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My Journey from the Projects to Paris to Rodeo Drive

Memoir

Date to Published: September 10, 2024

Publisher: Acorn Publishing

 

 

Larry Chrysler’s life takes a dramatic turn when a chance encounter
with a mysterious stranger disrupts his day. From that moment, the son of a
bipolar mom and a homophobic dad decides he must follow his heart and forge
his own path to success if he is to achieve his fashion design dreams. Armed
with only a high school diploma and “angels on his shoulders,”
Larry befriends wayward princesses, dresses A-list actors and rock music
royalty, and embarks on jet-setting adventures his younger self hardly could
have imagined.

Scattershot: My Journey from the Projects to Paris to Rodeo Drive tells the
unforgettable story of a Jewish gay boy who leaves the oppressiveness of the
Minneapolis projects to pursue a glamorous career in design among elite
fashion circles in America and Europe. At times funny, wise, and heartfelt,
this is a story of coming out during the repressive 1950s and of eventually
finding true love. In this wryly candid and inspirational memoir, Larry
proves that no dream is impossible with a little daring and
panache—and, of course, a fabulous wardrobe.

EXCERPT

 

Each evening, when Norman and I retired to our bedrooms, Andrew would go down to the pool house, smoke a cigar, and read magazines. One day, there was a conversation about the Marrakesh Hotel Mamounia, where I had stayed a few times. I was describing the decor and beautiful gardens when Andrew blurted out, “Oh, I once loved the hotel but now nobody who is anybody goes there anymore. It just isn’t done.” 

As he spoke, I realized he was quoting an interview with Yves St Laurent’s partner Pierre Berge in a magazine I had left on the dining table the day before. His comment was another one of his supposed experiences — and an obvious lie. I felt certain he’d never been there. Another of his fantasies was when it was his turn to shop for groceries, and I complained that the price he’d paid for certain items was outrageous, he blithely claimed he never looked at the price of anything because in his “very rich” family there was no need. 

One evening, the three of us, along with our two houseguests, drove into nearby Nice to go to L’Ascenceur, a gay bar I frequented when in town. The moment we entered the bar, Andrew, in a booming voice, said, “Well, here we are fellas, the rich American guys from California.” It was mortifying. 

Happily, the rest of the month was uneventful, and Andrew continued his nightly time alone reading and smoking in the pool house. 

Norman and I belonged to a private international gay businessmen’s club called Gamma Mu. Twice each year the members gathered in a US city hosted by resident members where we spent four days going on special tours, participating in meetings, and networking and socializing with each other. At the requisite Friday luncheon, new members were introduced. Before the seated group, each person explained where he was from, who had sponsored his membership, and what their type of career was. This particular Fly-In (as they were called) was in Seattle, and Norman brought Andrew, who had recently become a new member. That Friday, the newbies stood before the crowd and rattled off the usual list: their sponsor, their hometown, and their career. Except for Andrew. When he stood on the stage, he said, “My name is Andrew da Silva. I am from La Jolla, California, and I don’t work. Norman Blachford, my sponsor, keeps me.” 

A collective gasp filled the room. The next morning, I saw Norman with his luggage in the lobby, where he was checking out of the hotel. He said he and Andrew were leaving early because there was an emergency and they had to return to California. I knew, however, that Norman was embarrassed and couldn’t stand the thought of saving face for the rest of the weekend. 

I rarely saw Andrew after that except for a dinner or two with Norman here in Los Angeles. Then, the shocking news came on the television about Andrew, whose real last name was Cunanan: he had been murdering men in Minneapolis and his whereabouts were unknown.

An FBI agent stationed in Minneapolis called me and informed me my name was found on a list of Andrew’s intended victims. He said to contact the authorities immediately if anything came up and promised to reach out to me should it be found that I was in any danger. After that call ended, I put the telephone down, poured myself a stiff drink, and began to shake all over.

Meanwhile, there were television interviews with purported “friends” of Andrew’s relishing their fifteen minutes of fame, telling untrue stories about him and their friendships just as Andrew had spread his false stories over the years. Each time I called Norman, he would repeatedly say, “Oh it couldn’t possibly be our Andrew.” His denial was the same as it had been when I had originally warned him about Andrew in Mexico City.  

In New York on my way to Europe shortly after the news first broke, things continued to remain tense and frightening with Andrew still on the loose, his whereabouts still unknown, and a lot of murmurs “on the street” that he might be in New York City. My greatest fear was he might be out to get me because of that evening at the restaurant in Nice when I called him out on his lies.

Norman phoned and said he would be in New York at the same time as me. When I asked him where he was staying, he named the same hotel he and Andrew usually stayed in, which was on a dark and quiet street near the Plaza Hotel. Incredulous, I asked, “Are you out of your mind staying there? You could be accosted by Andrew on that street. He knows exactly where you stay.” 

Again, Norman poo-pooed the danger he might be in and then invited me to a cocktail party he was throwing at the Regents bar. I couldn’t believe the level of denial, and yet there I was, somehow complicit in his denial as well, putting on my sports coat and hailing a taxi to the Regents bar. 

About thirty of us stood around the bar waiting for the oft-late Norman and all chatting about Andrew. What else was there to discuss, after all? We waited and waited until finally, about 45 minutes later, Norman arrived with a new boyfriend, in tow: Peter. We all immediately eyeballed each other knowingly, because Peter’s coloring and demeanor resembled Andrew’s to a T. 

Shortly after that, Gianni Versace was murdered in Miami,

 

About the Author

Larry Chrysler was raised in the bi-racial projects of 1930s Minneapolis
before pursuing a career as a dress designer in New York and Los Angeles. He
eventually established himself as a distinguished menswear clothier on the
iconic Rodeo Drive. Currently, Larry lives in Beverly Hills with his husband
Matthew. Scattershot: My Journey from the Projects to Paris to Rodeo Drive
is his first book.

 

Contact Links

Facebook: Larry Chrysler 

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