We Interrupt this Transition

“I’m telling you, Sam,” Jimmy said, “The idea’s solid. Don’t let the rejections so far get you down. You’ve been pitching to networks, and networks don’t want to take a chance on a newer showrunner. Garden Alpha isn’t run by network people. They’re tech people who think they’re network people.” 

Jimmy Howard - not his real name, but it had been over 20 years since anyone called him anything else - leaned back on his patio furniture, drinking his non-alcoholic beer, and relaxing in the chill autumn air. It was hitting what the industry termed “golden hour,” that remarkable time about an hour before sunset where everything gets a little golden glow around it. Moving to Santa Monica once he had his first bankable hit was one of the best decisions he ever made. Renting out his guest house to Sam was another. 

Sam, “short-for-antha” Culver, the British thirty-five year old young professional, on the other hand, wasn’t enjoying it quite so much, as she swatted another mosquito off her arm. “Look, maybe I should change up the pitch, just in case. What do you think?”

“I’ve heard your pitch, Sam. It’s solid. And you know I’m not the type to blow smoke up your ass just because I’m your friend. In fact, I save my smoke blowing for the asses of people usually called Vice President something something.” The still-looks-good-for-forty-five year old Jimmy took another swig. “Maybe that’s your problem. Not enough smoke-ass blowing.”

Sam shot Jimmy a look. She hated the way that L.A. did business. How America did business. Especially if you happened to be a single professional woman who absolutely did not want “to become a star” the easy way. “Maybe I should try a smaller market. Back to England, maybe?” 

“You’ve done England. They offer short contracts and small budgets for an audience of dozens. And the weather sucks. You know this is the next natural step, right?” 

Sam grabbed a bottle of water from the ice bucket they had brought out with them. She was inclined to disagree. The repeated frustration of rejection after rejection while others in the industry with less experience, less connection, less vision, and yes, less knack for delivering projects under budget that produced profit, filled her with self doubt. Imposter syndrome, they called it. 

But that’s why she came over to talk to Jimmy tonight, despite the mosquitos and cloyingly lovely weather - weather that was just unsuited to a British temperament. Too mild. Too lovely. Los Angeles had a saccharine sunset, she bemused. 

Because no one in had given her better career advice over the years than Jimmy, And if the semi-retired-at-45 mind behind some of the most successful - and stupid - American television shows of the early 2000s was, objectively, saying she had a hit on her hands, she was inclined to believe it. “Maybe,” she said. “Maybe I’m just approaching the pitch the wrong way.”

“It’s possible. What happens in these meetings?”

“Well, I come in, introduce myself, shmooze, yada yada, I give them the elevator pitch, if they’re still interested - which they always are - I give them a fuller rundown, how I expect the first series to go, how I plan to keep the premise fresh in future series, cost per episode breakdown, market research, a bunch of pretty green numbers that look good and… they congratulate me on a great pitch, say they’ll be hearing from me, and then I never get a ring back. It’s infuriating.” 

“Mmm,” said Jimmy, deep in thought. Okay. Sounds normal. What’s your throwaway, though?”

Sam blinked. “Throwaway what?”

Jimmy balked. “You’re kidding, Sam.”

“No… I don’t think so. Is that an American thing?”

“Maybe. What’s the throwaway elevator pitch? The bad one. The one you don’t care about.” 

“Why would I pitch them a bad idea?”

“To make the good one sound better in comparison.” 

“Wouldn’t they see right through that?”

Jimmy sighed. “They’re executives. They’re dumb, with big egos. Think of it this way: You come in, you give them a good pitch. But they don’t know a good pitch from a bad one. So they gotta trust their judgment. Which… y’know, ain’t that great to begin with. They have to make their decision about whether your show is gonna make money. Whether it fits with the brand. All of that they’re considering, right? Except, what do they have to compare it to? What’s in their mind when they weigh it out? All they have to compare it to are the shows that they’ve already approved. The shows that are airing. Because they forget the pitches they pass on. That’s who you have to compete against. And every time you put up a known, actual success against an untested idea, the untested idea looks bad. That’s why you give them the throwaway.” 

“So, you’re telling me that my best chance of actually getting an American show on the air - is to come up with a real guaranteed dud?”

