Kitabı oxu: «I'll Be There For You»

Kelsey Miller

Şrift:

An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

First published in Great Britain by HQ in 2018

Kelsey Miller asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

Ebook Edition © October 2018 ISBN: 9781474086158

Dedication

For my friends

CONTENTS

Cover

Title Page

Dedication

Introduction: The Sweet Spot

PART 1

1 The One That Almost Wasn’t

2 The One with Six Kids and a Fountain

PART 2

3 The One with Marcel and George Clooney

4 The One Where Two Women Got Married

5 The One Where We All Got the Haircut

6 The One After “The One After the Super Bowl”

7 The One Where They All Go to London (and Everywhere Else in the World)

PART 3

8 The One Where Everything Changed

9 The One Where Nobody Died

10 The One Where It Ended, Twice

11 The Comeback

Acknowledgments

Source Notes

Interviews

About the Publisher

INTRODUCTION

The Sweet Spot

A few months ago, I walked into the gym, hopped on my usual machine, and thumbed the worn-out little button on the monitor up to channel 46. It was very early evening—a kind of magic hour at the gym. The place was packed, but oddly quiet, save for the whirring of stationary bike wheels and rhythmic thumping of sneakers on the treadmill. Gyms in New York City have a reputation for being scene-y and intimidating, full of athletic wunderkinds and sweat-free medical marvels eyeing each other as they deadlift a thousand pounds and do pirouettes in the mirror. On the whole, this reputation is shockingly true. But not at 5:30 p.m. At that hour of the day, all is calm and no one is judging. And every TV seems to be tuned in to a basic cable channel, as New Yorkers unwind with some cardio and reruns. That day, I walked in and saw the usual array of familiar faces lined up above high-tech machines: some folks watched Grey’s Anatomy, others preferred Law & Order. Some even tuned in to Family Guy, right out in the open. Really, there’s no judgment at 5:30. Personally, I always went right to channel 46, where every afternoon TBS ran Friends.

I’d started this routine a few years prior, around the same time I started working out regularly. I was in my late twenties, and up until that point, exercise had been the kind of thing I did either obsessively or not at all. Like most young women (at least the ones I knew), I’d thought of working out as something you did to try to look better, or to “cancel out” the dollar-slice pizza you ate on the street with your friends after five glasses of revolting wine. Now, I’d entered a new phase of adulthood. I ordered the good pizza and ate it at home with my long-term boyfriend—and not too close to bedtime, or we’d both need a Zantac. I exercised for actual health reasons, like a grown-up. It was boring and consistent, and I actually liked it. There were other things I didn’t like about getting older (like always having to keep Zantac in the house), but the gym wasn’t one of them. Because there, every evening, I could turn on Friends and hop back in time for a moment.

Channel 46 became the nostalgic escape hatch at the end of my grown-up workday. I would pedal away on the Arc Trainer, watching the episode where Monica accidentally dated a teenager, or the one where Chandler got stuck in an ATM vestibule with Jill Goodacre. I didn’t even know who Jill Goodacre was, really. I just knew she was a Victoria’s Secret model in the ’90s, and rewatching the episode was like returning to an era when both she and Victoria’s Secret were hot pop-culture references.

I’d never counted myself among the die-hard Friends fans, though of course I’d watched it. I was ten years old when it debuted in 1994, and in college when it ended. During those years it was one of the biggest shows on television—one of the biggest cultural events, period—and its enormous impact was baked into my DNA like radiation. I’d gotten The Rachel in middle school, I’d watched the finale with a group of weepy girlfriends, and if pressed, I could probably remember all the words to “Smelly Cat.” But that was base-level Friends knowledge, which was, frankly, hard to avoid having. The show was always there, one way or another. I’d find it on hotel-room televisions in the middle of the night, or hear the theme song in a grocery store and get it stuck in my head for days. Friends became an easy reference point in conversations. (“You know, Adam Goldberg. Dazed and Confused? He was Chandler’s creepy roommate with the goldfish? Yeah, that guy.”) I’d never owned the DVDs, but they always seemed to be around, either left by old roommates or brought in by new ones. When the show came to Netflix, on New Year’s Day 2015 (after months of hype), I tuned in for a hungover rewatch. So had all of my colleagues, I found out at work the next day. The true devotees hadn’t even waited until morning. They’d started shortly after midnight and watched until sunrise. I enjoyed revisiting the episodes occasionally, but I assumed I was a Friends fan the way everyone kind of was.

