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

27 - Dead Russel (Part 2)

May, 1999

May 19, 1999 was a rough day. First of all, The Phantom Menace. I was ten years old when the original Star Wars hit the silver screen. It is impossible to overstate how profoundly it affected me. A Born-Again Christian friend once described to me the moment that his life was transformed by Jesus's infinite love, how his world was never the same, how he was never the same. Seeing Star Wars as a young boy was a lot like that, only better, because it had light sabers.

So I was beyond psyched to see a brand new one. I happily waited in line for hours and the Force was very much with me because I got the perfect seat, dead center. In my lap, I had an extra-large tub of popcorn (with butter), in the armrest cupholder a Coca-Cola (not Diet Coke, but The Real Thing) and stuffed into the pockets of my jeans, two boxes of Jujyfruits (because nothing enhances the moviegoing experience like scraping sticky candy off of your teeth with your fingernails). I was ready.

The lights went down in the theater. People cheered and, yes, I did, too. Then there was the familiar 20th Century Fox logo, the sweeping searchlights, the martial timpani. And then... silence.

A long time ago in a galaxy far, far away....

I felt a chill.

Suddenly, the crash of brass as John Williams's stirring score engulfed the theater. And I swear to you, in that moment I felt my soul reach out across time and space, and the jaded thirty-something grown-up I had become hugged the innocent child I had once been and together we shed tears of joy.

And then it all went horribly wrong.

The crawl was going on and on about... tax policy? And why are these aliens talking like racist Asian stereotypes? Is this pod race ever going to end? Jar Jar Binx! Are you kidding me? (Come back, Ewoks! All is forgiven!) God, I want to punch little Anakin in the face! And what the fuck are Midi-Chlorians? Why? Why? Why is this happening?

My ten year old self was curled up in the fetal position. "Make it stop! Please!" he whimpered. "How could you do this to me?"

"I'm sorry," I said to him. "I didn't know."

"You're a bad man! I'm never talking to you again!"

And that was the last time I saw him. Which was fortunate, I guess, because at least he was spared the horrors of Attack of the Clones.

I returned home depressed, exhausted, empty. I glanced over at my answering machine. It had an odd design quirk. Instead of simply displaying the number of messages, it had a red LED light that would blink slowly if there was one message, and blink faster with each subsequent message. Right now, it was blinking so fast, it looked like it was having a nervous breakdown.

I've got a bad feeling about this.

I listened to the seemingly endless stream of incredulous and angry messages from my fellow Cool, Man! writers (plus one from the Department of Water & Power which was obviously unrelated). They were all about Dead Russell being hired back for second season, all with the same sentiment: Can you believe this shit?

As I pondered this shit and its lack of believability, my phone rang. It was Dead Russell, taking a victory lap. "How awesome is this?" I ducked the question and he was too busy self-congratulating to notice. Unsurprisingly, he interpreted this as total vindication, unambiguous proof that he had done a great job season one.

"Well, Sharon did have some serious concerns," I reminded him. "About you being late. Your attitude."

He made a dismissive noise, a puff of air into the receiver. "If her 'concerns' were so serious, why did she have me back?"