“Think about it. You’ve led with the stinker. The exec doesn’t like it, and he says ‘no’ to it. He cuts you short, asks what else you’ve got. Look at where the exec is now, in his little exec brain. He just told you no, meaning that he’s feeling better about himself, because he’s an asshole and he can’t feel good about himself unless he’s being a prick. Then when he hears your good idea, what’s he comparing it to? Why, the most recent idea he heard. Your throwaway idea.”

“That sounds incredibly stupid.”

“It’s an incredibly stupid industry.” 

Sam thought about that for a bit, and realized Jimmy had a point. 

“Well, I don’t have a throwaway idea. And I don’t know if I can come up with a good bad idea by the pitch tomorrow.”

Jimmy sighed again. “Look, it’s easy. Just take what’s hot right now and imagine what the most soulless, cynical person would think the natural way to make a quick buck on it would be.”

Sam shrugged, and then sat in silence, sipping the water for a good two minutes. 

“Trans stuff is big right now. Maybe something like that?” posed Sam. 

“Gotta be careful. You don’t want to appear like a cynical money grab.”

“But it is a cynical money grab.”

“But you don’t want it to appear to be. Look, you’re on the right track. Maybe a show about trans people. Then you can tell the guy it’s to have everybody tuning in. The LGBT demo - and they have disposable incomes because they don’t have kids. The MAGA loonies turning in just so that they have something to hate for forty two minutes plus commercials. And the rest, well, people still watch ‘RuPaul’s Drag Race’ with morbid curiosity.” 

“Heh, what if we did Ru Paul’s Drag Race, but with actual gender transitioning, instead of just dressing up as a performance?” 

Jimmy snickered at that, which Sam took as a good sign. 

“What, you’re gonna make a game show out of transitioning?”

Sam started to grin, and giggled at something. “No - no, more stupid than that.”

“More stupid than that?” 

“What if we made it a reality show? Like, a competition reality show.” 

“Sam, that is in incredibly bad taste,” Jimmy grinned. “I love it.” 

“We could make it like… ‘The Biggest Loser’. Or ‘Big Brother.’ Oh, I know, we send them away to a desert island, compete for a million dollars, but to get the million, they have to go all the way.”

“What, force them to transition or they get eliminated? Kind of sounds like fetish erotica.” said Jimmy. 

“What kind of fetish erotica are you reading, Jimmy?”

“Hey, Sam, it’s just… it’s research. I’m always looking for the next big idea.” 

“Uh hunh.” 

“So what, like, someone gets voted off each week if they’re not feminine enough? Kinda cruel to give trans women HRT and stuff and promise them makeup tips then tell them they can’t have it because people called into the 900 number to kick them out,” said Jimmy, who was really enjoying seeing Sam’s mind work on something utterly ridiculous.  

“Nah, I’m thinking like - hands on a Honda kind of thing. Everyone who goes through all the way gets a share of the money. If there’s only one winner, they get the million, if not, they split it.”

“So, you take a bunch of non-trans people, and see if they actually would transition for a million dollars.”

“And of course, most wouldn’t.” 

“I don’t know, I mean, for a million dollars, even I’d consider it,” said Jimmy. 

“Ha. But seriously, we can get some real douchebags. The douchiest of the bags. And any time, they could walk away, but then they can’t win the prize money, and they have to look in the camera and say: ‘I just wasn’t man enough to be a real woman.’” 

“Ooh, maybe you throw one secret trans woman into the mix without telling them… they wouldn’t be eligible for the prize, but they wouldn’t know that.”

“That’s so wrong!” said Sam. “Of course you have an inside man. Or an inside girl.” 

“Jesus, Sam. I almost want to come with you in order to see their faces when you pitch this.” 

“Don’t worry. I’m pretty sure I’ll just say the word ‘trans’ and they’ll move on to my real pitch faster than you can say ‘gender.’” 

And so, by the end of the conversation, Sam had one hell of a bad idea. An idea that was an insult to taste, decency, and intelligence. Perfect for the television industry. 

***

The office building for Garden Alpha was a bit smaller than she’d expected it to be. Usually, dealing with networks, they were located in large office buildings meant to deal with every aspect of the business. Garden Alpha’s programming department, she had to remind herself, was just a small subdivision of a small division of a global technology company. Most of the people involved in actual delivery-of-product didn’t come into office spaces, working from different parts of the country - often more affordable than Southern California. What was left was a handful of meeting rooms and some offices. 

But plush offices, they were. Walking past the front desk, she was surprised to find that much of the space was taken up by bean bag chairs, semi-private booths, and hammocks. It was as if a cubicle farm and a rumpus room had a baby. 