At first, the gym reruns were just an entertaining little addition to my cardio. Part of the fun, though, was watching it the old way—on actual television. I liked the inconvenience of it, even the commercials. I liked not being able to choose which episode I watched. One day, “The One with the Cake” came on again, and I had a thought I hadn’t had in years: Oh, man, I just saw this one. Even the annoyance was a comforting throwback.

Soon enough, I found myself timing my workouts to line up with the reruns. I knew the TBS schedule by heart, the distance between work and the gym, and the exact time I had to leave the office in order to make it in time. A few years later, I was a full-time freelancer, working from home, and it became even easier. All I had to do was wake up earlier so I could wrap up work by 5:00 or so, and I would make it to the gym just in time for “The One with Ross’s Sandwich.” By now, I could admit the truth: 5:30 p.m. had become my new prime time, and Friends was once again Must-See TV.

Let’s be clear: I did other stuff, too. I had a life. I was a writer, living in New York City. I had my own nice apartment (not Monica nice, but no one had that). I got to live in it with my very nice boyfriend, who soon became my very nice fiancé. I had my hardships, like everyone does, but I had much more to be grateful for. You couldn’t have paid me to go back and relive my twenties—especially not those early years, eating drunk pizza on the street. So why, as I inched into my thirties, was I suddenly clinging to a twenty-year-old show about twenty-something people?

I didn’t figure it out until that day a few months ago, when I breezed into the gym, turned on Friends—and it wasn’t there. Something had happened. Channel 46 was no longer TBS, but some god-awful sports network. I frantically clicked through the channels, mentally drafting an email to gym management about the great wrong they had done in changing cable providers. I looked around at my fellow rerun-watchers, expecting a row of outraged faces, but found none. Maybe I’d been wrong about the 5:30 crowd and the slightly embarrassing bond I thought we shared. Was I the gym weirdo? A good ten minutes passed as I stood motionless on the machine, absently thumbing the buttons and staring, wide-eyed, into space. (Yes, for sure, I was the weirdo now.)

In that moment, I thought of all the other times I’d gone back to Friends reruns: sick days, sleepless nights in unfamiliar hotel rooms, the day I got rejected by [insert job and/or romantic prospect]. It was a soothing balm on a lousy day—that much I already knew. But I’d also returned to Friends during periods of deep sadness and anxiety: while mourning the death of a grandparent, or waiting to hear back on biopsy results. On days like that, Friends wasn’t numbing, but comforting and warm. I leaned on the familiar jokes and unabashed sincerity. And I was not the only one. In the weeks after my little mental meltdown on the Arc Trainer, I spoke to others who said the same. Usually, it would start with my shame-faced confession: “So, turns out I’m emotionally dependent on a sitcom! How’ve you been?”

Many of my peers responded with stories of their own Friends phases. Some recalled watching it after 9/11. A lot of people mentioned the 2016 election or the 2017 mass shooting in Las Vegas. Friends was what they turned on when they just couldn’t absorb any more news coverage. For those who grew up on the show, it was a reminder of that earlier, simpler time—not in the world necessarily, but in their own lives. Many watched the show during personal low points or times of high stress: breakups, unemployment, the sleep-deprived first months with a new baby. Why Friends? I’d ask. Was it because the show touched on all those topics, but in an optimistic way? Were they seeking out that emotional resonance? “Uh, no,” they told me. “It’s just a funny show.”

