The story of the casting couch as an avenue to stardom, whether on New York’s Broadway or in Hollywood, is a classic one in literature and film. Danny’s Choice plays and twists this theme. It is about predatory producers and the hard bargains they strike to further the careers of young men in exchange for the men’s virginity. It is about how this effects the lives of those young men.
Danny’s Choice is a collection of four interlocking stories—sometimes connected directly and sometimes only in coincidence. As part of the twist, Danny’s Choice, within the context of the stories, is also a fictitious book written by the fictitious Christopher Wilson in the late 1950s about his coming of age into the gay lifestyle in New York City in the post-World War II decade between 1947 and 1957.
I had done my audition and was standing in the line of others who had done so—they made us watch the auditions of our competition, which is why I was sure I was the best dancer that day. One of the stage hands came to me in line and whispered that Mr. Yellen wanted to see me down in the theater seats. He said the name reverently, which helped me decide to follow him—that and, not knowing who Mr. Yellen was, I thought maybe he was the casting director.
Mr. Yellen turned out to be a tall, well-built man in his fifties. Very elegant looking as far as my peasant eyes could see and well dressed. What I remember most from that first meeting were his hands—his long, expressive fingers. The biggest reason I remember them is that he was a toucher, and I felt his hands on me as we talked. Not anywhere intimate, but really friendly regardless.
“I saw you dance up there,” he said when I reached him. He was standing in the aisle at the edge of where the lights from the stage extended into the auditorium. The audience area was in the dark. This was an audition. Only the stage needed to be lit—and the first couple of rows, where the casting people sat. He wasn’t sitting there, or paying attention to the guy dancing now, so I concluded that he couldn’t help me get the spot.
“You are very good. The best I’ve seen up there today.”
“Thank you, I said.” I was waiting for him to tell me who the hell he was and how much clout he had around here, but I guessed he must be important, because he seemed to expect me to know who he was.
“You won’t get the part, though, you know?”
Like I hadn’t gotten all of the other Broadway musical parts I’d auditioned for, I thought. Of course not. But I can’t stop trying. “Why not? If I’m the best dancer up there.”
“For starters, how old are you? Thirteen? Fourteen?”
“I’m sixteen,” I responded. I caught myself but too late. If he’d guessed sixteen, I would have told him eighteen.
“Still too young. The pity is that I see that you’re ready, that the two extra years won’t make you much better, because there’s not much better you need to get.”
“Thank you,” I answered. But how does that help me, I wondered. Still, the compliment was nice. I was a little worried that he had his hand on my forearm, though. So far, I’d been pretty good at side-stepping the passes men were making at me. It was a real predatory jungle here in the New York theater district.
“Broadway is a dangerous place for young men under eighteen who look as good as you,” he said.
I did a double take. Had he read my mind just now?
“Producers don’t want any more trouble to avoid on the age issue then necessary, so they just avoid it. You might not get good dancing spots on Broadway until you’re eighteen. Maybe you don’t want to hold out that long. Also, you won’t get this spot because it’s already taken.”
“Already taken? Then way—?”
“They’re just being careful, going through the motions, for appearances. For the unions and such. The dancer who will get the job is the third young man from the left in the line up there. He’s twenty-one, which erases the age headache, and he’s been fucked by the producer of Finian’s Rainbow. Oh, I’m sorry. Did I disturb you with my bluntness or crass language?”
“No, sir. I know what being fucked means,” I said through clenched teeth. And I knew what being fucked meant. This wasn’t the first time I’d lost a spot to an inferior dancer who was being fucked by someone important. “But you said that I might not get good dancing spots on Broadway until I was eighteen, not that I could never hope too.”
“It would be possible that you could get to the Broadway musical stage sooner—if you had a patron.”