“Sam Culver?” said someone. She looked around to find a tall, broad shouldered woman dressed in blue jeans and a t-shirt with a striped light blue and white short-sleeved button-up tunic over it, with flat sandals - a far cry from the white blouse, charcoal jacket, and black pencil skirt that Sam usually wore on business meetings. She couldn’t have been older than thirty, and her casual flat sandals showed off toenails painted in rainbow colors. 

“Yes? I’m Sam Culver. Are you Ms. Bryant’s assistant?” 

The younger girl laughed. 

“I do give that vibe, don’t I. No, I’m Daria Bryant. We spoke on the phone earlier.”

Sam did her best to hide the mild shock. 

“Sorry, I was just expecting someone more…”

“Executive?” 

“Yeah.”

“Well, the corporate culture at Garden is very much: Wear what you want, just get the job done. I just find it’s more comfortable, especially if I’m going to be in meetings all day. We’re going to pass by the lunch room on the way to my office. Would you like some coffee? Tea? Water?”

“Tea would be great.”

“I apologize, our selection might be less than what you’re used to in England. We mainly just get the Twinings variety packets. They’re in that drawer, I’ll just boil the kettle in the meantime.” 

Sam looked in the drawer, and surprisingly, there were an insane number of varieties. Darjeeling, Earl Grey, Lady Grey, Ceylon, British Breakfast, English Afternoon, Irish Breakfast, Matcha teas, even teas she’d never heard of, such as Christmas Tea, and Prince of Wales… truly an outstanding variety. And that was before getting into the herbal teas. 

Samantha didn’t let on that most British companies simply stocked their larders with a handful of PG Tips and said: “that’ll be good enough for the office drones.” She just simply picked up an Irish Breakfast and handed it to the outstretched arm of the programming executive who dressed like a soccer mom. 

Soon afterward, Ms. Bryant-oh-no-please-call-me-Daria, and Sam-do-you-prefer-Sam-or-Samantha-Either-Is-Fine headed together to one of the offices. 

It too was not what Sam expected - most offices of this type had the executive sitting in a comfortable chair behind a large desk in the middle of the room, while the guest was seated in a small, inflexible wooden chair - the idea immediately to convey status. This was different. For one, the desk faced the wall and had multiple monitors on it, along with a little flag that Sam couldn’t recognize. Pink, blue, and white stripes… she couldn’t place the country. If she had to guess, she would have offered “Belize.” There were no wooden chairs - only a side chair and a couch. It actually reminded Sam of a therapy session. 

“So, Sam,” said Daria. “We were told that you had prepared a pitch for us to add to the Alpha. Something that would work well as a first run on streaming and then maybe work in syndication on terrestrial or cable?” 

“Yes. I had two, actually.”

“Mmm. Go on - hit me with your first one.” 

This was the moment that Sam was prepared for. She led with the stinker. 

“Well, the first one is a reality competition show. It’s called - and this is a working title, mind - ‘Gender Island.’” 

A blank stare. Sam continued.

“The idea is that we take, say, eight or so men. Men who are toxically masculine and have massive egos that need to be taken down a peg. The kind of people who would be villains on a normal reality show, right?”

More blank staring. 

“Right. So,” Sam continued, “we set them up on an island or a Big Brother type house, and then… then, we tell them that they can quit any time, but that everyone who makes it all the way through transition gets an equal share of a million dollars.” 

“Transition?”

“Yes. Into women.” 

“Oh! You mean, gender transition.” Daria had a look on her face that Sam registered as surprise, but under that, she wasn’t sure whether it was revulsion, shock, or morbid curiosity.

“So, wait, are you talking about trans women contestants?”

“Cisgender men.” 

“Oh. That seems… is there like an elimination format?”

“Well, no, it seemed to me that that would be problematic.”

“Heaven forbid,” said Daria. 

Sam continued. “Instead, they can leave the show any time, take what money they’ve already won, and stop the treatment. But if they do so, they have to look at the camera and say ‘I’m not man enough to be a woman.’” 

Daria Bryant sipped her coffee and thought deeply. 

“Well, let’s put that on the back-burner for now,” said Daria, finally. “What’s your other idea?” 

“‘Saboteur’. It’s a game show with a social deduction element; like ‘The Mole’ or ‘The Hustler’. But easier to consume, easily broken up into ten minute clips for YouTube. You could play at home, like in those games, but also see the point of view of the saboteur if you want to experience the drama of seeing the players squirm.”

