Who Is Droc

A Story by Droc

The consequences of being named after a famous person

(Introduction)

In 1953 global communication was via the BBC radio, and so it was a four year old boy’s unknown thoughts were interrupted as he sat playing on a ragged rug in front of an old Bakelite radio, and at the announcement of his own name.

Noel Coward’s fame as a scriptwriter - synonymous with humor - became global in the post war period, weaving its way across war torn lands and into the homes of ordinary people to become a household name.

As the playwright gained greater global recognition an unforeseen destructive phenomenon began to develop unrecognized behind the silent eyes of his namesake; some tens of thousands of miles away in this land down under; that is Australia.

Relative to the negative impact it had upon the young boy’s life, it spiraled out of control at the introduction of black and white television which resulted in an avalanche of famous Noel Coward plays converted into movies, bringing more intimate details of his public life that included rubbing shoulders with Royalty and the big named stars of Hollywood, and ultimately, details of his ‘private life,’ and speculated homosexuality.

This story is the reconstruction of a real conversation which took place in 1984 at a cafe in Fremantle of Western Australia, and although in a semi fictional structure, it is a microscopic picture of what transpired over a period of forty years, though the main focus of the story is the ‘creation’ of Droc; an undisciplined character finding expression and self discovery in the written word.

Gino's Cafe

The location is Fremantle, a quaint city on the western seaboard of Australia. Its character buildings date back to the days of convicts and free settlers. Its global notoriety was in the creation of a unique yacht which captured the world’s attention when it wrested the America’s Cup from the gob smacked New York Yacht Club for the first time in the history of the grueling race.

It is a Sunday so the traffic is light as a lone figure weaves his way past the early morning patrons. The main city street is affectionately known as the Cappuccino Strip, with a blend of people as rich and robust as the coffee served at Gino’s Café - which is the lone figure’s destination.

He strolls along the terrace past the markets, with its history going back to the days of settlement when tall ships were at anchor in the tranquil bay; endless chains of convicts disappearing into the underground tunnels beneath the very ground he was presently walking. The tunnels lead from the docks to the prison built on top of a hill on the outskirts of the town, and reminded him of his own ancestral blood dating back to the first fleet in 1778 and a convict named Thomas Josephs.

The atmosphere is friendly and cheerful in this multicultural society; open to all and without the ethnic hostilities or the status quo frosty glass barriers. Customers from all over the globe in all forms of dress mix freely; street people sit chatting with housewives or doctors and lawyers; police chat with criminals; business deals and drug deals secretly occurring; artists and musicians meeting with their instruments and thrashing out new songs, much to the pleasure and entertainment of the customers. It is often joked that the City of Fremantle was managed from the busy café.

There are many ‘hello’s and ‘goodbye’s’ as you saunter " few are in haste along this coffee strip, and there is much joyful waving. It is a place of tolerance and acceptance, where the rainbow clothes of the outdated hippies brush against silk and satin without offense, and multi-colored toenails peeping out from scuffed leather thongs wriggle a greeting to patent leather Pier Cardin’s.

The lone figure recalls those pre-America’s Cup days, as he weaves his way past tables and where locals were basking in the warmth of the early sun, the days when American war ships could be seen in the harbor and healthy young sailors wandered the streets with vibrant tanned Aussie women hanging off their arms, gazing adoringly into besotted eyes. It was a time of music, street dancing, and endless parties " and much weeping and waving when the ships departed for other parts of the world.

The lone figure has a deep affection for the Americans as he recalls a time in the sixties when he escaped from a Boys Home in Tasmania (a small island on the edge of the Southern Ocean) He was a stowaway on a ship, arriving cold and hungry on the streets of a strange city, experiencing chance meetings with American sailors who took him aboard, fed him, and sheltered him from the cold windswept streets.

Many times over the years the story was recalled, giving tribute to the huge bald cook and the piles of ice-cream. The loan figure is also aware that the only reason he is free to walk these friendly streets was due to America coming to Australia’s aid to stop the inevitable invasion by Japan, a fact unknown to many of the people he passes.

