Derek Meader

It was September 1978, a rainy day, at least it had been most of the drive up from New York City. Tom, the diminutive Irish guy who had waited tables with me at Leo’s at 72nd and Lexington and whose railroad apartment at York and East 90-something I had lived in for the past few months, had been kind enough to offer me a ride up to Trinity Square Repertory, the regional theatre in Rhode Island where I had landed a job. We’d piled into his beat up and LARGE station wagon that grey morning, and splattered our way north to Providence which was to be my new home for awhile. “The armpit of the east coast” many people I had asked dubbed it. I’d also heard “the junk jewelry capitol” or “major mafia stronghold.” All I knew was the theatre had a great reputation, I had an acting job, and I was venturing into New England for the first time. I was still recovering from having had all of my wisdom teeth extracted a few weeks before, but my flu-like symptoms seemed to lift and loft away as the rain eased then disappeared, replaced by an autumn chill in the air. I liked that, there was a familiar beckoning to it - autumn, September, going back to school, a call for new learning. It reminded me of a passage from a long forgotten short story I’d read: “the wonderful magic of the beginning of things, when work is unsullied by effort.” That’s what I felt when I stepped out of the station wagon across the street from the theatre and thanked and bid goodbye to Tom, someone I would never see again. I had stepped out of one chapter of my life and another was about to begin.

There had been a few heralds to this upcoming change. A few weeks before I’d treated a friend of mine to the production of “Dracula” at the (then) Martin Beck Theatre in New York and afterwards we had gone to Barrymores (now gone) for an after-dinner bite. (Because of my wisdom tooth operation, my “bite” was confined to a bowl of mushroom soup.) My friend and I began rehashing the show and as we did I had the curious feeling that we were being watched and studied by a lively group at the next table and when I turned to see if my hunch was true, they gushed introductions. All of them were Trinity Rep members and had heard of my being hired. This news was incredibly flattering because I doubted that anyone knew who I was. They too had just seen “Dracula” because a noted member of the Trinity company, Richard Kavenaugh, had played the part of “Renfield” the insect-eating captive of the count. They spoke in glowing terms of the upcoming season, of Adrian Hall - the eccentric and “genius” artistic director, and of the strong acting tradition there. I glowed inside and out with anticipation.

One member of this group would become a dear friend of mine and would soon instill a deep love for New England, a zest that probably helped pull me back here from Los Angeles. He was uncharacteristically untalkative that night, he simply smiled broadly from the other side of the table, erect and forward in his chair, his somewhat long hair framing a patrician face, hair that he would toss back out of his eyes from time to time with a distinguishing flair. His name was Derek Meader and if you didn’t know him, it’s your loss.

Where to begin with Derek? He was an actor, yes, but Derek “acted” in real life and it was by far a better performance than any he ever gave on stage. All the world was his stage. Not to say he was fake, no, he was simply being Derek. I always felt he’d been born in the wrong century for his mellifluous tones, his sentences which roundabouted themselves with elevated language, his carriage, his dress, his demeanor, his laugh, his stance, his grand gesture were all pure nineteenth. He had been a child prodigy on the violin, a gift which was snatched away due to a debilitating muscle disorder. He had been able to reteach himself and would play violin whenever needed in Trinity productions, but never at his former level. He had also been a dancer and that talent too had disappeared and had to be reclaimed. He had been Nureyev’s lover (I can imagine him swaddled in furs, riding across the snowy Russian steppes in a horse drawn troika.) He had traveled extensively. He dressed in a combination of expensive clothing and thrift store gay chic which always looked fantastic.

Derek had a terrific loft apartment in New York City at University Place and 12th Street, if memory serves. (Again, this recurring theme of a back-and-forth balance between New England and New York City.) The doorbell never worked; Derek would have to know you were coming. Either that or you could yell your voice box dry trying to get his attention. He’d usually be playing some classical piece of music at fever pitch. Eventually he'd stick his head out one of his windows from above (in all seasons) and toss a heavy ring of keys down. Then you’d wobble up a canted set of stairs up to his bank vault-like door. His was the first door of that kind I’d ever seen where the lock wound from the center, engaging several dead bolts in the door frame with the finishing touch being a metal pole that triangled from the center of the back of the door down to a metal grommet in the floor. Security! The loft was an eclectic and inviting space with high tin ceilings, comfortable tables and chairs and cushiony couches. Most often we’d drink a bottle of Folinari and wax away at whatever was striking our fancies. Oh, it makes me pine for youth and those glorious times in New York.

But back to New England!