These people use the term comfort food when talking about Friends. They refer to its lightness, its detachment from reality. They watch it because they can’t relate. It’s ridiculous! Six adults with perfect hair who hang out in a coffeehouse in the middle of the day? Who’s paying for those giant lattes? Friends, for them, is pure escapism.

For others, it’s something else entirely. As I began to write this book, I spoke with more people, from all over the US and the world, about their relationship to Friends. And everyone seemed to have one, even if they’d never been a fan—even if they’d never seen a full episode. My friend Chrissy, who grew up as a dual citizen in both America and Switzerland, is one of the latter. Friends, she said, was equally huge in both countries, despite the cultural differences. “For Europeans who had never been to the US, Friends was America,” Chrissy told me. I thought she was referring to things like sweatpants and not being able to afford health care, and other parts of American life that they don’t really have in Europe. Again, I was corrected. “It was the friendliness,” she told me. “Americans smile the moment you meet them. They talk to you like you already know each other.” To the Swiss, she said, American tourists came across like suspiciously nice aliens. Friends, with its high-energy humor and chummy characters, helped make sense of that. Maybe Americans were just an overly friendly bunch. Or maybe just New Yorkers.

I spoke with style editor Elana Fishman, who was raised in South Florida and now lives in Manhattan. Fishman is a diehard Friends fan, and she, too, got her sense of New York life from the show. She spent her high-school years watching the DVDs with her sister every afternoon, and while she understood that Friends was a fantasy, there was something about it that felt true. “On some level, I thought, ‘Okay, this is not at all realistic—but what if it could be?’” she told me. Fishman dreamed of going to college in New York, then starting a journalism career there. Friends gave her excitement and hope; it wasn’t an escape from reality but a glimpse into the future. Her life wouldn’t be exactly like Friends, she knew. But maybe it would be close. “[I thought,] ‘Maybe I’ll move to New York, make a best friend who has a rent-controlled apartment in Greenwich Village, and we’ll live there! And it’ll be great! And we’ll have the guys across the hall who are our best friends.’” Those things could happen. It would be pretty fortuitous for all of them to happen all at once, but not impossible. And really, only one of them mattered. “I didn’t have a lot of friends in high school,” Fishman added quietly, trailing off into a chuckle. “So, watching Friends—it was like a double comfort. I was going to make it to New York, and find that group of friends.” She laughed again. “I know, it’s sad!”

I don’t think it’s sad. I think it’s right on the money. I think it’s the very reason Friends remains one of the most-watched shows on television, to this day. A reported 16 million Americans watch the reruns weekly. That’s as many or more viewers than some of the episodes got during Friends’ first run. And that’s just the people watching it on TV. Netflix has retained the streaming rights since 2015, and since its wildly popular US debut, the company has been rolling out the series to 118 million (and counting) subscribers worldwide. In those markets, too, the Friends fandom remains huge and steady, and in some, it’s actually growing. In 2016, ratings were up by 10% in the UK, where the reruns air on Comedy Central—a channel whose primary demographic is aged 16–34. Teenagers—who weren’t even born when Friends went off the air—lie around on the couch, watching it after school. Young adults come home to their cramped apartments late at night (perhaps still full of street pizza), bring their laptops into bed, and fall asleep to an episode. And not-so-young adults, like me, watch reruns on exercise machines.

Friends has managed to transcend age, nationality, cultural barriers, and even its own dated, unrelatable flaws. Because, underneath all that, it is a show about something truly universal: friendship. It’s a show about the transitional period of early adulthood, when you and your peers are untethered from family, unattached to partners, and equal parts excited and uncertain about the future. The only sure thing you have is each other.

