couldn't focus on.
"Sorry,"
I said as she got up and followed me, trying to be close. "I'm too
freaked." We both went back to bed, but this time it was me propped up
against the headboard with my arms clutching my legs, chin resting on my knees,
wondering how something as great as a green-lighted screenplay could end up a
convoluted, corrupted mess.
"I've
never seen you this upset," Callie said, making no further attempt to hold
me. "You're seething."
"I'm
pissed that I continue to walk into the same blind alley again and again.
Nothing worth shooting happens through this studio system. It's designed by
little boys, for little boys, to play into little boys' fantasies. Because of
the boys at the studio, Xena Warrior Princess had to leave Gabrielle and have
sex with a guy, and then, she was so confused that in real life she went out
and got pregnant."
"I
think she got pregnant because she's straight."
"Xena
is not straight and don't start spreading that rumor."
"Come
here to me." She pulled me into her and I reluctantly gave in this time,
but remained in the vertical fetal position up against her.
"I
need to get you some herbs. Going through the change makes everything seem
bigger."
"Yeah,
well, fuck the change," I said, and Callie kissed me and consoled me as
she would a fussy child.
We
couldn't do much to help Manaba at the moment, at least the way I viewed it.
Government buildings, Indian Affairs, and anyone with a brain had closed all
offices for the holiday. Nizhoni was dead—seemingly, Kai had died a long time
ago, and Manaba's grandmother had been out of the picture for years, so why get
hysterical over the historical. No woman was in immediate jeopardy despite
whatever planets were trapping Venus and wrestling her to the ground.
Besides,
the day before Thanksgiving was supposed to be about celebrating, and I'd
surfaced from my funk, never wallowing in self-pity for more than a few hours.
Callie and I were in a festive mood despite the death of my screenplay. No one
had phoned to chastise me after my director decoupling so I was feeling free
and vindicated, looking forward to being snugged in the cabin with Callie and
Elmo and cooking our first Thanksgiving turkey together.
We
found a fairly large supermarket outside of town, and by noon we were skipping
down the aisles literally tossing food into our basket: frozen cranberries, a
sack of potatoes, fresh corn, broccoli, and carrots.
"Somebody
must be coming," she said.
And
I replied that I hoped it would be me, as I picked up the largest turkey I
could find.
She
giggled over my sexual reference and grabbed my behind as we danced down the
aisle in full view of more disciplined and serious shoppers who undoubtedly had
relatives coming, in a far more traditional sense—and judging by the sour looks
on their faces, relatives they could do without.
At
the checkout stand a lanky, mid-twenties boy in a sweat-stained T-shirt, with
dirty fingernails and a finger tattoo in place of a ring, began to total our
items. Noticing the fresh carrots rang up as $8.90, I stopped him and pointed
that out.
He
paused to stare at me. "That's what it says." He pointed to the
scanner display, which indeed read $8.90.
"But
we know that's wrong because carrots don't cost $8.90."
"I
have to go by what it says." He shrugged and I could see Callie out of the
corner of my eye trying to conceal a smile.
"Well,
I don't. Call someone," I demanded.
"No
one's here except other checkers and they're busy."
"Well,
I'm not paying $8.90 for a bag of fresh carrots."
"So
you don't want them?" he asked amicably and cancelled the screen amount.
"I do want them but—"
The
boy scanned them again and the scanner read $8.90. People behind us were
beginning to shift their weight from side to side, the international sign for
"Could you move the fuck along."
"We
could forget the carrots. I've got other vegetables," Callie said, sensing
a war about to break out.
I
waved her off, leaned in
"Sorry,"
I said as she got up and followed me, trying to be close. "I'm too
freaked." We both went back to bed, but this time it was me propped up
against the headboard with my arms clutching my legs, chin resting on my knees,
wondering how something as great as a green-lighted screenplay could end up a
convoluted, corrupted mess.
"I've
never seen you this upset," Callie said, making no further attempt to hold
me. "You're seething."
"I'm
pissed that I continue to walk into the same blind alley again and again.
Nothing worth shooting happens through this studio system. It's designed by
little boys, for little boys, to play into little boys' fantasies. Because of
the boys at the studio, Xena Warrior Princess had to leave Gabrielle and have
sex with a guy, and then, she was so confused that in real life she went out
and got pregnant."
"I
think she got pregnant because she's straight."
"Xena
is not straight and don't start spreading that rumor."
"Come
here to me." She pulled me into her and I reluctantly gave in this time,
but remained in the vertical fetal position up against her.
"I
need to get you some herbs. Going through the change makes everything seem
bigger."
"Yeah,
well, fuck the change," I said, and Callie kissed me and consoled me as
she would a fussy child.
We
couldn't do much to help Manaba at the moment, at least the way I viewed it.
Government buildings, Indian Affairs, and anyone with a brain had closed all
offices for the holiday. Nizhoni was dead—seemingly, Kai had died a long time
ago, and Manaba's grandmother had been out of the picture for years, so why get
hysterical over the historical. No woman was in immediate jeopardy despite
whatever planets were trapping Venus and wrestling her to the ground.
Besides,
the day before Thanksgiving was supposed to be about celebrating, and I'd
surfaced from my funk, never wallowing in self-pity for more than a few hours.
Callie and I were in a festive mood despite the death of my screenplay. No one
had phoned to chastise me after my director decoupling so I was feeling free
and vindicated, looking forward to being snugged in the cabin with Callie and
Elmo and cooking our first Thanksgiving turkey together.
We
found a fairly large supermarket outside of town, and by noon we were skipping
down the aisles literally tossing food into our basket: frozen cranberries, a
sack of potatoes, fresh corn, broccoli, and carrots.
"Somebody
must be coming," she said.
And
I replied that I hoped it would be me, as I picked up the largest turkey I
could find.
She
giggled over my sexual reference and grabbed my behind as we danced down the
aisle in full view of more disciplined and serious shoppers who undoubtedly had
relatives coming, in a far more traditional sense—and judging by the sour looks
on their faces, relatives they could do without.
At
the checkout stand a lanky, mid-twenties boy in a sweat-stained T-shirt, with
dirty fingernails and a finger tattoo in place of a ring, began to total our
items. Noticing the fresh carrots rang up as $8.90, I stopped him and pointed
that out.
He
paused to stare at me. "That's what it says." He pointed to the
scanner display, which indeed read $8.90.
"But
we know that's wrong because carrots don't cost $8.90."
"I
have to go by what it says." He shrugged and I could see Callie out of the
corner of my eye trying to conceal a smile.
"Well,
I don't. Call someone," I demanded.
"No
one's here except other checkers and they're busy."
"Well,
I'm not paying $8.90 for a bag of fresh carrots."
"So
you don't want them?" he asked amicably and cancelled the screen amount.
"I do want them but—"
The
boy scanned them again and the scanner read $8.90. People behind us were
beginning to shift their weight from side to side, the international sign for
"Could you move the fuck along."
"We
could forget the carrots. I've got other vegetables," Callie said, sensing
a war about to break out.
I
waved her off, leaned in
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