Gino’s Cafe is located on the outer curve of a slight bend which affords patrons views along the entire length of the busy street and which is a part of the attraction. It is a meeting and gathering place where locals can sit and chat all day without being harassed by staff to order or move on. They are not obliged to purchase coffee or food, and it is of no concern how long they sit chatting. Gino himself was also often seen sitting with the locals.

In the outdoor area on this particular morning sit a group of four people engaged in friendly conversation. The lone figure takes them in as he approaches. Three of them are long term friends; John, a Welshman who lives in a mobile home and who plays beautiful classical guitar; Rodney, a true blue Aussie yachtsman and who rides his pushbike thirty kilometers each day. Sitting between them is a stunning, defiant and manipulative woman called Michele whose eyes, unblinking and expressionless, lock onto the lone figure as he approaches.

The fourth person is unknown to the lone figure.

There is a queue as I approach the counter, though I do not tack onto the end of it, but within minutes a steaming café latte is handed to me by a flirty Italian female who engages in light conversation. This brings me to the attention of other patrons and my special status at Gino’s as the first customer off the street on its opening day.

There is a mixture of reactions from those waiting in the queue. Some are aware and acknowledge my presence with a hello or a smile. Others show curiosity and their eyes follow me out the door, and there are the few looks of resentment which I ignore as I weave my way between tables balancing coffee in one hand and morning paper in the other, greeting regulars as I pass through to the outdoor area.

My thoughts as I walk towards the table in the far corner are on the woman. My eyes lock into hers and as she swivels to face me, making minute head adjustments as I approach. She stares back unblinking, tanned face framed by long black flowing hair to produce a breathtaking picture. She is dressed to kill with a clingy black top to match the dark eyes. Small breasts make nests in the stretchy fabric, bra-less and proud. Sexy brown long smooth legs disappear into an equally clingy black skirt that has as much modesty as Eve’s fig leaf; it travels upward in a creeping tantalizing way.

Her seal-like eyes follow mine to the table as she shuffles chairs in an invitation for me to sit beside her. She displays a beaming smile. The gesture does not alleviate my suspicions that she is not seeking revenge for some unknown or undisclosed failing of mine and indeed, heightens them. This woman is very tricky. I give her my warmest smile and shuffle the chair closer so as to brush flesh and heighten my senses. The urge to inhale her is impulsive. In return I receive a beaming smile followed by pouting red lips hovering over mine and a wet kiss which ends in a ‘popping’ noise.

“I thought you weren’t coming today?” I enquire.

“Well I changed my mind! Is that ok with you?”

John, being diplomatic and sensing a bristling coming from her (a friend of many years) seizes the moment to make the introduction with the stranger. He rises to his feet slowly and does so in a statesman like way with palms facing up indicating both parties.

“Droc, this is Adam. He is here on holidays from England. Adam, this is Droc.”

We appraise each other as we shake hands. As we shake hands I see a tall slim blonde; a rather handsome looking man approximately six feet tall and around thirty years of age. He was obviously subjected to the spell of Michele judging by his reaction to the intimacy displayed between Michele and myself. A look of curiosity appears in his friendly eyes.

“Droc” he says. “That’s an unusual name.”

“It’s a surname,” I reply. “It’s spelt D R A W O C, and pronounced DROC.

“That’s even more unusual,” he said. “Where does it originate?”

“It’s English,” I informed him, as I inhale the tantalizing odor and soak up the warmth radiating beside me while pretending indifference.

There is an element of confusion on Adam’s face as he repeats what I said.

“Did you say English?”

“Yes English; Leon Drawoc.”

“It’s not a name I am familiar with; from what part of England?

“I lived near Noel Coward " the other end of the street actually.

“You’re not serious?”

“No,” I smile. “Though in a bizarre way, you could say we were on stage together.”

Adam was grappling with this and at the same time trying to ignore the lengths of smooth juicy flesh seeking refuge under a skirt that had turned into a waist band. She was incorrigible, leaning towards him so as to afford both up and down views causing the poor chap to blush. She simultaneously and strategically placed her hand suggestively on his thigh, giving me a coy smile as she offered him support.

“Stop teasing him!” she said, “Explain yourself!”

