Pronoun Problems: A Novel About Friendship, Transgender and (eventually) Ninjas

11 - The Sizzling of Lizards

You want to talk iconic? Two best friends hitting the open road. That, motherfuckers, is as iconic as it gets. We were like Dennis Hopper and Peter Fonda in Easy Rider, except instead of riding Harleys, we were in a quirky and massively underpowered yuppie car that struggled under the weight of our cargo, the rear bumper all but dragging on the ground. Also, we weren't hippies. Or drug dealers. So really, we were almost nothing like the guys in Easy Rider. Plus, if I'm being completely honest, I kind of thought that movie was an insufferable litany of pretentious Baby Boomer counterculture bullshit. And that scene with Jack Nicholson ordering the sandwich everyone said was soooo funny? It's fucking not.

(Although, that might actually be a different movie. But basically, my point stands.)

There was, however, one thing Tom and I did have in common with Hopper and Fonda: A profound sense of freedom. In the thrilling asphalt no-man's-land between origin and destination, we had no job, no home, no responsibilities. Around the next curve, over the next hill, at the next gas station, literally anything could have happened.

It didn't. But it could have.

Back then, there was no such thing as GPS and our course was mapped out for us with a yellow high-lighter by The Automobile Club of America on a spiral-bound triptych. We took the southern route — it was supposed to be faster — and I have to say, there is no better way to experience the splendor of America than to see it rushing past your windshield. The lush forests of Pennsylvania, the majestic Blue Ridge Mountains of West Virginia, the fiery sunsets of Tennessee.

Absolutely breathtaking.

From Arkansas on, though, America was pretty much a crap-hole. Oklahoma was a scrubby, dusty wasteland, Texas a giant toxic cloud of cattle farts, the southwestern states parched and cracked like broken pottery, where you could practically hear the sizzling of lizards frying in the sun.

We hit long patches of road where the only radio stations were local preachers sermonizing about wickedness and hellfire, and even longer patches of road where there were no radio stations at all, the auto-seek wandering alone the desolate FM wilderness like the Biblical Cain or maybe Bigfoot.

Luckily, I had thought ahead, bringing with me a vast collection of cassettes, including a dozen mixed tapes I had carefully crafted for the journey. Tom's voice was quite terrible and mine was exponentially worse, but the car was always a safe space and we unabashedly sang along, loudly, to our favorite artists: Pink Floyd, Genesis, Alice Cooper, Joe Jackson, Weird Al Yankovic.

(Unsurprisingly, we were O.G. Weird Al fans. We had seen his Stupid Tour at Graffiti in Pittsburgh and we screamed like groupies... and not as ironically as you might suppose.)

When we got tired of singing, we talked. We had barely been in touch during the weeks leading up to our exodus, and then mostly to work out the logistics of the trip. Now, we exchanged anecdotes about drunken parties and the people we were glad we'd never have to see again. Unbeknownst to me, Tom hadn't actually graduated, which meant that at least some of what he told me at the time was untrue — strategically altered details and sins of omission — but either way, we were both happy to be out of there.

Our happiness, however, was tinged with some regret and guilt. Because both of us, it turned out, had left a tearful woman behind. For me, it was Ella, the willowy, passionate redhead whose sexual appetites and lacerating sarcasm kept me on my toes during my Senior year. I was extraordinarily careful, when we first hooked up, to make sure she understood my post-collegiate plans; plans that did not include her. But my forthrightness didn't prevent her from being resentful when the time came.

"I loved you with everything I had," she said bitterly, "and you never really gave me a chance."

This was exasperating. "Come on, Ella! I was honest with you from the very beginning!"

She let out a short, spiteful laugh. "That's your problem, Aaron. You think you're such a fucking hero for being honest." And she wasn't wrong. I did think I was a fucking hero for being honest.

In a world of duplicity and deceit, where relationships were based on lies of convenience, one man had the courage to tell his girlfriend the truth...

But I decided that there was no point in arguing; instead, in an attempt to salvage the last few moments of our relationship, I leaned in and hugged her. And she hugged me back.

"I hope that life gives you everything you deserve," I said tenderly.

"And I hope that you and Tom are very happy together." Which, Tom and I agreed, was a pretty good burn.

For Tom, it was Jocelyn. Of course. After a year and a half of not dating him in high school, she spent the next four years not dating him in college. Tom went out with other women, but was always willing to drop everything whenever Jocelyn was experiencing emotional turmoil or needed someone to run an errand that she somehow didn't have time to do herself, both of which happened a lot. None of his girlfriends stayed around for more than a few months; leaving, I suspect, when they realized they were just placeholders.

Jocelyn had never once acknowledged, much less returned, Tom's affections, but that didn't stop her from bawling hysterically the night before he left, literally begging him to stay.

"She is a piece of work," I observed tartly.

"She's just going through a lot right now." I hated the way he made excuses for her. "And I've been her support system."

Yeah. No kidding.

"You know," I said slyly, "if she wanted you to stay so bad, she should have at least given you a blow job."

He laughed. "That's what I told her!"

Now I laughed. "Really?"

"Yeah. I mean, not while she was crying."

"Yes," I agreed, "that would have been tacky."

"It was later, when she had calmed down, that I brought it up. 'Cause I'm a gentleman."

"And did she go for it?"

He looked at me like I was insane. "If she did, I sure as shit wouldn't be here with you."

I'm eighty percent sure he was kidding.

And in quiet moments, when the sun had set and Tom had fallen asleep, his cheek pressed against the glass, I would stare into the oncoming headlights and envision our future in Los Angeles. I pictured our careers taking off. Hit shows and Emmys. Interviews in magazines and on television. And shitloads of money. The standard dream of everyone who moves to Hollywood.

But there was more. I saw us meeting our future wives at more-or-less the same time. Ideally, they'd also be comedy writers. We'd each be Best Man at the other's wedding, obviously. We'd each have kids, two apiece, roughly the same age (I was indifferent to the gender). And we'd all be like family. Our wives would laugh together, our kids would play together and we would revel in our ever-expanding orbit of happiness and success.

It was, I recognize, a very odd thing for a straight guy to fantasize about. But it was proportionate with what we were doing: two childhood friends entwining our futures and fortunes together. Aaron and Tom against the world.

We made it to California in just three days. At a few points along the way, there had been some discussion about taking a detour to a tourist destination, but we were in such a hurry to embrace our destiny as Hollywood's preeminent comedy writers that we decided to power on through, streaking across the Mojave desert at a hundred miles an hour, my car's four Swedish cylinders wheezing in the desert heat.

Five-and-a-half years later, we got our first writing job.

In hindsight, we probably should have taken a few hours to see the Grand Canyon.