On a recent trip to Los Angeles, I stayed with my university friend Susan and her husband of seventeen years, Tim. Back when they were still dating in L.A., they tried to match me up with Tim’s gay work colleague, Matt. It wasn’t as though Matt and I had a lot in common. I was gay, he was gay. We were Susan and Tim only homosexual friends...and conveniently single! I attended a barbecue at their apartment complex, excited to meet the highly regarded gay-mate. Yes, I was so much younger, so much more hopeful. I was no better than Susan and Tim. Every encounter with a gay man brought the possibility of love. Yes, I believed!
Matt and I exchanged five minutes of conversation about our jobs, him a keen architect, me a doe-eyed attorney. After a few follow-up questions, we sipped our wine coolers in awkward silence. Hope can be so fleeting. We had another chance to mix as someone insisted on a game of croquet. I gravitated more to Susan as we shared the same silly sense of humor while Matt felt the game was a chance to show his winning ways. I don’t recall how to score croquet or if he did win...let’s say he did. Matt and I ran into each other during a few other occasions, including their wedding, but we never shared more than a courteous hello after that. No love match, no possibility of friendship. A pair of gays with nothing to show for it. Go Fish.
On my last night in town on this most recent visit, Tim announced that we were heading to a friend’s for cocktails and then going out for dinner. “You remember my friend Matt, don’t you?” Thankfully, he added, “He and his partner Josh have this amazing place just outside of West Hollywood. You’ve got to see it! Josh should be a landscape designer.” Although it went unsaid, Matt and I were still their only gay friends. No, wait! Add Josh.
Hope resurfaced. No, I do not set my sights on breaking up gay couples, happy or otherwise. I have enough challenges with the single gays. Why add complications with the taken? But since I am planning to move back to Los Angeles, I realized it would be nice to have some gay friends to connect with right away. My good friend Ray moved to Boise, Jed returned to Bakersfield (and still hasn’t confirmed me as a Friend on Facebook!) and things are just awkward when I reconnect with best bud Blake and his permanently velcroed partner who constantly comes across as abrasive.
We pulled up to Matt and Josh’s bungalow on a charming, tree-lined street. Large green and red lanterns adorned the coral tree in their front yard, where a stone walkway created an artful maze amongst succulents and sculptures. Oh, god. These guys are too together for me, I thought. Perfect little home and four years of blissful togetherness. Matt had rebounded well after what Tim told me was a dysfunctional relationship with a meth addict. (Okay, I think the word dysfunctional is superfluous.) Hooray, Matt!
If only I didn't use his success as a point of comparison for myself. Twenty years after meeting Matt, I am more aimless than ever. My stomach tensed.
Josh warmly welcomed us inside. “You haven’t changed a bit!” he gushed as he hugged me.
Okay, not Josh. Matt was totally different. His blond hair was now a dark brown, he sported long sideburns and facial hair and he had a thick Southern accent. Sure, I suppose the accent was always there. Either my memory is that bad or he made even less of an impression back then than I recalled. No worries. We could start this friendship thing from scratch.
Everything inside was perfect, from the ninety-song Christmas playlist to the glasses of Pinot noir Josh handed us immediately upon entry. The scent of pine emanated from the garlands draped from the chandelier to the four corners of the living room. The den had four new antiquities they got for a steal when the elder member of a California tycoon (whose name only I did not know) died and the family started dumping possessions, not interested in an estate sale. (No, Josh and Matt did not call attention to their new acquisitions. They were the perfectly modest hosts. It was Tim who inquired about them.)
I could keep using perfect to describe Josh and Matt’s home—I haven’t even gotten to the backyard!—but you get the idea. That is not my main point. Just as I realized five minutes into a conversation two decades ago that nothing clicked between Matt and me, I got the same non-vibe as to the friendship track after five minutes this time around. Did the setting and the relationship intimidate me? Sure...at first. But we had four hours of conversation at the home and at the restaurant and there was no common ground despite the clear fact that Matt and Josh were outstanding hosts and often animated individuals. Sometimes people just don’t mesh.