I explained that my name was Leon Drawoc which was actually Noel Coward spelt backwards and that there was nothing more ‘English’ than Sir Noel Coward, with his invasion of ‘Private Lives’ and the savagery of ‘Mad Dogs!’

“There was no room for two Noel Cowards on this planet,” I informed him. “He was here first, older and a ‘Sir’ so I did the honorable thing and changed my name. Everything about his life was the opposite of mine. He was educated and talented whereas I was just a street kid - a crude wayward Aussie kid living on the other side of the planet. When he was getting a standing ovation I was getting taunted. When he walked beside the Queen, I walked in chains like my convict ancestor; so it was only fitting that I reversed his name, don’t you think?”

I am not quite sure if Adam took me seriously at first when I delivered this. He seemed a trifle puzzled, bouncing looks from Rodney to John, to Michele and back again as though seeking confirmation that he was not talking to a lunatic. With nothing forthcoming he asked his next question.

“Are you saying your real name is Noel Coward, as in the famous playwright, and you changed it to Leon Drawoc, which is Noel Coward spelt backwards, and then shortened it to Droc?”

“Yes,” I replied.

“That was your birth name, Noel Coward?”

“Yes.”

“Why would you change it?”

“You don’t like Droc?” I enquired, teasing him.

“Droc is an intriguing name and very catchy, but Noel Coward was a very famous and talented man. Why not keep the name Noel Coward?”

“Because his fame and name were such that there was only room for one of us on the planet and, as it happened, when the spotlight fell on him a shadow fell over my life.”

“Are you related?”

“That can’t be established Adam. A trace of the family history leads back to a warehouse fire in London, I believe. However, my grandfather swears that we are related and has written such into the family history. That may be romantic fantasy or it may be true.

Michele was giving me her usual dead pan look and had swiveled more in my direction; affording me glimpses of what minutes before was the subject of my inner thoughts and desires, but at the same time denied to me owing to some vague misdemeanor.

“Tell us about Noel Coward,” she urged, taking advantage of the presence of others to satisfy this obsession she had about my past; attempting to peek into my mind to discover what secrets may be lurking within which could be stored away as ammunition to slay the beast further down the track. There were times I expected to see horns coming out of her head. Instead I discovered she was wearing a transparent fleshy G string, accompanied with a coy smile which was also beginning to irritate me.

The others had remained silent throughout, sipping coffee with heads swiveling towards Adam then back to me, then to Michele and back again. Rodney broke the silence and left to order coffee for all. We continued with mundane conversations about sailing and a planned cruising trip and exchanged a few Aussie versus English jokes.

Adam though could not resist his desire to know why I resented Sir Noel Coward as my tone indicated.

“I would have thought it would have been wonderful growing up with that name,” he mused.

“It was a nightmare Adam! It was an absolute, never ending bloody nightmare! As you are obviously aware he was a man of great talent. He was a revered author, playwright, actor, and composer. He excelled in all. He was as well-known as was the President of the United States of America. He walked with the Queen of England and was buddies with the theater elite. His plays were showing endlessly on Broadway and all over Europe. All you heard every time you turned on a radio, a black and white television, or read a newspaper or magazine, was Noel Coward, Noel Coward, and Noel Coward! It was like a massive billboard in the sky for the world to see, lit up in neon and flashing ‘NOEL COWARD.’

Michele had twisted back towards me and the slightly darker indentation in the flesh colored cloth appeared somewhat more inviting; the light brushing of fingers across the back of my hand held a hint of promise in the day - though I had learnt many years ago not to anticipate, out-guess, or take this woman for granted. There were many sharks lurking in the dark pools of her secretive eyes.

“So you really didn’t like him?” she enquired.

“There are many reasons why I did not like him,” I replied. “I always felt as a child he stole my name so I blamed him for the troubles in my life which ultimately led to the Government removing me from my family and placing me into institutional care when I was eight years old, and the disaster of a life that resulted from it. Unreasonable, I know, but young kids can’t see reason in torment!”