Cultural critic Martha Bayles calls it “the sweet spot”—a fleeting period of enormous freedom and encroaching responsibility, where friends band together in families of their own making. “In most countries, young people have neither the resources nor the adult approval to experience the sweet spot,” she writes in her book, Through a Screen Darkly. Yet Friends is just as popular with them. It is, she writes, “a chance to live vicariously in the sweet spot.” Indeed, even for those of us who had it, the sweet spot was never as sweet as it was on Friends. Our problems were never solved so tidily, our hair was never that good, and again, nobody had that apartment. The truth is, not even our friendships were that perfect. Some of us were lonely in those years, and some of our friend-families were dysfunctional. For others, the real sweetness came later. But what we all can recognize—what is absolutely spot-on about Friends—is the unmistakable, life-changing love that can only exist between friends. It is the net that catches you when family disappoints or falls apart. It is the ballast you can wrap your arms around when romance falters. Friends are the people who walk steadfast, hand in yours, through the rough patches. And then it happens—your grip loosens, the path widens between you, and one day, you look around and find you’re walking on your own, out of the sweet spot and into the rest of your life.

That’s what I realized, that day at the gym. I was thirty-three, engaged—not all that certain about the future, but no longer totally lost. That phase of my own life had been ending for a while. Over that last few years, close friends had moved away for work or gotten married. People had children and mortgages and career ladders to climb. I had a gym membership, for God’s sake, that I actually used. None of these were bad things. This next stage was exciting in a whole new way. But entering it meant leaving another, as well as the relationships I’d had there. Not the people—I would always have them. But it would be different. We couldn’t go back to being twentysomething friends any more than we could go back to summer camp or high school (and yeesh, would we really want to?). Life happens, friendships change—and change is the worst. So, no wonder I’d gone back to something familiar. Friends was a way to revisit the time in my life that was fading, slowly but steadily, into memory.

True, it was just an old sitcom. Yes, in most respects, it bore no resemblance to my own experience. But in the only way that mattered, it did. It was a show about friendship. And like old friends, it never really went away.

PART 1

The One That Almost Wasn’t

On September 22, 1994, NBC aired the pilot episode of a half-hour comedy now titled Friends. It began as plainly as the title implied, with five twentysomethings lounging at a coffeehouse, talking about nothing much. For the first three minutes they didn’t even have names. Then Rachel Green burst into Central Perk, hoisting up her sopping wet wedding gown, her hair utterly unremarkable. She introduced herself to the gang, and the gang to all of us. The story had begun.

It was a fairly inauspicious beginning. As with many television pilots, this episode was nowhere near as good as those that came later. “The One Where Monica Gets a Roommate” is pretty much just that: Rachel shows up in the city, having run out on her wedding, to find her long-lost high-school friend, Monica—for some reason. Why? Whatever, don’t worry about it. Monica lets her move in, seeing as she has an enormous apartment, smack-dab in the middle of Manhattan, with an empty second bedroom. Don’t worry about those things, either. On paper, the Friends pilot asks you to overlook a lot of absurdities and holes—as did most sitcoms of its time. On-screen, it’s only slightly less clunky. The performances are uneven, and the laughter so much louder and uproarious than the punch lines deserve. Watching it now, one can see the seedlings of the bright and crackling comedy to come. But one can also see, quite clearly, how it could have fizzled into nothing.

“They’re 20-something; they hang together; they’re wild and crazy and even occasionally funny,” the New York Times reported in its first tepid write-up of the show. “But would you hang with them? As with all gang shows, it depends on how the individuals develop. In any case,” the four-sentence blurb concluded, “this is mainly a show about demographics.”

Ouch. It wasn’t the friendliest welcome to the fall lineup, but it wasn’t entirely wrong, either. The show was about demographics—one in particular. Friends was centered around six Generation X Manhattanites, not exactly a group in which the majority of Americans could see themselves reflected. This was just one of many reasons the show should have, and so easily could have, failed. Today, it’s impossible to envision a television landscape in which Friends did not succeed, so far-reaching was its influence. But so much had to happen to get that single, just-fine pilot on the air. So much had to go right, and so many other things had to go wrong. It took a fortuitous blend of timing and luck and snap decisions—and a good deal of behind-the-scenes finagling between the power players, not just at NBC, but Fox and CBS, as well. And after that, it would take even longer for the show to prove itself as something more than a bubbly, blond Seinfeld.