On the ride back to Susan and Tim’s, Susan noted that I was particularly quiet. “I’m just taking in the places we pass,” I said. “I like looking at what is familiar and what’s changed.” Actually, I just needed time to think. So much of my thoughts about moving have focused on establishing a writing career and the humiliations that will come as I take on peon gigs, making coffee for up and coming writers half my age. The social challenges will be just as great. Guys my age will be just as settled as they are in Vancouver.
Second thoughts? No. Just necessary thoughts. The resolve remains. Change always brings discomfort. I will simply have to rise to the challenges. And create my own pathways.
Showing posts with label becoming a screenwriter. Show all posts
Showing posts with label becoming a screenwriter. Show all posts
Monday, December 26, 2011
Wednesday, October 19, 2011
TICK...TICK...TICK...TICK
When I was young and actually looked forward to birthdays, the countdown began at least two months beforehand. I’d browse the Sears catalog, take in the Saturday cartoon commercials, peruse the toy section at Eaton's Department Store and create ever-changing wish lists for parents and grandparents. (They needed to know that there were alternatives to woolen socks and books about the Hardy Boys.) Time crawled as the date neared. Same for Christmas, summer vacation and the start of a new season of “Rhoda”. Yeah, I was ecstatic when she married Joe, but I related more to Brenda.
If only Anticipation were satisfied as quickly as the slowly oozing stream of ketchup in a bottle of Heinz, coaxed along by the husky vocals of Carly Simon. So many waiting games are much more excruciating.
I am standing by my plan to move to Los Angeles in July 2012. That’s eight and a half months away. Yes, I’m counting down. Yes, I have a wish list. Make connections, land a lowly writer’s assistant gig, make more connections, sell a screenplay or move up to SENIOR writer’s assistant for a television show. (Senior writer’s assistant—that’s gotta be the guy who orders the pencils and makes lattés, not just regular coffee.) The problem is that I am hitting hurdles before even crossing the border.
Problem #1: My house. Now thirty years old, my house has started to show some wear and tear over the past year. I spent the summer calling laborers to do the necessary repairs and upgrades before I could list it. Calls went unanswered. Appointments got rescheduled. July turned to August. Materials became out of stock. Shipments were delayed. August segued into September. Still, I could see the finish line. The basement carpet that my now-deceased older dog had repeatedly soiled was replaced by laminate flooring. Dim lighting gave way to bright pot lights. Rooms that inexplicably never had any heating source were hooked up with baseboards. Views improved as windows with broken seals were removed. A drywaller filled in all the holes created by the electrician. The only thing left for me to do was to prime and paint the drywall.
And then it rained. Nothing extraordinary. Just a typical five-day streak of downpours and showers. Plop. Plop. Drops began to fall from the ceiling in one of the bedrooms. The aging roof pressed for retirement. Last week, I got a new roof. Now I need to get the drywaller back in to fix the ceiling. (I am sure his kids will be getting way better Christmas presents than woolen socks this year!) I spend my evenings searching for fortuitous deposits in my bank account—maybe I should help that Nigerian ambassador who keeps emailing me—and then planning the payment succession from credit card to line of credit to ???
Ah, but the money will come when the house sells. Right?
It will sell. Right?!
Despite dumping all that money into work that had to be done, selling the house will still be a huge challenge, especially doing so in only eight and a half months. In Vancouver, houses sell in a week, perhaps a month. A ferry ride away, it’s a radically different market. Two houses in my neighborhood have been listed for over two years. Other homes in the larger community have sat with For Sale signs for up to three years. Signs are everywhere. Collectively, that’s a bad sign.
I should have the house listed in early November. Prime time for house sales. Right?
Problem #2: The visa. I once had a permanent alien card, allowing residency in the U.S. Six years ago, I flew to Dallas to visit my parents for a weekend and a customs officer threw a fit over the fact my parents were American and I wasn’t. He sent me off for questioning and I nearly missed my flight. I had to sign a form surrendering my visa card. Now I am one of hundreds of thousands looking at the (fading) American Dream from the outside.
I can’t get an American employer to petition on my behalf for work purposes. Steven Spielberg doesn’t know me yet. From what I’ve read online, I move up in the queue if my parents successfully petition on my behalf. First step is to establish that I am their son. The form is ready to go. Unfortunately, my birth certificate does not list parents.
I knew it! In Ontario, at least, babies are delivered by storks. (I think this is connected to my fear of flying. Being airborne while dangling in a cloth from a bird’s beak had to be traumatic.)
