March, 2001
I used to derive a perverse amount of satisfaction from predicting the failure of couples' relationships. It was something I started doing during show night on Cool, Man! to kill time. It took six hours to film an episode and while it was fun — there was food, alcohol and, usually, the laughter of the audience — there was a tremendous amount of downtime. So after consuming a sufficient quantity of bread pudding and middling wine I would ask people — writers, executives, actors, basically whoever wandered into Video Village — about their current relationship and then, usually, I would tell them bluntly that it wasn't going to work.
Them: I'm moving in with my fiancee.
Me: I give it a month.
Them: You can't possibly know that. (ONE MONTH LATER) Damn you, Rubicon!
And so it went. Everyone would doubt me, but then — one after another — their relationships collapsed. There was one week in which three of the relationships I had marked for death, died. It was glorious. And very quintessentially me back then, combining two of my favorite things: Armchair psychoanalysis and smugly throwing stones in a house made of bullet-proof glass.
After a while, it became a spectator sport, with people delighting in watching some hapless victim squirm as I probed for romantic weakness — incompatibility, dishonesty, ambivalence, an unacceptably large (or small) body part, etc. — and gave it the Aaron Rubicon Seal of Disapproval. Tom, in particular, found this very entertaining — You're like Cupid's evil twin! — unaware that I had given his relationship an expiration date, too.
My prediction was that his marriage to The Destroyer would only last five years. But I hoped it would be less. Which sounds horrible, I know, but I looked at it this way: If Tom had a malignant tumor, would I really be wrong for wanting it excised as soon as possible, before it metastasized? And by "metastasized" I meant, "had children."
Which, I know, also sounds horrible, but I'm not really saying that children are like tumors — although they do grow very quickly and make your hair fall out — I'm saying that if you're going to divorce, it's better to do it before there are children involved. That way, you can just shake hands and walk away friends. Or enemies. Or solo artists writing bittersweet songs about each other. Or whatever. And yes, I acknowledge the enormity of the heartbreak involved. And I also realize that the division of assets can be complicated and painful. The salient point, though, is that when it's all over, you can walk away.
This, to me, was the lesson of Dungeon Master Eric and The Anti-Christ. Marriage was one thing, but when a child came into the picture, it was a whole different story. A story called The Omen.
As it happened it was at the five-year mark, give or take a few months, that Tom and The Destroyer had the knock-down drag-out fight that should have ended their marriage.
I learned about it on a Saturday morning, while we were working at my cramped home office on our second feature film spec. It was a comedy called Sex Drive, about a horny guy named Craig whose hair growth medication kills his libido and he comes to realize how much time he had wasted, and how many dumb decisions he had made, because he was led around by his dick. We sold it ("Gilmore & Rubicon Sell 'Sex'" Variety quipped) but it ultimately wouldn't see the light of day because the studio president, when he finally read it, declared that only an idiot would make a movie about a guy who didn't want to get laid.
A valid point.
If memory serves — and these days, that's an iffy proposition — we were in the middle of writing a scene — in which libido-less Craig is talking to an incredibly hot girl he had been hitting on for months and realizing, for the first time, how unbelievably dull she is — when Tom stood up abruptly and said, "I'm sorry, I can't do this right now."
I was startled. It was not unusual for Tom to be distracted and morose, but unless summoned home by The Destroyer, he generally toughed it out. In fact, we did some of our best work when Tom was in the throes of emotional upheaval. Some of that I credit to myself, the one who frequently had to take the lead, but it also shows how enormously talented my writing partner really was, coming up with genius ideas while everything else in his life was spiraling out of control.
"What's going on?" I asked, concerned.
He let out a long, staccato breath. "I just had a huge fight with Whitney."
In deference to his clear distress I resisted the temptation to roll my eyes and say, What else is new? Instead, I went with the blandly neutral, "What happened?"
He dropped back into the fake leather office chair and took a few moments to collect his thoughts. "Well, I was at home, on my laptop and she just comes storming in and starts screaming at me!"
"Out of nowhere?" I phrased it as a question, even though The Destroyer was always doing shit like that.
Tom nodded. "She said that I'm constantly on the computer, that I get lost in there and just shut her out."
"Jesus," I muttered, shaking my head sympathetically.
Feeling the need to defend his wife, he added, "It's not all her fault. I mean, you know how I can get."
I did know how he could get. I was constantly competing with the computer for his attention, and it was wearisome. But I never yelled at him for it. Well, maybe a few times. And once I threw a bottled water at the wall. But I always had good reasons.
Tom tried to apologize to The Destroyer, tried to get her to understand that his withdrawal from her wasn't intentional and definitely wasn't personal, but The Destroyer didn't listen — per usual — and then Tom got frustrated and slammed his fists on his desk, cracking the glass. It was kind of gratifying, actually, to hear that he was sticking up for himself. But that, apparently, was intolerable and in retaliation The Destroyer did what she did best: Cut off his balls with a rhetorical gelding knife. Which, now that I think about it, was an interesting piece of foreshadowing.
