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.
It's a dark thought, I know, but it would be better that than sitting at home watching Tammy accept a Primetime Emmy Award on TV. And I am not sure, honestly, that I am exaggerating.
Not knowing what else to do I called Danny and asked him point blank what was going on with Tammy and Cindy Story. Danny claimed, unconvincingly, that he didn't know what I was referring to. For an agent, he was a terrible liar and I was in no mood for bullshit. Danny sighed and told me to wait a few seconds while he shut the door. And even with the door closed he kept his voice down. You can't be too careful in a building swarming with agents.
Danny, it turned out, was quite upset about this recent turn of events. Obviously, this was familiar territory — he had repped plenty of teams that came apart at the seams; truthfully, the longevity of our partnership was more the exception than the rule — but we were two of his earliest clients and even now two of his favorite writers, and he couldn't bear to see that happen to us.
He explained to me that he had gotten a call from Cindy's agent asking for Tammy's contact information. Danny pointed out that Tammy had a partner, but Cindy's agent said that Cindy was only interested in Tammy. Danny wasn't quite sure how to respond, so he asked Tammy what she wanted to do and was shocked when she said she would take the call. And then when Tammy decided to meet with Cindy — which, Danny made extremely clear, he was very much against! — he felt sick to his stomach.
I demanded to know why Danny didn't call me when this all went down. Danny explained that he had wrestled with that very question for a long time, but since he wasn't sure whether looping me in would make the situation better or worse — and also because he didn't want to get stuck in the middle, even though he already was — he decided to let fate run its course. There was also, I suspected, an unspoken financial incentive for Danny not coming down squarely on my side. After all, if we split Tammy would have a gig lined up, whereas I would be starting over from scratch. If forced to choose, he would certainly go with Tammy. Danny liked me a lot, but he wasn't running a charity.
"I definitely could have handled this better," Danny admitted morosely.
"Well," I said caustically, "you sure as fuck couldn't have handled it worse."
I pondered my options going forward. There were not many and they were not good. I had the ability to make things supremely ugly by ambushing Tammy with what I knew and accusing her of treachery — and then regretting using the word treachery because it made me sound like the '60s Adam West version of Batman — but I didn't have the ability to change the outcome.
I felt powerless. And, worse perhaps, I felt extraordinarily alone. My emotional support system, which had always been thin, had all but collapsed. There were just a handful of people on whom I relied, and none of them could help me now.
Samantha and I were still together but not really a couple. We were joined more by our shared responsibility for raising our children than any sense of intimacy, our occasional late-night drunken trysts notwithstanding. Hannah was already in college — financed by the worst movie I ever worked on — and Jana would soon follow. What would sustain our marriage when they were gone?
And we were still seeing other people. I was looking more for entertainment than emotional satisfaction, but the same thing could not necessarily be said for Samantha. It felt to me like I was playing and she was looking. Every man she met had the potential to replace me. This was the unspoken flaw in Dr. Stephanie's arrangement. Even though on a day-to-day basis things were reasonably pleasant, it was difficult to open up to Samantha while waiting for an axe to fall.
Sensei Gilbert had been a stabilizing force for years now — and not just because he had berated me into quitting using opioids. I had spent countless hours absorbing his wisdom — or rejecting it, if it was too Machiavellian or too New Age-y (he swung unpredictably back and forth between the two) — and it had helped tremendously.
But he had no more time for that now. For, I have to admit, the best possible reason. Because one day, out of the blue, his long-lost daughters — whom he had been convinced he would never see again — appeared at his doorstep. His ex-wife had had enough of single motherhood and told Sensei that they were his problem now. (Sounds like a gem, that one.) He was both elated at this miraculous turn and also scared shitless.
For a while, we talked even more than usual, this time with me dispensing advice, because I had a lot of experience with daughters. But raising children, especially on by yourself, like Sensei did — he was determined to undo the damage he believed his ex had done to them — can become all-consuming. He barely came to the dojo, leaving the day-to-day to Darian. He certainly didn't have time for our long, meandering conversations. I was happy for him and despite all his complaints about how complicated and irrational girls were it was clear that he treasured every found moment he had with the daughters he thought he'd never know. But for me, it was a loss. One less person to lean on when everything turned to shit.
I considered calling my parents. They were, after all, the only people left who were adamantly and unquestioningly on my side. But they also had a penchant for stoking the fires of my fear and I was freaking out enough already.
More than that, though, my father had warned me about this exact moment many times. He had in fact strongly suggested, on numerous occasions, that I get ahead of the curve, that I either secretly try to find another writing partner or start working on my own scripts. And I didn't listen. When you're completely blindsided, you feel like a victim; when you've been given ample warning, but still chose to do nothing, you feel like an idiot. It's kind of how I feel about smokers who get emphysema. It's sad, of course, but then again it's hard to be entirely sympathetic because THERE WAS A MOTHERFUCKING SURGEON GENERAL'S WARNING ON EVERY GOD DAMNED PACK YOU SMOKED! WHAT DID YOU THINK WOULD HAPPEN?