More online searching and I discovered that I can apply for a “long form” birth certificate. If I have parents, the certified copy will show this. Having proof of my legitimacy remain in limbo would normally be mildly amusing. But the fifteen business days seem to pass slower than the two-month buildup to my birthday. Tick tick.
The hurdles are there to test whether I really want a change. And here I thought I’d already worked through that. I am anxious to step up to the starting line. Some things in childhood required seemingly endless long waits. I preferred the instant action. Someone yell, “Ready, set, go!”
If only Anticipation were satisfied as quickly as the slowly oozing stream of ketchup in a bottle of Heinz, coaxed along by the husky vocals of Carly Simon. So many waiting games are much more excruciating.
I am standing by my plan to move to Los Angeles in July 2012. That’s eight and a half months away. Yes, I’m counting down. Yes, I have a wish list. Make connections, land a lowly writer’s assistant gig, make more connections, sell a screenplay or move up to SENIOR writer’s assistant for a television show. (Senior writer’s assistant—that’s gotta be the guy who orders the pencils and makes lattés, not just regular coffee.) The problem is that I am hitting hurdles before even crossing the border.
Problem #1: My house. Now thirty years old, my house has started to show some wear and tear over the past year. I spent the summer calling laborers to do the necessary repairs and upgrades before I could list it. Calls went unanswered. Appointments got rescheduled. July turned to August. Materials became out of stock. Shipments were delayed. August segued into September. Still, I could see the finish line. The basement carpet that my now-deceased older dog had repeatedly soiled was replaced by laminate flooring. Dim lighting gave way to bright pot lights. Rooms that inexplicably never had any heating source were hooked up with baseboards. Views improved as windows with broken seals were removed. A drywaller filled in all the holes created by the electrician. The only thing left for me to do was to prime and paint the drywall.
And then it rained. Nothing extraordinary. Just a typical five-day streak of downpours and showers. Plop. Plop. Drops began to fall from the ceiling in one of the bedrooms. The aging roof pressed for retirement. Last week, I got a new roof. Now I need to get the drywaller back in to fix the ceiling. (I am sure his kids will be getting way better Christmas presents than woolen socks this year!) I spend my evenings searching for fortuitous deposits in my bank account—maybe I should help that Nigerian ambassador who keeps emailing me—and then planning the payment succession from credit card to line of credit to ???
Ah, but the money will come when the house sells. Right?
It will sell. Right?!
Despite dumping all that money into work that had to be done, selling the house will still be a huge challenge, especially doing so in only eight and a half months. In Vancouver, houses sell in a week, perhaps a month. A ferry ride away, it’s a radically different market. Two houses in my neighborhood have been listed for over two years. Other homes in the larger community have sat with For Sale signs for up to three years. Signs are everywhere. Collectively, that’s a bad sign.
I should have the house listed in early November. Prime time for house sales. Right?
Problem #2: The visa. I once had a permanent alien card, allowing residency in the U.S. Six years ago, I flew to Dallas to visit my parents for a weekend and a customs officer threw a fit over the fact my parents were American and I wasn’t. He sent me off for questioning and I nearly missed my flight. I had to sign a form surrendering my visa card. Now I am one of hundreds of thousands looking at the (fading) American Dream from the outside.
I can’t get an American employer to petition on my behalf for work purposes. Steven Spielberg doesn’t know me yet. From what I’ve read online, I move up in the queue if my parents successfully petition on my behalf. First step is to establish that I am their son. The form is ready to go. Unfortunately, my birth certificate does not list parents.
I knew it! In Ontario, at least, babies are delivered by storks. (I think this is connected to my fear of flying. Being airborne while dangling in a cloth from a bird’s beak had to be traumatic.)
More online searching and I discovered that I can apply for a “long form” birth certificate. If I have parents, the certified copy will show this. Having proof of my legitimacy remain in limbo would normally be mildly amusing. But the fifteen business days seem to pass slower than the two-month buildup to my birthday. Tick tick.
The hurdles are there to test whether I really want a change. And here I thought I’d already worked through that. I am anxious to step up to the starting line. Some things in childhood required seemingly endless long waits. I preferred the instant action. Someone yell, “Ready, set, go!”
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