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

23 - Obscenities and Gratuitous Insults

November, 1994

Tom proposed to The Destroyer almost immediately after our wedding, while Samantha and I were on our honeymoon at the Grand Wailea in Maui. The timing, needless to say, raised some eyebrows, although there was no consensus among those eyebrows as to what it meant. Was it the flattery of imitation? Or a selfish attempt to steal our thunder? Did Tom choose to propose despite the fact that I was away? Or because of it? Or did Tom's decision — as preposterous as it might sound — have absolutely nothing to do with me?

Samantha and I learned the news from a fax that Tom had sent to our hotel, that was slipped under the door of our room by the bellman while Samantha and I were exploring the exciting new world of marital sex. Which was pretty much the same as pre-marital sex, except we referred to each other giddily as Mr. and Mrs. Rubicon.

"Fucking fuck," I said when I saw it. At the top were the words WE'RE NEXT! Below that was a dark, low-resolution, black-and-white photo of a woman's hand — presumably The Destroyer's — sporting a plastic gumball machine ring with a panda bear's face and an arrow pointing to the words, DRTC (Diamond Ring To Come). "Fucking fucking fuck!"

Samantha sat up in the bed and stretched her shoulder blades, something I always enjoyed watching. "Good news?" she asked facetiously.

I tossed the fax to her. She swiped at it but missed and it fluttered to the ground. I picked it up off the floor and handed it to her. "Oh," she said, when she saw the fax. "Oh, dear."

I took the piece of paper back and looked at it again, hoping, I guess, that it said something else this time. Which obviously it didn't. "God damn it."

"Well," Samantha said with a resigned shrug, "you knew this was coming."

I did and I didn't.

Certainly, both Tom and The Destroyer believed themselves to be on the marriage track. They shared a rental house, bought a rescue dog and plastered the walls with pictures of themselves, every one of them with the exact same smiles and head tilts. By all appearances, a perfectly happy loving couple capable of only one facial expression.

But here's the thing. While I almost never crossed paths with The Destroyer anymore — hallelujah! — Tom and I shared an office. So I got to hear his side of his phone calls with The Destroyer. And they were horrifying.

They started out pleasantly enough. Hi, sweetheart! Tom would say. How is your day going?And then all hell would break loose. What? Oh, no! That's terrible! I'm sorry, Whitney. I didn't know that. I just said I was sorry! I did mean it! Well, how was I supposed to know it was important if you didn't tell me? I'm sorry! I didn't mean to use a tone! I'm not belittling your feelings! I didn't mean it that way! I'm sorry! Yes, I should have realized that! I'm sorry. I said I was sorry! I'll come home as soon as I can! I'm sorry! I love you!

Some people turn their pain inwards, but The Destroyer always needed to lash out. Her pain necessarily became Tom's pain, Tom's fault, Tom's problem to solve and atone for. And as God is my witness, Tom would drop everything and literally sprint — fucking sprint! — to his car and race home to defuse The Destroyer's latest emotional crisis. Even, if he could get away with it, in the middle of a work day. Tom's life revolved around The Destroyer's mood swings which meant that, frequently, mine did too.

When Tom would finally return to the office, he would always apologize to me for making me wait, but would also make excuses for her. The Destroyer's childhood was lonely, her father remote, her step-mom bossy, her day stressful, her commute congested, her sleep insufficient, her iron level low, her neighbor frustrating, her dog disobedient, her favorite show canceled, her creative impulses stifled, her tan uneven, her hair unmanageable, her yeast infection itchy. Whatever. It was always something.