And now that the thing you've been endlessly cautioned about has actually come to pass, you find yourself wishing you had done things differently. But now it's too late.
I'm kind of embarrassed by what I did next because it was so cliche, so maudlin, but... I pulled out of a desk drawer a yellowing copy of our high school newspaper, the one with the ridiculous picture of me and Tom protesting at the Senior Awards Dinner, affecting a superior air in our incredibly tacky garb and matching KERPOW! T-shirts. Two realizations struck me. First, we used to be total dorks. I mean, I always knew we were dorks, but I had somehow gotten it into my head that we were also kind of cool. But, nope. It's amazing, honestly, that nobody beat us up at the banquet. Because they absolutely should have. It would have done us some good, I think.
More to the point, though, was this: Looking at at that picture from a seeming lifetime ago made me realize that even if I had it to do over again, I still wouldn't have taken my father's advice. It's not that it didn't make sense; indeed, the canny strategic move would have been to preemptively strike out on my own, or at the very least hedge my bet in case Tammy went rogue on me. But there was something more important going on here. With all the twists and turns I had experienced since moving to Los Angeles it was easy to lose sight of why I wanted to come here in the first place. Why I had traveled so far and worked so hard to attempt something so audacious. The truth is, I never wanted to be a comedy writer for television. I wanted us to be comedy writers for television. Together. Not in a million years would I have charged down this path on my own — I would have chosen a safe and predictable life — but I would do it with my best friend. Our fates and fortunes entwined. Me and Tom, me and Tammy, against the world.
I resolved then that if this was the end of the line for Rubicon/Gilmore, then so be it. I had compromised a lot of principles, and I didn't always like the person I had become, but I would never be the guy to make the break. If Tammy wanted this over, she was damn well going to have to say so. If this dream was going to die, it would be up to her to kill it.
Not me.
Not ever.
I woke up in the morning, with a dry mouth and a mild headache. (I had been drinking the previous night, which I didn't mention because I figured that, by this point, you always assume I was drinking unless told otherwise.) I checked my email. In addition to all of the advertisements for penis enlargement pills — how did they know? — there was an email from Danny. It was time-stamped at 3:32 a.m. The subject line was: YOU DIDN'T GET THIS FROM ME.
What Danny had sent me was the entirety of the correspondence between Tammy and Cindy Story, which he had been cc'd on. There was a lot to it. It started with Tammy being contacted by Cindy — who, by the way doesn't bother to punctuate or capitalize — about wanting to do a show. Tammy said she's excited and she'd always been a big fan of The Story (small lie) and an even bigger fan Cindy herself (a big lie). They agreed to meet and Tammy said she wanted me to be involved. Cindy was not into that. At all.
we allready have nuff cis mails [she can't spell, either] in charge dont you we should meat coz we can do something special on our one [own, I guess?] kisses cindy
Tammy sidestepped the part about cis males, but agreed to take the meeting anyway, without me. So far my fears seemed completely confirmed, but as I read on I saw what Tammy is trying to do. Obviously, she found the idea of creating the first ever transgender comedy (sorry, Transparent; you may be a great show, but you are not funny) very compelling and she didn't want to let this opportunity go by, but also she reiterated, in various forms, the importance of my involvement, not just because I was her partner but also because I had a lot of familiarity about this topic as well. Tammy was hoping, it seemed, that over time she could wear Cindy down.
So why did she keep me in the dark? This is me reading between the lines, but it seemed like she knew that if I found out what was going on, I would have shut the whole thing down. Which I probably would have and appropriately so. Lord knows, I would never have even thought about a meeting without Tammy. But Tammy had spent so much of her life hiding that I guess it was still second nature.
Anyway, the two of them continued corresponding, mostly about creative ideas for the show — some of which were quite terrible, because that's what happens when you exclude yours truly — but Tammy kept circling back to me. Tammy, it seemed clear, was hoping that by building a rapport she could convince her to bring me on board. Cindy, it seemed, believed that by building a rapport with Tammy, she could convince her that I wasn't needed.
In the end, Tammy had to make a choice. Cindy remained adamant about an all-trans creative team and if Tammy maintained her position, Cindy would regretfully have to move on.
This was the moment of truth. I understood that no matter which way it went it would not have been an easy decision. Tammy had been handed something with huge potential and the only thing standing in her way, as far as I could tell, was me.
And this, people, is what she wrote back to Cindy:
Aaron has been my partner for over twenty years and my best friend since I was thirteen. We came to LA together, he was my best man and I was his. He has been unwaveringly supportive of me through my divorce and of course my transition, despite the fact that I'd hidden my Gender Identity Disorder from him for over three decades. We started in this business together, and we'll finish that way, too.
We both assumed that by coming out, my gender would cost us some jobs. We never dreamt that Aaron's gender would be the issue.
I applaud you for wanting to bring transgender issues to the fore, and I wish you the best of luck , but I cannot be a part of it without my writing partner, my friend.
So I'm going to end this chapter here. Because really, what else is there to say?
And also, I'm crying.