Officially a Writer

I often find myself sympathizing with Marie Antoinette, finding my people have turned against me, forcing me to make decisions I would never otherwise make. However, this week I feel more like Princess Grace, embraced and adored by a conspiring audience who understands and agrees with my meddling ways. Winning by a large margin was the option to “arrange for Mark and Joan to hang out again.” A medley of meddlers; I salute you.

But, before I get back to Mark and Joan, you’re probably wondering what happened with Peter and Brian. I mean, just because you told me to forget about them doesn’t mean they totally vanished. Well, Peter kind of vanished, back into his indie rock black hole. Chlo has run into him a couple of times and says he will nod hello, but always finds an excuse to avoid talking to her. It’s actually for the best since it lets me avoid any confrontation. Brian has been another story. He’s called a few times. I didn’t pick up, and he didn’t leave messages. He’s texted too, but always open-ended “how r u doing?” I’ve responded, a day or so later, as non-committal as possible, like, “ok. really busy.” I found myself asking, “What would a guy do in this situation?” I felt like a fraud. I really wanted to hang out with Brian. I’ve moved beyond my teenage obsession, and beyond my adult obsession, and now I feel like maybe there is something deeper between us, or that there could be. I’m doing as my blog-conscious requires and “forgetting him,” but for now, in practice only.

As for Mark and Joan, I was starting to think that this would be a piece of cake. Mark turned in his script to NBC, the revised version that he and I had stayed up rewriting based on Joan’s comments. Their initial response was, “This is really not what we expected.” Mark told me he thought he was going to fall dead on the floor. The execs told him they’d been expecting something much closer to his stand-up act, and had already starting preliminary casting. This new direction was not what they’d pitched the network executives, and not what the casting directors were scouting for. Of course, in our naiveté, we hadn’t thought this through. However, once Mark recovered from the shock, he took the producer through the reason for the changes, the opportunity for character growth and to make this series something different from other “bro comedies.” I guess this is the reason Mark has made it this far—he doesn’t give up. By the end of his meeting, the producer had already called the casting director to give her new direction, and had his assistant set up a meeting with the network executives.

While we hadn’t broached the subject in a while, my deal with Mark (his terms) had always been, if I helped him write the script and it sold, I would be a staff writer. I didn’t bring this up with Mark when he called to tell me because I still couldn’t believe this would actually happen. Even if Mark wanted me to work on his show, what NBC Showrunner would allow a textbook editor to write for primetime?

I told Mark we should meet at our favorite Mexican restaurant to celebrate. He said, “You should invite Joan.” My hope soared; he was hooked. Then Mark added, “You’re going to have to quit this week, so you’d better get her liquored up.” Gulp, fall, crash, blackout.

“What?”

“A deal’s a deal. You’re in. Mark and Cece go national.”

I called Chlo and Anthony and told them to bring whomever they wanted, and hurry; drinks on us. I called Joan and told her about Mark’s meeting and how her suggestions had been a huge hit. She seemed hesitant to join, but I talked her into it. Mark invited his theater friends, and before 8pm we’d completely overwhelmed our little local restaurant. Joan was the last to arrive. I’d texted her a couple times and she hadn’t responded. She finally showed up after 9pm. I drunkenly accosted her when she arrived. “Where have you been? They’re practically out of salt and things!”

“Sorry,” she replied. “I wanted to come, but felt really bad about the last time I hung out with you guys. I feel like I got too pushy about my ideas with Mark.”

“You’re crazy!” I shouted. I never said Margaritas made me a better person, but they sure do make me happy. “Mark! Come here!” I told Mark about Joan’s guilty conscious, and to my surprise, my brother threw his arms around Joan and sped her off to meet his friends. I slouched down into a booth with Chlo and Anthony where I could hear Mark saying, “Lloyd Dobbler,” “NBC,” and “Joan” at the top of his voice.

Anthony thought Joan looked happy. Chlo thought Mark looked ridiculous. It could have been the cheap sombrero somebody put on his head, but I think it was a mixture of joy, pride, and possibly the very beginning of love. Here’s hoping.

It was one of those warm times when the world seems perfect, and everybody who matters is all in one place. But just when you have those kinds of thoughts, they end. Brian walked through the door, and suddenly I was hot, nervous, and feeling the ill effects of my third Margarita. “What’s he doing here?” I whispered.

“I guess one of Mark’s friends invited him,” Chlo said, scooting closer to me, resting her shoulder against mine.

Mark hugged Brian with no apparent malice and shouted over to me, “Look who’s here!” Brian waved, and Chlo, Anthony, and I all half-heartedly waved back. Had Mark invited him?
By Midnight, most of our second- and third-tier friends had left. Mark and a couple of his friends were in a booth with Joan and Brian. And Anthony, Chlo, and I slunk lower into the warm rust-colored vinyl booth.

“Just talk to him,” Chlo said.

“I can’t. The people have spoken.”

And as I was drowning into my own misery, I saw my brother pull the smoothest move, and in one easy motion he sat down next to Joan, moved closer to her and put his arm around her shoulder. And that’s how normal people function. What was my problem? God, where to start?
“I’ve got to tell Joan I quit,” I said. Anthony and Chlo tried to pull me back.

“Just tell her on Monday,” Anthony said.

I pulled away with drunken bravado and headed over to my brother’s booth and pulled Joan out from under his arm. “Need to talk to you,” I said. Mark scowled and Joan laughed.

“Look, Cece, I know I should have talked to you about this, but I didn’t know how Mark felt. I was completely awed by your brother when we last hung out. That’s why I acted like such a freak. But now things seem, I dunno… possible. I wanted to say something to you.”
“That’s great!” I blurted. “I have to quit.”

“Because I like your brother?”

This is why drunken conversations, especially about work, are not a great idea. “No, I’m going to work on the show!”

Joan hugged me, and then we did a little dance for all the writers in the world, and the realization that sometimes good things happen.

Then Brian got up from the booth and put his arm around me. “So you’ve made it, huh? You’ve officially made it.”

“More like Mark pulled me up from the gutter and cleaned me up.”

“Well, it’s a good look for you. I’m heading out, can I give you a ride?”

I’d driven myself, but realized that I was not in the best shape to get myself home. Mark jumped in telling Brian, “yes, yes, get her drunk ass home.”

I said farewell to Joan, Anthony, and Chlo and headed off with Brian, my heart visibly thumping through my shirt, or so I thought.

The drive was quiet, aside from The Pixies Surfer Rosa on the stereo. And when we pulled up to the curb, just as Brian was starting to say something, I pushed the door open, yelling from the curb, “Thanks! See you later!”

I felt like a moron, but what else could I do? I couldn’t really explain that a bunch of strangers would prefer he and I not hang out. Now what?