THURSDAY, 1:40 P.M.
For rewrites, any writer who wasn’t at a rehearsal, along with a few producers, met at the big table in the writers’ room, all of us with multiple freshly sharpened pencils and our own printed copies of the sketches. Weirdly, given that News Desk and the host monologue were probably the public’s two favorite parts of TNO, they were handled separately and written last, the monologue primarily by Elliot and News Desk by Danny, Hank, and Roy.
When I entered the room, they were working on Sister & Father, then the Cheesemonger was up. It didn’t get changed much, though we had a heated discussion about whether provolone was a funnier word than Gouda before we moved on to The Danny Horst Rule.
As with the table read, sketches were read aloud at rewrites, and some of the writers who aspired to be cast members did so theatrically, but I read more perfunctorily; Elliot had assigned me to Viv’s role. I’d written the sketch so that it started with a couple on a date, played by Viv and Gregor, the most conventionally handsome cast member and the one who’d accidentally thrown the oven mitt at her eye. They were finishing their meal at an Italian restaurant and saying what a good time they were having when a cop, played by Josh Beekman—that is, another TNO cast member married to a star, in his case the Oscar-winning Imogen—approached their table and said, “Both of you are under arrest for violating the Danny Horst Rule. A man is allowed to date a woman way hotter than he is, but a woman isn’t allowed to date a man way hotter.” As Viv and Gregor protested, Josh handcuffed them, and the other diners at the restaurant expressed either dismay or approval. When Gregor tried to escape, Josh said “Code eight” into his two-way radio, then Danny appeared, also in a police officer’s uniform, and said, “I got your call for backup. Oh, wow, this isn’t a misdemeanor. It’s a felony.”
When we’d reached the end of the sketch, Elliot said, “The more times Josh explains the rule, the less sense it makes.”
“Yeah, Elliot, I’m sure you have no idea what the rule is about,” said Benji, and I was grateful he’d been the one to point it out.
“I get it that I’m Joe Schmoe who’s married to Nicola,” Elliot said. “Elephant in the room acknowledged. But in terms of the logic here, isn’t there a counterargument that it’s commendable when a successful man ends up with an even more successful woman? He could lead a life where people kowtow to him, yet in this relationship, he’ll always be the second fiddle.”
Tony said, “Group therapy alert,” which someone almost always said at some point during Thursday rewrites.
“Seriously, though,” Elliot said. “When a gorgeous woman dates some old, gross dude who’s rich, everyone accepts that it’s transactional. By that logic, shouldn’t a gorgeous woman dating an ordinary guy be a sign that it’s not transactional?”
“But the sketch is about powerful gorgeous women dating quote-unquote ordinary guys,” I said. “The women aren’t ingenues.”
Elliot shook his head. “If you put too fine a point on the rule, you call attention to its incoherence.”
Less because I agreed than because I knew that, behind closed doors, Elliot could encourage Nigel to cut the sketch, I said, “I’m fine tightening Josh’s dialogue. The second and fifth lines can go with no problem.”
“Where Annabel says, ‘Come on, honey,’ to Danny,” said a writer named Alan, “is that the real Annabel? If so, we should do more with her.”
He was right. But because I hadn’t yet asked Annabel if she was willing to do a cameo, I’d inserted just one line for her as a placeholder. “Hopefully, it’s the real Annabel,” I said and wondered again if the breakup rumors were true. I still hadn’t seen Danny since our morning rehearsal. “But TBD.”
“Assuming it’s her,” Benji said, “what if she goes off on the rule?”
“But not in a way that breaks down the logic,” added Lianna.
“Wait,” said Patrick. “What if some famous feminist like Gloria Steinem comes into the restaurant and kind of chides Viv for being outraged, and Annabel is the feminist? She’s like, yes, it’s absurd that someone like Danny is marrying someone like Annabel, but who cares about that shit compared to the earnings gap and reproductive rights?”
“I’ve got it,” I said. “Annabel should be the ghost of Susan B. Anthony.”
“In a suffragist white dress and a sash and a gray bun,” Patrick said. “And those little glasses.” Patrick was about five years younger than I was, a slim, quiet, bearded Harvard graduate who’d once told me that he’d been so nervous before he’d interviewed with Nigel that he’d sincerely pondered purchasing a package of adult diapers. In this moment, I loved him deeply.
“Isn’t Susan B. Anthony canceled because she was a racist beyotch?” said a writer named Fletcher.
“We can acknowledge that,” I said. “By someone saying, ‘Shut up, Susan, you’ve been canceled.’？”
“This you?” said Tony.
“If Annabel is Susan B. Anthony, then Josh or Danny should hit on her at the end,” Elliot said. “Like”—he switched to a wheedling New Yorker impersonation—“？‘Yo, Susan, you’re a feminist icon, I make 60K a year and I’m only twelve years away from my pension, whaddaya say we make some magic together?’？”
In spite of myself, I laughed. I really, honestly didn’t have feelings for Elliot, but there was something about him that did, if I thought about it enough, make me sad. I experienced a disorientation around the ways our sensibilities did and didn’t overlap, and had led us to draw opposite conclusions. He hadn’t wanted to be romantically involved with a person with whom he shared a sense of humor, whereas I hadn’t been able to imagine anything better. Or maybe he’d just thought I wasn’t pretty. Either way, his aversion had made me question my view of the world, my own beliefs about what attracted two people, to such an extreme degree that I’d given up on romantic partnership completely.
In the writers’ room, Elliot seemed to consider the Danny Horst Rule rewrites finished then, because he said, “Sally, can you make those changes and email it to Sheila, Kirk, and me? Next up, let’s do Three Tenors.”
THURSDAY, 6:18 P.M.
During a break in rewrites, I returned to my office to revise and found Danny facetiming with Annabel in what seemed to be a normal way. As usual, he lay on the couch holding his phone in front of him, and he nodded at me and said, “Hey, Chuckles.” Glancing back at the screen, he said, “Belly, I don’t think it has to be the same.”
“Let’s ask Sally,” Annabel said. “Turn me around.”
I revolved my desk chair as Danny held his phone screen toward me. Annabel’s red hair was in a bun, and she wore a white velour sweatshirt and appeared to be sitting on the floor of a walk-in closet with shelves of very orderly, brightly colored stiletto heels just behind her. Her face furrowed as she said, “Isn’t there supposed to be the same number of bridesmaids and groomsmen? Or, not to be homophobic, whoever’s getting married—the bride and the bride? But just for balance?”