Crossing the Line

I’ve never been a big fan of unions. It could be because I was brought up by a capitalist who believes that unions are sucking the competitive edge out of America. It could be because of my early exposure to Ayn Rand and my resultant belief in meritocracy. It could be because when I worked for a major corporation creating a Times Square theme restaurant, I was appalled to see a 40-year old 7^th grade drop-out earn $40 an hour for pushing the construction elevator button up or down while I, a college grad, made $15 an hour running the office. The elevator operator was in the Union. I was a mere temp.

Whatever the genesis of my dislike, I am surprised to find myself now a huge union supporter. At least of one particular union. Though I am not yet a member of the Writers Guild of America, I hope to be. I imagine WGA membership is what separates the real writers from the wannabees in this town. I long for that validation that my membership will bring. Not only will that make me part of the club, it will mean I have sold a script. It will mean I have made money off my art.

As I drive around town during the strike, I honk in solidarity when I pass picketing writers. I am one of you, I long to shout. I get smiles and waves in return. I feel like I am part of something bigger – fighting the good fight against the greedy corporations. OK so I wouldn’t be Sally Field in “Norma Rae,” but I’d be one of the beleaguered farm workers cheering her on.

“Come by for lunch today!” my friend enthused. A great idea, as the friend in question is one of my best and we always have a good time talking over the ups and downs of our lives. The only problem: she works on a major studio lot – the same one where I used to work.

Up until this point, I’d always managed to schedule meetings and lunches with studio friends off the lot but the logistics of this day made it impossible. I didn’t like the idea of having to cross the picket line of my fellow writers but it’s not like it was for work. That made it OK, right?

I drove up to the main studio gates and waited for the light. The picketers slowed at my approach. No one cleared the way even as the light turned green. I inched across the sidewalk, conscious that I was now blocking the road and cars going straight were getting pissed. My fellow writers did not hurry their progress from my bumper. One guy adopted a slow, shuffle-step and paused to glare at me with each shuffle. It was every bit the uncomfortable, traitorous experience I had feared it would be.

“No, you guys!” I wanted to shout, “I’m one of you! I’m not working here. Just meeting a friend for lunch.” I willed the message out of my eyes at Shuffle Dude. On he glared. I think he even slowed down.

“We’re not even buying food from the studio, we brought from outside!” I eye-pleaded.

Nothing.

After about a year, the angry guy shuffled aside enough for me to pass to the security gate where I was warmly greeted by old friends. Even though my visit to the lot was completely un-work or money related, even though my presence on the lot would in no way impact the studio's business, I still felt like a horrible traitor.

These strikers saw me every day as I drove to one of my ends-meet part time jobs. I always honked. They would know my car. They would probably think I was selling them out; a scab. How would I repair this rift between myself and the members of my aspired-to union?

As my friend and I ate it began to rain. I was too queasy from the whole line crossing experience and could only nibble at my sandwich. By the time I left her office, it was raining in earnest. I got in my car and drove toward the gates. I prepared myself for the wall of anger and misunderstanding to hit me.

Maybe, I thought, the thing to do would be to park across the street and come back and explain everything to them. I could picture their rain splattered faces laughing as I got to the “We even got the sandwiches from off the lot” line. They would become new friends and we’d commiserate over the studios’ greed. I’d be brought back into the fold.

Confident in my plan, I idled my car up to security. It was late and wet. The picketers were gone.

Oh, The Horror!

“I didn’t realize this was a horror film.” I was curled up against the back of the couch, barely able to look at the screen.

“Sorry, honey, it’s supposed to be a comedy,” my Supportive Boyfriend held my hand. “They said the hero is supposed to represent the Everyman. But I’m not like that!” He was as uncomfortable as I was but for slightly different reasons.

I was just plain grossed out.

On screen, a horror creature, the kind from my nightmares, was pawing at a beautiful blonde. What was worse, she was letting him. She didn’t sense the danger. What was worse yet was upon realizing she was pregnant with his spawn, not only did she not run away, she actually sought out a relationship with him.

Supportive and I sat on the couch, my stomach a queasy knot as we watched “Knocked Up.”

I have many issues with the film. Not the least of which was that it wasn’t funny except in the broadest of low-brow tones. My main point of concern came from the unrealistic motivation and actions of the girl. Hmmm, script written by a guy maybe?

Now don’t get me wrong, I am a life-long nerd and a big fan of the anti-day job guys among us. But I am also a fan of people who have dreams they are pursuing. Lame couch potatoes should not be rewarded with the Hot Chick. Successful Hot Chicks are out of their league. I admit it: I am league-ist.

There is no way a girl that beautiful with that much of a stellar career on the rise would pursue love (!) with and have the offspring of a fat shlubby loser who treats her like crap and is mean to her. She’s out of his league and she knows it. We all know it. It seems only the filmmaker doesn't know it.

I’m not saying I’m advocating abortion here. Were I in the same situation I don’t know that I could have one. But I do believe abortion would have been something that the character would have strongly, realistically considered. The fact that she doesn’t and instead goes after the repulsive father of her child with such gusto is not only the most frighteningly conservative option, it’s just pure male fantasy. Fantasy which, I gather, is why the film is so popular with loser boys everywhere. It says if you somehow manage to impregnate a hot, successful chick, she’ll fall for you and you’ll become – rather painlessly – a better person. After all, what does Schlub really give up?

[Sidebar: what’s with all the “unluckily pregnant girl who keeps the baby and is happy” movies? "Juno," "Waitress," "Knocked Up" – Way to push boundaries! Welcome to 1955!]

Curled up on Supportive’s couch, I wondered why I was having such a visceral reaction to the film since there is little danger of the scenario happening to me. Supportive is the furthest thing from the losers in the film – hence his failure to identify with the protagonist. Then it dawned on me – there is someone in my life who I am currently watching be pawed by a fat loser.

Like Katherine Heigl’s character, this girl is beautiful to model standards, kind, funny, smart and on the upward rise. She’s involved with an Apatow-esque schlub. She is so far and away out of his league it bothers me on many levels. First because I feel she’s worth so much more. As a committed league-ist I feel she deserves, nay, is entitled to someone as hot as she is. If Schlub was an amazing man who loved her and was supportive of her, I wouldn’t mind so much. I may even be happy for her. The truth of it is he is not supportive but controlling. He’s not loving, but selfish and childish. And her getting knocked up and stuck with this guy is my worst nightmare on her behalf.

Unfortunately, as the film comes to a close, I realize that for my friend as for the character in this (or in any Woody Allen film), it’s up to the girl to realize they are worth more than a life of schlubness. Yes, one of the most attractive qualities is someone who doesn’t realize how good-looking they are. But for my money, one of the most admirable qualities is awareness of your league and valuing yourself enough to believe that you deserve to be in it.