I recalled an early memory when I was about five; sitting on the floor in front of the old Bakelite radio and hearing his name come out of that big black speaker behind the ragged cloth. I turned to my mother with glowing excitement and said “Ooh. I just heard me self.” I explained that that was the one and only time his name brought pleasure into my life and for the next thirty years there were no other occasions where that name enhanced my life. When I reached school age it became a nightmare: if you were named Noel Coward great things were expected of you from the teachers. Plus, I had to listen to comments such as, “Oh! Perhaps we should find a place in the drama group for you,” or, “Do you think you will live up to his standards?”

There was also snickering whenever I was introduced to someone which gave me an inferiority complex and introduced paranoia into my young life. It took years to realize the snickering or laughing was not to do with me personally, but due to the famous name I had been given, and it had been going on since I was breast feeding off my mother. It was just an endless nightmare. “It got to a point,” I informed them, “that I became afraid of my own name being called out in class, or in public. When my name was asked I would muffle the surname and allow the person to assume I had said Howard instead of Coward.” You must remember,” I said, “he was in my life every day in one way or another from the time I was born until the time he died " and even then it didn’t stop. To this day he still creeps into my life. I still get the same comments, but I am older now, and stronger, and there is less accompanying laughter with the comments. Also, enough time has passed since his death for some of the younger generation to have not heard of him, or only vaguely remember him. “

As I expected, it was Michele again who asked the most sensitive question, instinctively homing in on my most vulnerable spot. She asked if Noel Coward was homosexual knowing full well he was. It was one of her devilish tactics, said with deadpan eyes staring innocently at me with face cupped in her hands.

“He was,” I confirmed,” and as such, he was disliked and despised by half the population of Tasmania, and loved by the other, more educated half, creating for me another complex facet to the never-ending Noel Coward saga that became my life. When that aspect entered my life it brought violence into my childhood resulting in physical fights and getting into trouble with the institutional staff. The situation spiraled out of control when I was twelve. I wasn’t a large boy and I was also the youngest. I had run away from one boys home and, as a result, transferred to another boy’s home with higher security.

The first two weeks were a nightmare. When it became known that the famous Noel Coward was a homosexual I was taunted. Ironically I defended him. Whenever the other kids declared he was a ‘poofter’ I would come to his defense and deny it, lashing out at whoever made the comment. While he was soaking up the razzle-dazzle and basking in his own glory, the world media was coy about mentioning his homosexuality. Despite that, the rumors swept around the globe, reaching this land of grunting macho males where it was the ultimate stigma! As he bowed to the standing ovation of the adoring Broadway crowds, I was either being dragged off to the superintendent for bashing someone, or lying in a pool of blood after defending his honor; denying what they knew to be true but did not discuss, out of respect.

Adam was mesmerized as I told my story. He was hearing another side to the legend of Sir Noel Coward from his total opposite (his namesake) in a far away country hanging upside down on the globe; a country unknown by many. He was slowly realizing there was much more to the Noel Coward story than glitter and gold.

“And these were not isolated incidents.” I said. “If I were to have a thousand dollars for every altercation I was involved with because he was a homosexual, I would have over two hundred thousand dollars by now! A million dollars or more for all those Noel Coward related comments!”

“How did you come to be named after him?” asked Rodney.

I assumed Rodney was asking why my parents would give me that name if it was to cause so much destruction in my life. But my parents thought it was a lovely name and did not foresee the terrible consequences. It was a unique set of circumstances coming together that could not possibly have happened with any other name. There are two fundamental elements: One, his name of fame was also one of shame; Coward as in ‘weakling’; two, was his homosexuality.

Although Sir Noel Coward was able to rise above the stigma of being a Coward " in my opinion his greatest achievement of all " I was living in a land of macho-madness, and the problems associated with the stigma of homosexuality became mine to deal with. I lived the horror part of his life for him! I took all his s**t! And so I answered Rodney’s question the only way I could:

“I recently met my mother after many years and we discussed this. My father thought it was a good name, and my mother adored Noel Coward. She thought he was very clever and talented. Perhaps she even believed some of his popularity and fame would somehow would rub off onto me and make life easier for me.”

