom, Part 2”?) to RFK Stadium for George's performance at Equality Rocks. "But I can."

Problematically, while I knew exactly what I would do for the video, I had no clue about how to actually make a video. No worries — I'm from L.A.; I faked it and George signed on, pop star style, agreeing to pay for everything. His manager, Andy Stephens (now overseeing American Idol winner Susan Boyle), made one thing clear: George Michael Pop Star was paying for this project out of pocket — his pocket. And though those were deep pockets, George Michael the person wasn't a spendthrift. I had to make every penny count.

Ninety minutes later, I was dispatched to San Francisco. I done this before — traveled north in search of kids, underground and safe houses. But this time I couldn't help but wonder, who was I looking for —the kids or me?

When I was a teenager, I'd run away to San Francisco and "life." I liked the "idea" of the Bay Area and its history of social activism. I was eager to become a vegan and ... take modern dance classes! Though I was now an adult who, on occasion, ate meat and had somewhat more defined goals, returning to the Emerald City still made me nervous. I had four days to make a video based an article that took me two years to write. I was, however, sustained by some weird belief that the safe house had once again "chosen" me to tell its story.

I wasn't completely alone in my quest. John Keitel, a USC film graduate, and I drove to S.F and checked into Beck's Motor Lodge, a shabby-tawdry-cheap-chic tweaker destination. Crucially, Beck's was centrally located, near the Tenderloin.

That night we drove to Polk, where commerce thrived 24/7, all of it human: sex and drugs. Same as the local predators, we circled blocks, on the hunt. The kids ran away from us, darting around corners and hiding in dark alleys.

"Pull over," I said. Across the street, I saw kids getting high. John parked. We discussed approaching "them." The group was clustered in a parking structure lit by nauseating citrus-yellow lights. "No," I said. "Let's not." Driving away, I knew we'd just passed on a great opportunity. One of those kids must have contact with a safe house. But I'd become afraid and told myself, It's too dangerous.

We returned to Beck's without footage. I lay down on the lumpy mattress and looked left, at the digital clock. The red numbers flipped. I started counting: three days to tape, four to edit, hours to fly and deliver. Already we were out of time. In the other bed, John ate chips and watched TV. I looked at the camera. It sat in the chair, stubborn, glum and dead. Before, all I needed was paper, pen, and pluck. Now I was at the mercy of a cyclops. I rolled off the polyester bedspread and picked up the lens cap, ready to screw.

Tags: Books