In the end, the New York Times was right about Friends, but for the wrong reasons. It wasn’t a show about the tribulations of these specific few. It was the opposite. It had a theme so broad and loose that it pushed the boundaries of low-concept and was hardly concept at all. As the creators themselves put it, Friends was about “that time of your life when your friends are your family.” Or, at least, it would be.

On a rainy Wednesday afternoon in 1985, Marta Kauffman was standing at a bus stop in lower Manhattan. She was wet and miserable, and she had a decision to make. “I kept thinking, ‘I need a sign, ’cause I don’t know what to do,’” she would recount, decades later. Twenty minutes passed, and the bus never arrived. Typical. Then a taxi pulled up right in front of her—not at all typical on a rainy New York day. She didn’t think twice, just grabbed it, gave the driver directions, and leaned back in her seat. Suddenly, it occurred to her: a sign. She sat up, and there it was, right in front of her face. She knew exactly what to do.

Marta Kauffman and David Crane met in 1975, at Brandeis University. In 2010, Kauffman and Crane were interviewed by the Television Academy Foundation, where their story would be preserved for future generations of creatives and cultural historians. By then, the creators of Friends had long since ended their landmark show as well as their professional relationship. But their legendary rapport and synchronicity was undiminished. This was a duo that, from their early days in Hollywood, were known for their preternatural chemistry, finishing each other’s sentences and pitching network executives with uncanny energy and ease. In that 2010 interview, when asked to tell the story of how they first met, they replied in tandem, without skipping a beat: “He was a street urchin,” Kauffman began. On cue, Crane concluded: “And Marta was a whore.”

Onstage, that is. They were both acting students at the time, and had been cast in a production of the Tennessee Williams play Camino Real. It would be nice to view this first meeting through the lens of destiny, imagining a young Kauffman and Crane instantly recognizing themselves as kindred from the start. The truth, though, has a lot less fairy dust. The truth sounds a lot more like everyone else’s college theater stories: they met, did the play, and then never really hung out after that.

Two years passed. Kauffman went abroad for her junior year, and by the time she returned to school, she’d decided to try working behind the scenes. She enrolled in a directing course, which Crane was taking, too, having recently come to the realization that, as an actor, he was “really not good.” Kauffman didn’t yet know this, so when she was assigned to direct a production of Godspell, she asked her old castmate to be in it. “And he said, ‘No. But I’ll direct it with you?’”

Two directors on one show can often become a too-many-cooks situation, particularly when the cooks are two young, ambitious theater students. Dueling egos and clashing creative visions can spoil the production and make mortal enemies out of the competing codirectors. But, at least in their recollection, Kauffman and Crane’s first collaboration was precisely the opposite. It was easy and it was a blast. Having been relative strangers before, they now fell into an instant and easy rapport. Already, they were completing one another’s sentences, working in sync like seasoned producing partners. “It was one of those relationships where you very quickly realize, This is fun,” says Kauffman.

They had fun codirecting Godspell and so decided to do another play, and then another. There was no formal agreement, but Kauffman and Crane now realized they both enjoyed creating theater, maybe more than performing—and they enjoyed it even more when creating it together.

“I don’t even know which of us said it,” Crane recalled. But, on a whim, one of them suggested they write something. The way he tells it, the decision to become writing partners went something like: “Yeah, let’s write something! It’ll be a musical! Sure!” Kauffman shrugged and nodded. “We have a barn.”

Neither had ever written a play, let alone a musical. So they did what one is supposed to do in college: experimented. They booked a theater space and commissioned classmates Seth Friedman and Billy Dreskin¹ to help out.

This play would become the first Kauffman-Crane production, titled Waiting for the Feeling. (It was exactly what it sounds like, according to Kauffman: “An angst-driven, collegiate, ‘comedy’” about how hard it is to be a college student.) Still, the experience confirmed what they’d first come to realize while directing Godspell. They clicked. They were good (if still juvenile) writers. They understood each other, but also complemented one another. Crane was analytical, his focus homed in on the words on the page. Kauffman was better with emotion, and enjoyed the creative work of taking a story from script to stage and, later, to screen. Down the line, during the production of Friends, Crane preferred to stay in the writers’ room, tweaking jokes and refining stories, while Kauffman did much of the creative producing on set, checking wardrobe, watching camera blocking, and hashing scenes out with the actors.