There were problems in my life on an almost daily basis associated with that name, even after I broke free of the institutions the problems continued. By then I had a record of multiple escapes, and was locked into a nightmare that saw me incarcerated for more than eighteen years. The pathway was paved ahead of me. There were so many incidents. Sometimes I was aware of what was going on and why, other times it was years before I was able to dot I’s and cross the T’s. For example, my identification would disappear on a regular basis, stolen by ‘souvenir hunters.’ It was a police officer that alerted me to it when I once asked to produce my driving license.

“I imagine you would get a few of those stolen as some sort of souvenir,” he said.

That was when the penny dropped!

On another occasion I was performing a bank transaction. I didn’t realize the delay was due to suspicion because of my name, and the bank staff calling the police to check. Then there were the endless problems with phone calls. In those days to make a reverse-charge phone call, you had to go through the operator. She would take your name and then contact the other party to see if they would accept. One such operator said “Yes, and I’m the queen mother!” then hung up.

And so it went on, the Noel Coward thing, day after day and year after year. It came at me from so many different directions and with such frequency that I was braced for it on a daily basis. It just didn’t stop! Even a Supreme Court judge once commented that with ’First Fleet’ convict ancestry on one side, and Hollywood Royalty on the other, perhaps I would be better rewarded if I just wrote scripts about my activities, as opposed to acting them out.

The truth was I more than disliked Noel Coward; I resented him with a passion! While he danced and pranced across the stage of Broadway, bowing to standing ovations, I was on the other side of the world fighting his battles and defending his good name, and he didn’t even know I existed! Every time the name NOEL COWARD was lit up in neon signs around the world a giant shadow fell over my life and a fresh round of taunts and comments began. I was most likely the only person in the world that was not sad when he died, and experienced no sense of loss. In some way life changed for me the day he died. I embraced the name for myself for the first time and, for the first time in my life, when someone called my name it did not bounce off my chest like scrabble pieces and clatter to the floor. It passed through my chest and found its lodgings, not comfortable but bearable. ‘I’ was ‘Noel Coward,’ and without the mad dogs and the Englishmen!

Adam also had a curiosity towards Droc asking me if I preferred being Leon Droc or Noel Coward.

“I like both,” I informed him. “I am Droc at heart because through Droc I learnt to express myself for the first time ever without being compared. It did not matter if the quality of what I wrote did not compare because whatever I wrote was taken seriously when authored by Droc, and ridiculed if authored by Noel Coward.” I said, “Can you imagine someone being interested in your writings when they hear Noel Coward saying, “Excuse me luv! I wasn’t expecting a bloody Sheila! Thought yer was a man . . . not that yer don’t sound sexy an all that, but fair dinkum, read me script, it’s a bloody ripper mate! ” That received a chuckle from all, and the conversation ended on a happy light note. Adam got to his feet.

“That deserves drinks all round,” he said, disappearing into the café.

There was a bit of an awkward silence as the others struggled to come back to the moment. Michele was looking at me in silence with those big round eyes and no expression on her face. If anything, the black whirlpool eyes seemed a little lost. Suddenly the mystery of ‘who was Droc?’ was solved, and I do declare, I can recall no other occasion when I had managed to render her speechless " well almost.

When Adam returned with the tray of drinks the conversation had turned lively as further clarification was sought by the others about some aspect of the story. Michele had allowed her hand to rest on my thigh, meaning all was forgiven for the unknown and undisclosed failing of mine and, according to her, I had many, and each one required me to beg for forgiveness before feasting. Adam on the other hand was elated, a grin from ear to ear.

That followed with a bit of light talk while I drank my coffee. I was keen to get going so I could reflect on the morning and its impact on my friends and relationship. I stood, took my lover’s hand and prepared to leave.

“Have you never told that story before?” asked Adam.

“No.”

“You should write about it,” he suggested.

“I wouldn’t know where to begin Adam,” I said.

“There is so much more I would like to hear,” he said. “It was a fascinating story, and from a perspective that one could not even begin to appreciate or even know existed. Thank you for sharing it with us, and one day I would like to know more about Droc.”

Strike Them Dumb

They said Noel Coward was dumb

Because he couldn't read and write

A withdrawn little character

No words with which to fight

And laugh they would upon

The implications of his name

To rule the roost and cook his goose

To play their power game

Yet here be Droc and smirking some

A tickling of the palm

A tongue in cheek