Fredrick Holder is rich. I mean, ridiculously, he-couldn’t-possibly-spend-it-all-in-his-lifetime rich. He made his money in commercial real estate, I think. He ran a big corporation that is still named after him, but he retired really early and now he just lives on passive income streams that pour in faster than he can spend them.
He also happened to go to grade school with my mother. They don’t hang out a lot anymore, but they were best friends as kids and they still keep in touch. I met him once a few years ago at a big fundraiser that he invited my mother to, and I’ll never forget it. I was like nineteen at the time and Freddy (it feels weird to call him by his first name, but that’s how my mom always refers to him) was, like, 50? But he was insanely handsome and charismatic and confident, and he just commanded all the attention in the room. His hair has gone very salt-and-pepper and there are lines in his tanned and somewhat weathered face, but he’s still really fit, his easy smile is infectious, and his crystal blue eyes still sparkle like a young man. And even though we only spoke briefly that night, I felt like all his attention was on me. He made me feel special, important. And I’m not sure, but I think he was flirting with me. I sure didn’t mind, and I flirted back a little.
Oh yeah, he’s gay and he makes no secret of it, talking about it in the press and supporting lots of gay charities. Though I’ve never heard him mention a boyfriend or husband in interviews. Strange, he’s so rich and sexy I’m sure he could have any man he wants.
Well, a few years after I met Freddy, and after I graduated with an MFA from UCLA, I came up with an idea for a project. I’m a painter, and I know a ton of really talented artists of different disciplines, lots of them gay guys. A group of us were hanging out one night, thinking about life after school and ways to generate and share our work, and someone suggested the idea of a gay artists’ collective. Several hours and a couple cases of beer later, that idea had blossomed into a gay arts center. The idea was to get a building and trick it out so it would have gallery spaces, studio spaces, and a performance space. Plus, a staff that could run it. It could become a mecca for gay artists throughout Southern California and might eventually grow to include classes and community events, and scholarships for gay artists from underserved communities.
By the time I woke up the next morning, a little hungover and in the cold light of day, our grandiose idea seemed completely delusional. I told my mom about it over coffee, a little embarrassed and sure that she would think it was a naïve dream.
Instead, she said, “What a great idea, honey!”
I protested, sharing all my reservations about how expensive it would be, and how little we know about how to do a project on this scale. In mid-conversation she picked up her phone. While I’m still talking, she dials, and a few seconds later she holds up her hand to hush me and says, “Hi. Is Freddy in? It’s Chelsea Mahaffy.”
My eyes bulging, I whispered to her, “Mom! What are you doing?!?”
She shushed me as she said, brightly, “Hi Freddy! How are you doing, hon?”
There was a brief moment while my mom listened, then she broke out in a big, mischievous laugh, and said, “Sounds like heaven! Hey, listen, do you remember meeting my son Paul a few years ago at your fundraiser for the LGBT Center?”
Another pause, another little laugh. “That’s right, the handsome ginger painter.” She looked at me with a smile and winked.
“Well, I’ve got a favor to ask. He’s got a great idea for a project and I wonder if you’d be willing to meet with him.”
(to be continued)
He also happened to go to grade school with my mother. They don’t hang out a lot anymore, but they were best friends as kids and they still keep in touch. I met him once a few years ago at a big fundraiser that he invited my mother to, and I’ll never forget it. I was like nineteen at the time and Freddy (it feels weird to call him by his first name, but that’s how my mom always refers to him) was, like, 50? But he was insanely handsome and charismatic and confident, and he just commanded all the attention in the room. His hair has gone very salt-and-pepper and there are lines in his tanned and somewhat weathered face, but he’s still really fit, his easy smile is infectious, and his crystal blue eyes still sparkle like a young man. And even though we only spoke briefly that night, I felt like all his attention was on me. He made me feel special, important. And I’m not sure, but I think he was flirting with me. I sure didn’t mind, and I flirted back a little.
Oh yeah, he’s gay and he makes no secret of it, talking about it in the press and supporting lots of gay charities. Though I’ve never heard him mention a boyfriend or husband in interviews. Strange, he’s so rich and sexy I’m sure he could have any man he wants.
Well, a few years after I met Freddy, and after I graduated with an MFA from UCLA, I came up with an idea for a project. I’m a painter, and I know a ton of really talented artists of different disciplines, lots of them gay guys. A group of us were hanging out one night, thinking about life after school and ways to generate and share our work, and someone suggested the idea of a gay artists’ collective. Several hours and a couple cases of beer later, that idea had blossomed into a gay arts center. The idea was to get a building and trick it out so it would have gallery spaces, studio spaces, and a performance space. Plus, a staff that could run it. It could become a mecca for gay artists throughout Southern California and might eventually grow to include classes and community events, and scholarships for gay artists from underserved communities.
By the time I woke up the next morning, a little hungover and in the cold light of day, our grandiose idea seemed completely delusional. I told my mom about it over coffee, a little embarrassed and sure that she would think it was a naïve dream.
Instead, she said, “What a great idea, honey!”
I protested, sharing all my reservations about how expensive it would be, and how little we know about how to do a project on this scale. In mid-conversation she picked up her phone. While I’m still talking, she dials, and a few seconds later she holds up her hand to hush me and says, “Hi. Is Freddy in? It’s Chelsea Mahaffy.”
My eyes bulging, I whispered to her, “Mom! What are you doing?!?”
She shushed me as she said, brightly, “Hi Freddy! How are you doing, hon?”
There was a brief moment while my mom listened, then she broke out in a big, mischievous laugh, and said, “Sounds like heaven! Hey, listen, do you remember meeting my son Paul a few years ago at your fundraiser for the LGBT Center?”
Another pause, another little laugh. “That’s right, the handsome ginger painter.” She looked at me with a smile and winked.
“Well, I’ve got a favor to ask. He’s got a great idea for a project and I wonder if you’d be willing to meet with him.”
(to be continued)