An Ode to Leslie Jordan

We had it so good with you, didn't we?

Leslie, in lieu of tears, I fancied the idea of falling asleep laughing last night. Over and over, holding my phone in front of my face like a damn church candle, I watched the scene that may well have been my introduction to you.

Cocktail in hand and wearing a seersucker suit, your character clocks Megan Mullally’s Karen Walker sitting alone at a bar and saunters over.

“Karen Walker, I thought I smelled gin and regret.”

“Beverly Leslie, you look more like a woman every time I see you.”

“Thank you. You know I had to speak up for you just now. The ladies were saying how sad and pathetic you are, being all alone without Stanely. But I defended you. I said ‘She’s a hop-head too.’”

I didn’t know what a hop-head was. I still don’t. But that didn’t stop the laughter from rippling through my body, straightening my posture before making me double over.

You see, when you appeared on “Will & Grace”, I was in the seventh or eighth grade in Lewisville, Texas. Every week when the show aired, I made sure the phone was within reach of where I was sitting because as soon as the commercials started, my friend Lindsay would call me and we’d re-enact our favorite lines from the previous scene.

By the time your character showed up, we had Karen and Jack, obviously our favorite characters, down pat. Lindsay could also do a great Grace. We loved that show. We loved the jokes and how the jokes made us feel. Chic, faraway, above-it-all. But then you showed up — yes, you were all of that, but you were also familiar. It felt like one of our neighbors had, somehow, wandered right onto our television screens. This was different. You were different.

Every week, we recited lines, yes, because we loved it and it was fun. But also, I realize now, we also did it because that chic, faraway, above-it-all feeling was also proof of life. Maybe there was a chance in hell that we, too, could be the ones who got away.

I heard the victory of escape in the lilt of your voice. You savored every word, every pause, and god, I loved you for it. A child doesn’t have to understand science to know that sunlight feels right, good, and necessary. A gay southern boy with a body brimming with the laughter you’ve so kindly gifted him just then doesn’t need someone to explain why the laughter is saving his life.

I’ve returned to that scene from “Will and Grace” often over the years as I’ve grown into myself, even as my love of you and your work has been colored by new performances, new moments, even new mediums. Of course, it would be you, of all people, who would recognize amid the devastation of the pandemic that TikTok too could be a vessel for your singular gift, of course. Even people who, until 2020 had somehow been cursed with ignorance of you, suddenly found themselves saying “Well, shit. What are y’all doin’?” as if it was a mantra. I’m so happy that found you, however late.

But honey, it will always be “gin and regret” for me. Jeff Greenstein — the writer and director known for his work on Will & Grace, Friends, Desperate Housewives among other shows — replied to one of my tweets about you overnight: “I wrote that line, but Leslie made it immortal.” Yes, you did, Leslie. You little imp, you immortal sissy, you queen of queens.

My god, we had it so good with you, didn’t we? Bless our hearts.