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sibling bondage

FADE IN: RANDOM STUDIO WAITING AREA – DAY

The room is a study of blond wood and beige suede chairs. OLDER SLACKBROTHER J., 33, a guy who tends toward a former lineman physique, and his sister, THE SLACKMISTRESS, 31, a girl who puts the bust in busty, wait nervously. Older SlackBrother J. balances a half-empty can of SUGAR FREE RED BULL on his knee.

THE SLACKMISTRESS
How many of those have you had?

OLDER SLACKBROTHER J.
Two.
(off her raised eyebrow)
You think I should have one more?

THE SLACKMISTRESS
Dork.

OLDER SLACKBROTHER J.
I’m not the one who plays Star Wars Pretend World.

THE SLACKMISTRESS
Touche.
(beat)
I’ll give you five dollars if you crush that can-
(indicating the can of Red Bull)
-on your forehead.

OLDER SLACKBROTHER J.
We’re in a meeting.

THE SLACKMISTRESS
Ten?

OLDER SLACKBROTHER J.
You’re on.

Older SlackBrother J. raises the can to his forehead just as RANDOM STUDIO EXECUTIVE’S ASSISTANT enters.

RANDOM STUDIO EXECUTIVE’S ASSISTANT
(to Older Slackbrother J., re: can)
I’m sorry, did you need something to drink?

THE SLACKMISTRESS
I’m sorry, that’s his universal sign for thirsty.
He’s been doing it forever.

RANDOM STUDIO EXECUTIVE’S ASSISTANT
(clearly not thinking it’s cute)
That’s cute. He’s ready now.

Random Studio Executive’s Assistant leads The Slackmistress and Older SlackBrother J. through a maze of cubicles and to an open door that reveals an office with no one inside.

RANDOM STUDIO EXECUTIVE’S ASSISTANT
He’ll be with you in just one second.

THE SLACKMISTRESS
Thanks.

Older SlackBrother J. begins to pace.

THE SLACKMISTRESS
Sit.

OLDER SLACKBROTHER J.
Fine.

He sits. The Slackmistress inspects a group of WIND UP TOYS on Random Studio Executive’s desk.

THE SLACKMISTRESS
(whispering)
Do you think it’s okay if I play with these?

OLDER SLACKBROTHER J.
(whispering)
No. And why are you whispering?

THE SLACKMISTRESS
Why are you whispering?

RANDOM STUDIO EXECUTIVE enters. He shakes their hands and sits behind his desk, immediately grabbing a wind-up toy and playing with it. The slackmistress shoots Older SlackBrother J. a look. He raises an eyebrow in reply.

RANDOM STUDIO EXECUTIVE
So, tell me how you two met?

The Slackmistress and Older SlackBrother J. share a look.

OLDER SLACKBROTHER J.
It was about thirty-one years ago.

RANDOM STUDIO EXECUTIVE
Childhood sweethearts? That’s nice.

THE SLACKMISTRESS
Ew! No! He’s my brother!

FADE OUT.

When you tell people that you work with your brother, they think you’ve got a family business.

When you tell them you also live together, they think you’re from one of the Southern States.

(You know that joke had to be made at some point.)

I was never particularly close to my older brother. My baby brother, sure, we were close, but the pressure is taken off a sibling relationship when there’s five years between you two. You’re never in the same schools at the same time, your circle of friends never overlaps, you’re never on the same sports teams. But Older SlackBrother J. was two years older than me, almost exactly. I started my first year of junior high when he was in his last year; I was a freshman when he was a junior.

And we couldn’t be more different.

While I played volleyball my freshman year of high school (yes, time to confess: in junior high I was a jock!) I started to gravitate towards the activities we didn’t have in junior high: Forensics (Speech Team, not cutting up dead bodies). Theater. Radio. I dressed all in black and had a big mess of frizzy black curls. I smoked clove cigarettes and drank way too much coffee. I wore too much black eyeliner and wore clunky shoes and hung out on the “Carpeted Area” with all the other theater people. We spent our mornings reading Nietzsche and talking in funny accents and reciting Monty Python skits. We were dorks, and we knew it, but we fostered in each other a sense of elitism which was the only thing that got me through high school.

