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

31 - Off With Our Heads!

May, 2002

Every year, near the end of May, there was a mass migration of television luminaries from Hollywood to New York City for The Upfronts, a series of dog-and-pony shows in which the broadcast networks unveiled their fall schedules to advertisers, the multi-billion dollar trough from which they hoped to feed.

This year, Tom and I were part of that migration. Why? Because King Of The Jungle had been picked up for the fall schedule. We had a guaranteed thirteen episodes on air in a coveted time slot. It was, astoundingly, everything we had imagined when we made the impulsive decision to traverse the continent and plant our flag on Mt. Sitcom.

We were flying First Class on an American Airlines wide-body jet courtesy of our studio. Until that day, neither of us had ever been in First Class. Well, technically we had been in it — lugging our carry-ons down the aisle as the elite passengers glanced up from their complimentary copies of The Wall Street Journal and Investors Business Daily and silently judged us while we were herded into coach where we belonged — but now we had First Class seats.

And they were incredible! Wide, plush leather that reclined. Not just a few barely perceptible degrees, like in the Economy cabin, but aaaaaaaall the way back. I'm talking fully horizontal. A motherfuckin' bed in the motherfuckin' sky!

And holy shit, people! The service! Before we even took off, the flight attendants — who, I have to say, were so much prettier and perkier than those scowling lumps of misshapen flesh who shambled through coach — handed each of us a glass. A glass made of actual glass and filled with champagne, which we blissfully sipped while we perused a laminated menu of mouthwatering dishes designed by a celebrity chef. And do you know what these flight attendants — these shapely saints of the stratosphere — did when we finished our champagne? They hurried over, smiling beatifically, with more champagne!

Of course, Tom and I didn't spend the whole flight just drinking champagne. Somewhere around lunch we switched to wine, which they obligingly served us in large tumblers. Which reminds me of another great thing about First Class: The bathroom-to-passenger ratio was mercifully high. For someone like me, who had a bladder the size of an eye-dropper, that was worth the price of admission right there. Especially since someone else paid it.

"You know," I observed, while we were eating hand-made ice cream sundaes, "if the people in the back of the plane decided to rise up and murder us, I wouldn't blame them one bit."

"Oh, we'd totally deserve it," Tom agreed. "Off with our heads!" He then signaled to the flight attendant for a glass of port, because that was classy and he was in First Class.

Soon, tired from the excitement and the alcohol, Tom decided to get some sleep, using the sleep mask the airline had thoughtfully provided. I was tired, too, but I was determined to stay awake for the whole flight. Because for all I knew this would be the only time I'd get to do this, and I was going to savor every second.

I leaned back, laced my fingers behind my head, and marveled that we managed to drag this thing over the finish line.

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Post-Production consisted mostly of staring at the back of peoples' heads in dark rooms. The bulk of our time was spent in the edit bay where Tom and I sat on a leather couch behind our editor, Fred, who was silhouetted against the light of multiple monitors and LED's, his nimble fingers flying over the Avid like he was weaving a tapestry on a loom.

Fred was an old school editor: Introverted to the point of misanthropy, communicating mostly in monosyllables and sighs, his shoulders rising and falling in exasperation whenever we had a dumb idea which, apparently, was a lot. He was also — as we discovered the one and only time he swiveled around in his Aeron chair to face us — cross-eyed, which for a guy who spent endless hours staring at screens in the dark, seemed absolutely perfect.