“I like it. Who were you thinking of as host?”

“I suppose I’d have to see who’s available, and who we can afford. But I have a personal connection to Jimmy Howard.”

“Ooh, yeah, he’d be perfect as a host.”

***

Jimmy was still in his bathrobe, making coffee in his single-serving coffeemaker, when Sam started tapping at the back window leading to the patio. She was grinning from ear to ear. Jimmy, on the other hand, was still bleary eyed. 

“Sam?”

“I got a callback, Jimmy!” she said through the doors. 

“That’s great. Can’t it wait until later?”

“It’s already ten thirty.” 

Jimmy looked at the microwave to check the time. It flashed: 12:00, 12:00, 12:00 in rapid succession and then Jimmy felt foolish. 

“I’ll take your word for it,” said Jim. “C’mon in. Coffee?”

“Sure,” Sam said, heading through the doors. “Garden Alpha. I got a callback. They want me to come by later today to re-pitch to the decision makers!” 

“That’s great, Sam!” 

“Do you want to come with me? I sort of floated your name for the host, I could call back and tell them you’re so interested, you wanted to be there.”

Jimmy thought for a moment. “Maybe. What time?”

“Three. Plenty of time to get ready.” 

“Yeah, I could do it. This is great, Sam! You deserve this!”

“Whoa, whoa, I haven’t signed any paperwork yet. Don’t jinx it.”

“You’ll be fine, Sam. If anything, you’re overdue. ‘Sabotage’ is a great format and cheap enough that they can take the risk.” 

***

On her second visit to Garden Alpha, Daria met Sam and Jimmy at the door. 

“Hello again, Daria!”

“Sam, so good to see you again. Don’t worry, I already talked up my idea. You’ll be pitching to VP of Programming Daryl Marsters, and Chandra Harleson, our division’s VP of Marketing, but they’re almost as excited as I am about it.”

Jimmy and Sam smiled.

“That’s wonderful to hear!”

This time, Jimmy and Sam were brought not to an office, but a conference room. Daryl Masters was dressed in the blue-jeans-and-sportscoat look of the person who wanted to look both professional and relaxed, and failed at doing either. Chandra Harleson, a young, black, yuppie type, dressed more formally. Pleasantries were exchanged, and then Sam brought up her slide deck on the conference room monitor.

“So, I’m proposing 20 episodes, filmed over 4 days, with a run time of 22 minutes each. Budget, ignoring prizes and talent costs, are estimated to be at one hundred and seventy thousand dollars on the low end, with a cap of two hundred thousand, if we have to do the production ourselves, but we can probably get that down to one-thirty-k, if you have sunk expenses that we can use.”

Chandra interrupted. “I’m sorry. Filmed over four days?” 

Sam blinked.

“Er, yes. With a fifth for any reshoots we might need, or if there’s some sort of delay. Pretty… standard?”

Sam saw three executives with confused looks, and that was a bad thing. She looked over to Jimmy for help - Jimmy just shrugged, uselessly, and tried to cover it.

“Yeah, typically game shows are filmed five per day, back to back. Almost all the editing happens in the control room. I mean, they’re long days, but back when I hosted ‘Rotten Eggs,’ that was a pretty standard schedule.” 

Daryl looked to his laptop, and back to Sam and Jimmy. 

“I think there may have been a mixup. Daria told me that you had an idea for a really out-there reality show. I mean, she said you also pitched a game show, but we were looking for something with a bit more… I don’t know… originality.”

“Ah,” said Sam, whose blood drained from her face as much as the blood rushed to Daria’s in embarrassment.

“I’m sorry,” said Daria. “This must be my fault. I made the assumption that you knew we were talking about your other pitch. ‘Gender Island.’ Do you have a slide-deck ready for that one?”

Sam’s mind was racing in panic, because no she fucking obviously didn’t, and also because what the fuck was happening right now?

“I’m sorry - I don’t believe I have it with me now.”

“Well, that’s alright,” said Chandra. “We can just shoot from the hip. Worry about the hard numbers and projections later - tell us more about your core idea. It’s brilliant.”

“The ‘gender’ idea. The idea to have a reality competition show. The reality competition show that gives hormone replacement therapy to people that don’t need it. That… that idea.”