"But then, she said— she said— oh God! — That she would never have children with me!" He made a sound, a strangled wail.
Only a terrible person would feel even a glint of satisfaction in the face of his best friend's emotional distress. And I, apparently, am a terrible person.
"What am I gonna do?" It was an animal cry of pain, and it hurt me, too, the hopelessness of his despair.
This was it. The moment I'd been anticipating for so long. I knew I had to tread lightly. Give him a nudge, not a push.
"I know you love her," I said as gently as I could, "but you've worked so hard at this for so long. Maybe it just isn't meant to be." I put a hand on his shoulder, a gesture that felt thoroughly unnatural so I removed it. "Tom, it's time to move on."
Tom nodded sadly, wiped the tears out of his eyes, sniffled. He seemed very young now. Childlike. "Is it OK if we knock off early today?" he asked.
"Of course. Whatever you need, buddy." The word buddy also felt thoroughly unnatural. Clearly, I was not very good at this.
He left my house like a condemned man walking the last mile, his eyes taking in his surroundings, absorbing every detail like it was the last thing he'd ever see. As much as I wanted The Destroyer out of his life, this was absolutely heartbreaking. In time, I was confident, he'd understand this was for the best, but right now, his world was ending.
Or not.
Because when I saw Tom on Monday, he told me the good news: He and The Destroyer were giving it one more try!
This made absolutely no sense. Granted, their relationship never made sense, but this took their inanity to a whole new level. I level I call, Are You Fucking Kidding Me?
I wouldn't learn this for a decade, but there was a very good reason why I couldn't understand what had happened. Tom's heartache was real, but the story he told me was, once again, untrue.
Yes, The Destroyer had yelled at him for being on his computer so much, but it wasn't, as Tom claimed, out of nowhere. For months, Tom had been having a cyber affair with another woman and Whitney had finally confronted him about it.
Back then, the digital domain was just beginning to transform the way people related to each other and the whole concept of cyber affair was a hotly debated topic, starting with the question of whether exchanging sexual and emotional messages with an unseen stranger even qualified as infidelity in the first place.
The answer, obviously, was no. Talking about sex with an invisible partner wasn't cheating on your spouse any more than talking about eclairs with an invisible pastry chef was cheating on your diet.
That said, though, hiding it from your spouse reeked of iniquity, and that's what initially set The Destroyer off. What upset her far more, though, wasn't the fact that Tom was having a cyber affair with a woman, he was having a cyber affair as a woman. Of course, men posing as women online was so common as to be cliché, but this was different. Tom wasn't posing at all; rather, he was taking his lesbian persona — his true self — out for a test drive under the cover of digital anonymity. The freedom of the binary world.
As it was, Tom had already confessed to the The Destroyer that he liked to wear women's clothing and, from what Tom has told me she was willing to indulge his frilly proclivity every now and again. She thought it odd, but harmless. (Plus, she and Tom had compatible tastes in lingerie.) And besides, growing up in repressed England she had seen a lot worse. "British boys," she once told me, when I couldn't escape talking to her. "You don't want to know."
But now, with this newest revelation about Tom's online identity, she began to understand that this was much deeper than mere fetish; this went to the core of who he really was. The Destroyer felt confused and betrayed, married to a man who had not been honest with her, a man she didn't understand. And it pissed her off.
That's why The Destroyer said she didn't want to have kids with Tom and with what I know now, I can't really blame her. Which is saying a lot, because I am great at blaming The Destroyer. If Time Magazine chose the Person Who Blames The Destroyer Of The Year, I'd win every goddam time.
But now, for the first time, I pondered the possibility that maybe I didn't really understand their relationship. That Tom wasn't always the victim, that The Destroyer was much more supportive than I imagined, accommodating Tom's quirks, keeping his secrets. All along I had been asking, Why would Tom put up with The Destroyer? but perhaps the real question was, Why would The Destroyer put up with Tom?
Anyway, as agreed they gave their marriage one more try. And then, when that failed, another try after that. And then another. The pattern was as laughable as it was predictable. They would have an argument, they would see a therapist, and Tom would declare that it had ultimately brought them closer. Then they'd have another fight, go to another, more expensive (and therefore better) therapist and declare they were now even closer than their previous closeness. This went on for five years, by which time they had become so close that they reached critical mass and exploded in a fiery mushroom cloud that incinerated their marital bonds.
They had also, during that time, had two children, ensuring that they would never have a clean break, even if they wanted one, which Tom certainly didn't, especially since, according to him, their divorce had brought them closer together.
Sigh.