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

30 - A Taste of Human Trafficking

February, 2002

We got the call in early February telling us that King Of The Jungle had been ordered to pilot. Tom and I raised our fists in the air and let out a triumphant war cry.

I called Samantha who said, "See! I told you it would work out!" It was both a show of support and an admonishment for me not to be so negative all the time. Then she put the girls on the phone and I told them the news, which they only sort of absorbed, but they mirrored my excitement.

"Tell Daddy you're proud of him," Samantha said in the background.

"We're proud of you, Daddy!" my daughters said in adorable unison. I knew it was coerced, but it still made me unspeakably happy.

Then I called my parents, who had, incredibly, been even more impatient than I was to hear the news, calling several times a day to see if the network had made its decision. "Believe me," I told them, "if I know anything, I'll call you." Which is the same exact thing my agent kept telling me. They were ecstatic.

Everything after that was a blur. A blur that consisted almost entirely of Tom and me making decisions we were in no way qualified to make.

You see, when you write a pilot script, all are you is a writer. But when that script is ordered to pilot, you are suddenly the CEO — or co-CEO's in our case — of a small company. The cast and crew of a sitcom can be anywhere from a hundred to a hundred-fifty people — electricians, painters, carpenters, camera operators, boom operators, script supervisors, line producers, makeup artists, hair stylists, composers, editors, production assistants and on and on — all of them looking to you for guidance.

It was, if nothing else (and it was very much else) a master class in perspectives. Everyone involved in the production read the exact same script, but they all analyzed it from the specialized viewpoints of their own expertise.

Consider: On page one, the character of Rex was shaving and singing "Yellow Submarine" by The Beatles.

The prop master had questions: Is Rex using a disposable razor? A cartridge? An electric razor? Is the shaving cream a gel? A foam? Does it come from a can? A tube? A jar?

The Costume Designer noted that Rex was wearing a robe and underwear. Is the robe cotton? Silk? Terry? Hooded? Shawl collar? Kimono style? Old? New? What about the underwear? Boxers? Briefs? Thong? Do we want colors? Patterns? Stains?

Hair and makeup wanted to know how disheveled Rex's hair should be and how much stubble we want him to have at the beginning of the scene. Also, should they give him some bags under his eyes since the script says he's tired?

The line producer informs us that we can't afford to license "Yellow Submarine" (or any Beatles song) so we'll have to choose something else.

And by the way, is Rex planning to turn on the water? Because right now, the sink is not practical. ("Practical" in show biz parlance means that it actually works. For instance, a practical stove is something you can cook on.)

We decided: Disposable razor, gel from a can, old hooded terry cloth robe, boxers, stained, hair extremely disheveled, no bags under eyes, replace "Yellow Submarine" with "Damn, Wish I Was Your Lover" by Sophie B. Hawkins and yes, the sink needs to work.

Then we moved onto page two. Of fifty-five.

(And, by the way, the scene was eventually cut so none of this mattered anyway.)

Unsurprisingly, these sessions could become mind-numbingly tedious, but to me, this was where the real magic happened, watching the combined talents of so many people who are genuine artists in their fields breathe life into the world that Tom and I had imagined. They were the ones who made it substantial, made it real, and we always solicited their ideas and opinions. When you're surrounded by brilliant craftspeople, it pays to listen.