TROY BREEDING died happy — for he was born gay, and his life was glorious, transcendently magical and full of glamour

From Troy’s memorial service

Guerneville, Calif: Troy & I get ready to paddle down the Russian River. [Photo: Kusner.]

By DANIEL KUSNER | Oct. 27, 2012

AUSTIN — I’m Dan Kusner. I’m from Dallas. And I’ve known Troy for almost 20 years.

This week, I realize how much I’m going to miss Troy.

But over the last few days, instead of crying, I’ve been laughing myself silly.

BOAT BOYS: Summer, 2009.

While sifting through memories, I’ve tried to figure out what made Troy so ... Troy.

I remember visiting the house he shared with Gary Donaldson. I’d compliment Troy about how cool the living room looked: He’d take a ginormous yellow lamp and place it — just so — next to an orange armchair. And it just worked.

One of my earliest memories of Troy is indelible. And it explains a lot.

Troy insisted that I needed to update my saggy furniture. So he introduced me to some South Austin thrift stores he knew I wasn’t hip to.

Once inside, Troy said, “Skip the used clothes. Go look around in housewares-and-accessories.”

He went down one aisle, and I went to another. 

While I was combing over a vintage leather-and-chrome stool, I heard Troy whisper, “Girl!”

As I turned my head, I saw Troy rolling toward me in a wheelchair. 

My jaw dropped.

For $18, the wheelchair was his. I bought the stool, which I loaded into the backseat of my car. We learned how to fold the wheelchair so it could fit inside my trunk.

Then it was time for lunch. 

We pulled up to a nearby Chinese restaurant. In the parking lot, Troy said, “You need to get the wheelchair from the trunk and bring it around to the passenger side door.”

He was serious.

Being a UT alumni who majored in kinesiology, Troy made the lower half of his body completely limp. Then he just sat there while I struggled like hell trying to lift him out of the front seat and into the wheelchair. 

As soon as he was in the saddle, he didn’t break character. 

I went behind to push him, and he snapped back, “I can do it myself.”

He lifted his legs into the rests and propelled himself to the front door. 

The Asian waitresses fawned over Troy as he regaled them with a story about a disaster — when the promising young gymnast suffered one very unfortunate dismount. 

During our meal, he said, “I need to use the bathroom.”

I told Troy he was on his own for that one. 

More than 15 minutes later he returned, explaining the difficulty of wheeling the chair into the stall, as well as lifting himself onto the commode and reaching for the sink to wash his hands. Another customer had to hand him a paper towel and open the door so Troy could wheel himself out. 

We paid for our meal, and the waitresses looked at Troy with wistful affection as we made our way to my car. 

By that time, I assumed our display had ended. Not yet.

Now I had to get Troy back into the car, and he wasn’t going to help me one bit. 

He was so heavy that I gave up. I hurled Troy into the front seat. He slid down backwards and rested his head on the floorboard while his legs were twisted over to one side. 

As I was shoving his limbs in the car, Troy pleaded, “You can’t treat a paraplegic like this! This is wrong!”

I slammed the door on him, threw the wheelchair in the trunk and pulled out of the parking lot while he accused me of abusing the disabled.

Of course, this incident was insensitive and in bad taste. But only to a degree. 

Troy augmented life’s uglier sides that luckier people tend to deliberately ignore. 

His spirit shined a bright light on the seemingly repulsive for others to celebrate. Yes, to make fun — but not to make mean. 

Soon after, Troy announced the theme for one of his upcoming parties. 

Legend has it, the theme was inspired by a framed portrait that Troy discovered in a thrift store.

The photo was a headshot of a middle-aged black woman with an unflatteringly crimped and pomaded hairdo. She wore a modest strawberry-striped sweater. Her ears were festooned with gold-like baubles. And her neck was garlanded with one humble yellow strand.

What made the image so Mona Lisa-like and alluring was the woman’s smile — it was big as the moon with rows of teeth that looked like broken rocks.

And her eyes were wrinkled with laugh lines deeper than Grand Canyon.

Troy christened her “Aunt Bunny” — and he made her a star.

Troy invited some lucky people who are here today to that soiree, which was called Aunt Bunny’s Funeral.

Guests were expected to come as Bunny’s bereaved friends. Costumes, character backstories and full participation were mandatory.

It was a great party. So good that the details are a bit fuzzy.

I remember Troy’s living room had makeshift pews. I remember gospel organ music — and something that resembled a casket.

We were there to send off Aunt Bunny.

And, yes, today is eerily similar.

But I know Troy would have welcomed the comparison.

Southern-fried feminine.

At the party, Troy was a vision of Southern Feminine Charm — draped in a sea-foam chiffon gown with a big yellow sunflower at the midriff.

He wore a tightly curled wig and granny glasses. And he warmly greeted and comforted guests, all while sitting in the wheelchair.

But the highlight of the party was watching him scoot around on the carpeted floor and then suddenly flail himself to the ground.

Troy’d insist he was all right while we peed in our pants laughing and clumsily helping him back into the chair so he could sit upright.

•••

The last time Troy visited Dallas, I took him to a friend’s house — an author who was writing a book about a bygone party hostess: Elsa Maxwell.

From the 1930s to the ’60s, Elsa was as famous as Martha Stewart is today. And she threw outrageous, fabulous parties.

Elsa’s credited for throwing the first scavenger-hunt party.

She was twisted, too: Elsa threw a hoedown at the Waldorf-Astoria — where guests competed in cow-milking contests.

Elsa knew that troupes of trained seals were a smash-hit at any bash.

My author friend just showed me this quote, which recently ran in the New York Post.

It sounds like something Troy would’ve underlined.

“If I knew I were to die tomorrow, I’d want my epitaph to be: I die happy. For I was born gay, and my life was glorious, transcendently magical and full of glamour.”