In Rhode Island, Derek shared a fantastic place with his dear friend Richard Kneeland, an older stalwart of the Trinity Square Repertory who I had earlier met during my apprenticeship at the Old Globe Theatre in San Diego, California. Richard and Derek lived in Narragansett, Rhode Island, about 30 minutes outside Providence, right on the Atlantic Ocean. Where they lived had once been a string of mansions to rival the opulence across the bay in Newport, but most were all gone now due to fire and age. They were living in what had been servant’s quarters of one of those long gone mansions and it was a splendid place with 4 or 5 bedrooms on the second story and an open living room and kitchen on the first floor chalk full of theatre memorabilia and pictures. You really felt as if you’d climbed into an old actor’s traveling trunk. It was so cozy and inviting, perfect for get togethers. And the back windows and doors opened onto a long sloping lawn down to the rocky seashore where waves continually crashed and geysered up. We would dive off those rocks into the smashing waves and the danger was exhilirating. Richard knew just when to dive in as the last wave was receding and by the time you’d surface the next wave would be gently swelling you up to the natural rock steps to ascend back up for your next daredevil dive. Thrilling!

But the piece de resistance was Derek’s family cottage up in New Hampshire. Derek was an only child. His father had died years ago of complications connected to alcoholism, but his mother – a tough, red-head with a thick New Hampshire accent – lived most of the year in a cottage on a petite peninsula on Merrymeeting Lake in southern New Hampshire. This more than Trinity, more than Providence or Narragansett or trips to beautiful Boston, marks my true first love embrace from New England. It was idyllic, those trips up Derek’s lake. The first was in September of 1979 with my first lover Greg, also living in Providence, also in Trinity productions. Everything about that memory hums in a timeless place. The photos from that trip – Derek reclining on a lawnchair, reading; views across the lake, me diving off the huge boulders into the crystal clear water, clear all the way to the bottom – transport me back. It was unseasonably warm during the day, cool at night. We’d play croquet on the front lawn, kayak around the point, drink bloody marys, concoct wonderful meals, and swim, swim, swim. I could not stop diving off those rocks! I felt like I was 10 years old again. I would return there with 2 other lovers over the years – Tim and Robert – and I think they shared a similar joy being there. I especially remember a rope tied to a tree off in another cove of the lake that you had to row to get to where we would swing out high above the water and let go with Tarzan-like yelps before crashing down into the bracing drink. At night the loons would call across the lake, that lonely eerie call. I’d conjure up Derek’s place whenever I’d watch "A Place in the Sun" and hear the loons call in the background of the scene where Montgomery Clift is out to drown Shelley Winters or "On Golden Pond" with Katherine Hepburn standing, warbling out to her favorite loon.

I wish Richard had been able to visit that cottage. I wish Richard had met Derek. They just missed one another in New York City when I was performing my one-man show “The Only Thing Worse You Could Have Told Me …” in 1995. In one of the sections of the play, I commemorated an evening I’d had with Derek years ago in which he called me on my latent homophobia. Within the scene I played Derek befriending then lambasting an invisible me over my uncomfortability about being around someone so “effeminate.” I’m very proud of the scene, it’s probably one of the most political scenes of the piece, and I think I do Derek justice. And I’m grateful for the memory of that embarrassing and enlightening comeuppance. I’m also grateful and proud that Derek got to see it. I think he liked it a lot.

At the end of the run of the show before returning to California where I was living at the time, I traveled back up to Merrymeeting Lake for what turned out to be my last time there. I went there by myself this time. I’m wondering if his lover George was there? Or his mother? By that time she was beginning to fade with Alzeheimers, but in that funny way that memory freezes images of people as well as places, I imagined her still getting up every morning with her light pink bathing cap snugly on and tromping down to the lake’s shore for her early morning swim – very Katherine Hepburn indomitable. There were no special occurrences during that trip, just an easy time together, filled with strolls and swimming and the sound of water lapping. It was the perfect wrapping up of one chapter of my life – my play in New York City – and the coming of another, all in the embrace of the end of a New England summer.

Derek passed away in 1997 from complications due to AIDS. The last time he spoke to me he was up at the cottage, resting. I think I’ll always imagine him there. He’d just had a shunt put into his chest which he described with characteristic curiosity and aplomb. He sounded the same, carrying on with style with whatever life was bringing on. That’s what I remember most about Derek - the way he talked and the sound of his voice. That’s what I wish I could share with you right now. And so I’ll give you the next best thing. I think I captured the way he talked pretty well in my play, so I’ll give you a printed sampling from the very beginning of the Derek scene where my writer’s imagination weaves in with bits from a tape recording I had made of Derek years before:

“Once again, the food was terrible and I hate you, so … I’m off!”

[Derek crosses to a closet, hand held high ballet-like. He sets down his wine glass and retrieves a coat and dons it in preparation for his exit into the New York City winter outside.]

“So we’re meeting each other Saturday by the fountain. Good. I still can’t believe you’ve never seen “Tristan and Isolde.” Oh! Four hours of sturm und drang that will fly right by. It’s about two people whose love is so great that they die. They die. That’s what they do, they die. What they really do is die. You’ll love it.”

They included a reading of the “Derek” scene from my play in a memorial service held in honor of Derek at Trinity Square. It made me very proud.

The service was a celebration of Derek’s life.

There was a lot to celebrate.