She racked her brain for a moment, and then came up with an idea so clever, so brilliant, that it couldn’t possibly fail.

“I need to pee.”

***

As far as foolproof plans go, it was easily defeated when her peaceful, bathroom respite lasted all of fifteen seconds, before Daria came in behind her.

“Sam,” Daria asked. “Is everything alright?”

“Daria, be honest.” Sam took a deep breath. “Is this some kind of joke? Some… hazing ritual?”

“What? No.” 

“Daria, that wasn’t supposed to be - you weren’t supposed to…” 

Sam grabbed a towel from the machine and tore it into little bits in frustration. 

“If I did that every time I got frustrated, this place would be covered in confetti,” Daria said. “So, I’m guessing that you were pitching ‘Sabotage’ in there?”

“Yes, Daria. Bloody well yes.” 

“I mean, I guess it wasn’t a bad idea, but I thought you were using that as your throwaway pitch.” 

Sam glared at Daria, then realized that she had no one to blame for this mess, except for herself, which brought down her mood. Then she thought of blaming Jimmy for giving her the idea to have a throwaway pitch, and depression gave way to indignation. 

“No. ‘Gender Island’ was the throwaway pitch.”

“You’re kidding.”

“No! God, who’d want to step in that land mine? I mean, a reality show which would be hated by everybody? Trans people would see it as us cashing a check at their expense. Right wingers would use it as evidence that Hollywood is trying to ‘estrogenize’ men and make them weak. And what the hell do I know about treating the sensitive subject of trans women - a marginalized community currently one election away from the real possibility of losing everything they worked so hard for? I mean, I don’t even know any trans women.” 

“I find that very hard to believe.”

“No, it’s true.”

“Well, you know at least one, right?”

“What are you talking about?”

Daria blinked.

“Sam, did you not see the trans pride flag on my desk? Did you not notice that my hands are fucking massive? In fact, that’s why I thought you were pitching the–” Sam stopped mid-sentence. “Wait, you were pitching ‘Gender Island’ to someone you thought was cisgender?”

Sam finally did look at Daria’s hands. They were, indeed, quite large for a woman. 

“Oh, this just gets better. Not only did I flub my pitch, I also insulted you. That’s it. I’m never gonna work in Hollywood now. I’ll probably never work in England either, once word gets out.”

Sam hung her head in defeat.

“Well, yeah, with that attitude,” Daria said. “But I don’t see it that way. I think you stumbled into something I’ve been looking for for a long time.”

***

In the meantime, Jimmy sat down with Chandra and Daryl, and was currently doing one of the skills he had honed over his twenty years working in the entertainment industry.

He was blowing smoke up their asses like a chimney designed specifically to blow smoke up asses. 

“Well, you know, when Sam came up with the idea, I started bombarding her with questions. How would the prize structure go, how far would we take it, how many contestants. And I thought it was silly at first, but after a while she talked me into how brilliant it was.”

“The same thing happened with Daria, we initially thought it was some sort of joke, but no, seeing Daria take the idea and run with it, she had all these ideas for product placement, merchandising, and of course, it’s a ‘watercooler show.’” said Dylan.

“I mean, game shows are great if you have access to the public airwaves and you need to fill time with something cheap and fast,” continued Chandra, “but we’re a streaming service. And what we need is exclusive, original, content. Stuff that makes you say: ‘I gotta sign up for Garden Alpha because they have the show I gotta see.’”  

“Yes, I would say this is fairly original, as an idea,” said Jimmy. “You’re not worried about possibly facing a backlash from…”

Chandra laughed. “Are you kidding? We’d love a backlash. Backlashes mean people know about us. That they’re engaged. The more people who protest it without knowing anything about it, the more people are going to say: ‘Well, I gotta check it out!’ And that’s really all we need. I mean, it’d be great if we could make this an ongoing hit, but we just need enough people to say: ‘I’m going to sign up for Garden Alpha’s free trial just to see this thing!’ Then, of course, the free trial lapses into paid subscriptions because people just don’t cancel… and if they happen to like our other programming more, so be it.”

Jimmy nodded. “I’m beginning to see why you really like this idea. You know, I’ve worked with a lot of people in this industry, and that’s why I like working with the upcoming services from the tech side. You guys have vision.” 

Jimmy smiled as he sent the ass-smoker machine cranking into overdrive. He liked semi-retirement, but there was a part of him that missed this. 

***

“So, you’re trans?”