OlderSlackBrother J. was a jock. He played Center and Defensive Tackle (or Guard, I can’t remember) on the football team. He wrestled. He even played baseball one year. During gym class, when I was huffing my way around the downstairs indoor track, he hung around cracking wise with the football coaches. He wasn’t one of the popular jocks, maybe because he was in all honors classes and usually on the honor roll, but he was still a jock, and therefore higher on the food chain than I.

To be honest, I don’t remember a lot of our high school in-school interaction. We had lockers next to each other but I came to school and left late due to all of my extracurricular activities. His friends would grunt and wave as I passed them in the halls; my friends were probably too nervous to say too much to him at all.

In my high school, social lines were rarely crossed. Families of siblings all seemed to gravitate to the same level of popularity. J. and I occupied this odd nebula, not necessarily crossing the streams, but at least being recognized in each others’ world. My friends were shocked when the Offensive Line Coach (and food teacher) would pull me from the hallway as I passed his class, telling me I had to try the lasagna they made in second period. My speech coach took me aside once, telling me that he had J. in class and that he’s actually funny, as if donning a football helmet made one immune to the power of humor.

When J. was accepted to Yale, no one was more shocked than I. He wasn’t dumb by any means, maintaining a B-plus average in high school. But Yale? J. went, and two years later, I submitted my application. I had an A-plus average. I was vice-president of the French Honor Society, in National Honor Society; I was Treasure of theater, Secretary of the Forensics team and an adjunct Student Council Member. I placed fifth in the State of Illinois for Special Occasion Speaking.

I wasn’t accepted.

J. explained it to me this way: I can come off the ball. I was happy for him, but personally destroyed. The jocks win again, I thought. I went to Northwestern (my backup school), then transferred to Boston University. I dyed my hair purple, but the rest was the same: I wore too much black eyeliner, donned clunky shoes, smoked clove cigarettes and drank too much coffee. I got my degree in Film and Television Production, figuring I’d move out to Los Angeles and become an agent.

After I graduated, I moved, and I worked as an assistant to an agent. And hated it. I worked thirteen to fifteen hours a day, seven days a week. I was yelled at, I was degraded, I was called names. I read through client scripts and thought I’ve written my entire life, I could do this.

But I never did.

One day, Older SlackBrother J. called me. After Yale, he worked as an Options Trader in Chicago and was transferred to New York, trading options for a company there. He hated it. Sure, he had the potential to make a lot of money, but the guys in their thirties looked like they were fifty. People were clocking heart attacks before forty. One day, he got on the subway, intending to go to work, but didn’t get off his train. He got off a couple of stops later and spotted a movie theater. It was playing Billy Madison. He bought a ticket and called his office from the pay phone in the lobby.

I won’t be coming in today, he told them. In fact, I won’t be coming in, ever.

He watched Billy Madison and thought, I can do that. He went back out to the pay phone and called me at work.

I’m going to be a stand-up comedian, he told me.

You’ve never been on stage, I told him.

Good point. Hrm.

Why don’t you be a TV writer?

What do I need to do? he asked.

Write a spec script, I told him. This new show, Friends, is doing really well. Write a spec Friends.

How do I write a spec?

You went to Yale, I told him. Buy a fucking book.

He wrote a spec Friends. It was funny, but it was twenty pages of jokes. I wrote in a story, and then suddenly, we were a writing team. He moved to Los Angeles during the summer of 1995. It wasn't always easy. Writing is a solitary activity, and inviting someone else into the process can be bumpy at best. When it's someone that you're related to, that brings a whole host of other problems. But having a shared history can also be extremely valuable, especially when you're writing family comedy. Especially if you're from my family.

How do we make it work? I honestly don't know. We just do. Can you call your co-worker a fucking moron at the top of your lungs and have them not slap you with a harrassment suit or tell the boss at the very least? I can.

What's the worst that can happen? Someone might call mom. And then we're both in trouble.