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

14 - My Gay Exploits

When we arrived in Los Angeles, the Writers Guild was in the middle of what would turn out to be the longest strike in its history. In one sense it was terrible timing; for five grueling months the entertainment industry was effectively shut down and along with it any possibility of Tom and me getting our foot in the door, because there was no door. (After the strike, the problem stopped being the lack of door and started being our lack of foot.)

But in another sense it was fantastic timing; we had a new apartment to furnish and thanks to widespread financial hardship, there were endless lawn and garage sales with amazing bargains. That Yin/Yang coffee table we were so proud of? We got it for pennies on the dollar in Sherman Oaks. At a yard sale in Toluca Lake, we bought a pair of mirrored end tables for ten bucks. And they threw in a a semi-functional lava lamp for free.

Style!

At another garage sale, this one in the flats of Encino, Tom bought a king-sized, four-poster bed for a steal from a balding, out-of-work cameraman in a too-small Molly Hatchet t-shirt that exposed his gut. Before the strike, and hopefully after, he worked on a sitcom called "Perfect Strangers," operating the B-Camera, making him the most powerful industry insider we had met so far. (And for those of you who are not familiar with the technical aspects of multi-camera comedies, B Camera is the one between cameras A and C. You're welcome.)

While Tom fished the bills out of his wallet, the cameraman turned to me. "It's a really nice bed," he said pleasantly.

"OK," I replied neutrally. Per usual, I had no interest in the topic of other peoples' furniture.

"It's very comfortable," he continued.

"I'm sure it is." I had no idea why he was telling me this.

"The springs are really firm."

Oh.

Finally I understood his implication. To me, his belief that Tom and I were a couple was ridiculous. After all, we had been to at least a dozen yard sales together and nobody else had leapt to that conclusion. (Or more likely, I realize now, everybody had leapt to that conclusion; they just hadn't said anything.) So I was surprised, but not insulted.

Tom, by contrast, was surprised and insulted. "He's just my roommate," he said. "That's all."

"Really, honey?" I teased. "Is that all I am to you?" I batted my eyes.

"Stop it!" he hissed.

Jesus.

This was a side of Tom I hadn't seen before. And perhaps not coincidentally it was the last yard sale we'd go to together. Which was fine by me. I already had my lava lamp. What else did I need?

A few months later, Tom and I decided to join a gym, because it was Los Angeles and that was the law. A massively muscled trainer, who we secretly nicknamed Mongo, gave us the tour of the facilities.

These are the heavy lifty things!

Those are the belty runny things!

That's the watery drinky thing!

Then he sat us down in front of his woody desky thing and asked us about our fitness goals. I said that I wanted to be able to crack walnuts with my butt. Tom said he wanted the power of flight. Mongo said that he couldn't promise that, but after a good workout, you feel like you're flying, which struck us as nonsensical and, also, a lie.

Then Mongo told us how much it would cost to join. It seemed like a lot, and that was before we realized it was on a monthly, rather than yearly basis. "You know," Mongo said, when we balked at the price, "I can save you thirty-three percent if you join as a couple."