What made Kauffman and Crane such a strong team was the fact that they could put their heads together and create something, and then step apart to execute their vision in slightly separate roles. They had talent and dynamism and extraordinary work ethic, but they also had trust. On this foundation, the pair would go on to forge a lifelong friendship, and a twenty-seven-year creative partnership, which would forever alter the trajectory of both network and cable television programming. It was a natural, comfortable interdependence. Together, they just worked.

When people wonder about that ineffable magic that made Friends such a hit, much credit (if not all credit) is given to the cast. But Kauffman and Crane were the primary ingredient, no question. It was not only the fortitude of their professional relationship, but the intimacy and trust within their personal one. They were the original friends.

Kauffman and Crane moved to New York after college, pursuing the musical-theater career they’d begun at Brandeis. They wrote their next show, Personals, along with former classmate Seth Friedman. It was a musical revue about the people behind newspaper personal ads, featuring music and lyrics by none other than Alan Menken and Stephen Schwartz—already musical-theater stars, and on the verge of becoming musical-theater legends, as well as the musicians behind virtually every Disney animated feature of the 1990s. Personals made the rounds on college festival circuits, and even a USO tour, before landing off-Broadway in 1985, where it starred a twenty-six-year-old Jason Alexander. The production was bursting at the seams with talent, and yet reviews were almost comically mixed. “Entertaining and ingenious,” declared the New York Post. “Unfailingly mirthless,” countered the Times.

Still, Kauffman and Crane had laid solid groundwork for what they planned as a lifelong career in the theater. Only in their late twenties, they’d already written and mounted a handful of off-Broadway plays and musicals—some with Kauffman’s new husband, composer Michael Skolff—many of which were well received. If they weren’t yet an established hit, they were on their way, with no plans to change course.

Then television agent Nancy Josephson came to see Personals. She, too, was a relative newbie, on the cusp of titanic success—much of which would arise from her decision to contact Kauffman and Crane, and eventually sign them as clients. That night, after seeing the show, she reached out to the playwrights. Had they ever considered writing for TV? Not really. Did they want to give it a shot? Why not.

Josephson tasked Kauffman and Crane to come up with ten television concepts to shop around. Crane is the first to acknowledge that some of the show ideas were, in a word, “crazy.” Others were just bad. But Kauffman and Crane were undaunted, perhaps because, being so far removed from Hollywood, they had no real sense of the competition they were up against. At that point, television would be at best a side gig, with both of them still committed to the theater. They flew out to Los Angeles for meetings occasionally, but remained firmly rooted in New York. And then, out of the blue, someone bought one of their scripts.

“Talk about your first work not being your best work,” Crane said, shaking his head. “It was called Just a Guy. And it was really just about a guy… I don’t know, it was really lame.” But it was a milestone—a massive turning point in their career. “We sat in the rental car, screaming,” Kauffman recalled. Just a Guy was never produced, but now they could say that they’d sold something. “And then we were able to sell a few more scripts that didn’t get produced,” said Crane. On the one hand, they’d spent years doing unpaid work on unproduced scripts, flying back and forth across the country, and this was the big payoff: five minutes of screaming in a rental car, and a fee that, after commission, probably wouldn’t cover rent on either of their apartments, let alone both. On the other hand, they were TV writers now, officially. In selling one lousy script, they’d shot past the thousands of other writers out there trying to do just that.

It was the third of three key events in their early professional partnership—the one that made them pack up and leave their lives in New York, to try this TV thing, for real. The first was simply meeting Josephson, and agreeing to her suggestion that they give TV a shot. (When later asked about her role in their career, Josephson took no more or less credit than she was due: “I saw the play and thought they should work in TV. I guess I was right about that.”)

Pulsuz fraqment bitdi.