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

56 - Surgeon General's Warning

Looking back, it was entirely possible — if everything had gone according to plan — that I would never have known what Tammy had done until it was too late. It was even possible, I now realize, that I would never have known at all. Lucky for me, though, secrets are extraordinarily hard to keep in loose-lipped Hollywood. And it's not just the fabled Hollywood Insiders, but also the Hollywood Nearsiders, which is a term that I just made up (I would like you all to start using it please, thanks in advance for your cooperation) to describe the people who aren't technically in show business, but spend a lot of time near the Hollywood Insiders and gain access to sensitive information. It could be the driver who shuttles executives to and from a shooting location, or a high end trainer with an elite clientele of A-list celebrities, or the craft services person refilling the bowls of chips, candy and jicama sticks on set.

In this instance it was a hair stylist at a chichi salon in Beverly Hills. Her name was Coco, Queen of the Airhead Council (and world class twat) and she learned all about the project that Cindy Story wanted to do with Tammy from none other than Tammy herself, when she came in to have her highlights done. And then — this is the part that Tammy had mysteriously failed to anticipate — Coco passed this information on to other customers including a comedy writer friend of mine named Alexa — she, too, was a survivor of Ditz! — who naturally assumed that any project Tammy was involved in, I would be involved in too.

So Alexa texted me, something about how cool it was that Tammy and I were going to be doing a project with Cindy Story.

To which I texted something about not knowing what in hell she was talking about.

To which she texted something about Coco saying we had a meeting with Cindy about a transgender comedy.

To which I texted something about not having been to any such meeting and when did this meeting happen and what the holy fuck was going on?

To which she texted something about, oh shit, I guess I said something I wasn't supposed to, I'm sorry, don't worry, it's probably an innocent misunderstanding.

To which I texted nothing, because the sudden churn of terror, fury and recently consumed soft-shell beef tacos sent me racing towards the kitchen sink to throw up. I got there just in time, my lunch painting the porcelain in dark browns and pale yellows. I turned on the water and used a wooden spoon to push it all down the garbage disposal.

This is it, I thought, the betrayal I'd been dreading. The betrayal that, on some level, I always knew would come. It struck me as wildly unfair. I had spent years — decades — dragging him, then her, along. Through her seemingly unending series of depressions and personal crises that rolled in like winter waves. Rather than appreciation, it had apparently bred resentment, the bitter ingratitude of the indebted. And now that Tammy was finally in a position of power — thanks to, of all things, being transgender — she no longer needed me, so she was cutting me loose. Which created the uncomfortable thought that I might discover that I hadn't been dragging Tammy along, that had had actually been holding her back.

The truth is that when you have a writing partner your biggest fear isn't that you'll both fail — although I lost plenty of sleep over that exact worry — it's that the partnership will end and only you will fail, while your ex-partner goes on to enjoy runaway success. I had seen it myself a number of times, writing teams splitting up, one of them creating a hit show while the other languishes in obscurity, bitter and resentful and unable to get the taste of betrayal out of his mouth, no matter how many times he spits his former partner's name. Honestly, I have no idea how anyone goes on with their lives after that. How can you ever find inner peace? I truly couldn't imagine it. Whenever I gamed out that scenario in my head it inevitably ended with a murder/suicide.