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

44 - Our Bathrooms

The simple reality was this: The moment that The Former Future Mrs. Rubicon/The Current Spiteful Siphilitic Whore took it upon herself to lovingly share the news of Tom's transition with a select group of everybody she had ever met (and some people she hadn't) Tom had no meaningful options left. The truth, as they used to say on The X-Files, was out there. And judging by the sudden spike of phone calls I was receiving — So this is what it's like to be popular! — the truth was also spreading.

"There's no putting that genie back in the bottle," I said. "Even if you wanted to."

Tom looked off, absently patting the loose skin under his chin with the back of his hand. It was something she had read about in some women's magazine article about how to look younger, and it didn't work.

"The thing is, Aaron," she said, voice a little raw from yelling at Lillian. "I don't want to. The genie's been in that bottle way too long. And frankly, the bottle is starting to smell like old hummus and..." Tom searched for a finish.

"Genie farts?" I suggested.

"Sure," Tom said ambivalently. Normally, we'd keep pitching on the joke, but Tom was building to something and she didn't want to be derailed. "My point is I have fucking had it with" — and here she angrily clenched her teeth — "that fucking bottle!"

Tom then turned philosophical. "You know, maybe this is for the best. Maybe The Current Spiteful Siphilitic Whore did me a favor." Then Tom looked at me. In his eyes, there was an intensity, a certitude, that I had not seen before. "I'm gonna do this now." And all at once, she was on her feet, heading for the door.

I was taken off-guard. "Right now?"

"Do you know another kind of now?"

I ignored the sarcasm. "It's almost five and people will be leaving soon."

"Tough shit." She opened the door and called to our assistant at her cubicle. "Brie, I need you to get everybody on the crew into the bull pen, please."

"Even the effects guys?" They had an amazing rapport with computers. With human beings, not so much.

Tom hesitated, then shrugged. "Sure. Them, too."

Brie started working the phones like a pro. "We need you to come to the bullpen right away." Pause. "I actually don't know why." Pause. "A birthday, maybe?" Which, in a sense, was correct.

"Let me know when everyone's here," Tom said. He went back into our office and shut the door behind him, then shut the blinds so no one could see inside. I understood why she wanted to be alone. She wanted to gather her thoughts without distraction. But I was now stranded by Brie's cubicle with nowhere to go.

"Well," I said to Brie. "I guess I'll loiter here for a while." I leaned awkwardly against the cubicle wall.

Fortunately, it wasn't long before people started showing up. Some of them — perhaps most of them — must have seen or at least heard about Lillian's email and I watched everyone to determine which ones had guessed the purpose of this spontaneous gathering. It was, I surmised, the people who would not make eye contact with me who already knew. I could see their guilt. They had invaded Tom's privacy, felt the tawdry thrill of secrets laid bare. Accessories after the fact.

Or maybe I was just projecting.

The bull pen was filling up. The multi-colored couches were full to capacity. Some of the younger folks — who had clearly learned nothing from the mandatory sexual harassment seminar — were sitting on each other's laps. Exchanging back rubs. Everyone else was standing in knots of three or four. It was impossible to make out what any of them were saying.