“Yes.”

“And you’re not offended?”

“I was, for about three seconds, and then I thought about it. Did you have Will and Grace in England when you were growing up?”

“Sure. I mean, in syndication, sure, but it was on ITV all the time. We got a lot of American sitcoms.” 

“I remember being a kid and remembering what a big deal it was for anything gay on television. Paul Lynde could be campy as hell on ‘Hollywood Squares’ but he wouldn’t say the word ‘gay’ or they’d take one of those Xes and crucify him on it.”

“I mean…”

“And then Will & Grace, coming out in the late 1990s. Sure, Ellen was the first, but once she came out, every episode was about her gayness. The whole pitch of that show was that Will was gay, but it wasn't the only characteristic of him. It was a bog standard three-camera Desilu style sitcom that people tuned into just to gawk at the gay guy… and after a while, they stopped gawking, and just saw it as normal,” Daria continued. 

“But what does that have to do with me?” 

“Television shapes culture, and culture shapes television. So when you come to me with an idea that can treat transitioning as a subject worthy of the tube? Of course people will hate it. Chandra and Dylan are hoping that they’ll hate it to the bank, but that’s not why I pushed for it. I want to show people what transitioning really looks like. I want them to understand that being trans is nothing wrong, but also that it’s innate. It’s not some stupid social contagion or mental illness. I want to show people that trans people need to be trans, and need to transition, and that cis people need to be cis, and can’t.”

“Then why don’t you create a sitcom with a trans main character?” Sam asked. 

“Because we need to prime the pump. Reality TV can help get a foot in the door. You’ve seen the Amazing Race, right? Thirty six seasons! But did you ever see season one?”

“I can’t say I have.”

Daria lit up with passion. “They cast a gay couple as one of the contestant pairs. And it was a gimmick. Gay people in love? That’s not normal, that’s a gimmick! They were practically telling people: ‘Look at the sideshow freaks,’ and then the people watching stopped seeing them as freaks and saw them as people.” 

“And you want to…”

“I want people to think we’re creating a freakshow. And after they’re hooked, we reveal the curtain to show that it’s not a freakshow at all, but just people.”

“Alright, but… shouldn’t you… get someone trans to do the show?” 

“I’d love to hire a trans showrunner. But the only out trans showrunners in Hollywood are the Wachowski sisters, they don’t do television all that much, and I can’t afford them anyway.” 

“You’re serious. You want to put on ‘Gender Island’.”

“I get it. You didn’t expect this to go this way, and… I guess if you’re not comfortable with actually doing ‘Gender Island’ it… I’ll… find something else. Eventually. But, uh, I was really hoping I’d get a chance to work with you on this. I mean, your productions are the best, given the budget you had to work with. I kinda want to see what you could do with real money and talent. And come on. Aren’t you the least bit curious?”

“Curious of what?”

“Of how it would turn out in the end! The boys! Will they stick it out for the money? Will they crack under pressure? Will they get dysphoria? Are any of them eggs?”

“Eggs?”

“Eggs. Sorry. Trans women who don’t know they’re women, or who won’t admit to themselves that they’re women. I’d explain the metaphor but…”

“Okay… well… I don’t have a slide deck prepared, so, obviously, I shouldn’t expect you to have one either.”

Daria rolled her eyes. 

“But what do I tell your associates?” Sam asked. 

“We’ll say you’re not feeling well, and we’ll book another meeting.”

“You’d do that?”

“Why not? We women have to stick together in this industry!” 

On that, Sam agreed. 

***

“Hmm, Sam and Daria have been in there a long time,” Dylan mused. “So, Jimmy, would you mind if we just started, do you think you can answer questions?”

“Well, it’s really Sam’s project, but I’ll try to answer what I can.”

“Obviously this would need time to set up. How long would you think pre-production would take?”

“Oh, I don’t know. Maybe six months?”

“And, and I really hate to ask this, Jimmy, but I don’t think the host should be a man,” said Chandra. “I think we should get a trans woman to host it. Maybe a Laverne Cox-type?” 

“Oooh,” interrupted Daryl. “She’d be perfect. She’d never do it, though. Scheduling conflicts. But yeah, we were thinking about it. But it’s clear you’re passionate about the project, you work well with Sam, and most importantly, you’re a name. Do you think you would take on a co-producer role? Maybe even a director role?” 

“Well gee,” said Jimmy. “I did always want to direct…”