CHANDLER COMES OUT

Wilma Loves Betty Edited by Julie K. Trevelyan and Scott Brassart ******** Chandler Comes Out by Jeffrey M. Hannan Rachel and Monica’s apartment. Rachel is in the kitchen pouring a glass of white wine. Although Rachel and Ross rekindled their small-screen romance last week--for the fifth time this season--there is new tension, brought about by the hiring of a hot, brown-haired stud to work alongside Rachel in Bloomingdale’s buying department. There is no word yet on which way the stud’s pendulum swings. Phoebe sits quietly at the kitchen table gluing butterfly appliqués onto a denim jacket. Monica, minimum-wage bon vivant now working at a Jamaican theme restaurant, sits reading personal ads in The Manhattanite, a trendy weekly newspaper. Monica hasn’t yet realized that her relationship with a millionaire software developer is on the skids. Consequently, she has taken to roaming from scene to scene whimpering, “I just know he’s going to marry me! It’s only a matter of time.” MONICA: (reading aloud) Valentine’s Day. You--tall, beautiful redhead, waiting alone for bus on 7th Avenue. Me--guy on motorcycle. You waved. My light turned green. Call me. Am getting dizzy driving circles around the block trying to find you. RACHEL: Oh…how sweet. PHOEBE: (gets up from the table and skitters over to the sofa) Oh, is that the personals? Lemme, lemme, I love the personals! (She yanks the paper away and reads.) Cross-dressing pinafored sissykins seeks other goody two-shoes for gentle play with horse whips and restraining devices. Weekdays only. MONICA: Not those! (She yanks the paper back.) I’m reading the Crossed Signals. You know, where two people meet by chance but for some reason they don’t connect, or time escapes them, or… RACHEL: Or they’re so completely and instantly in love they can’t speak! PHOEBE: Hullo…you mean, they’re too stupid to speak. Or maybe they’re dumb, in which case they really can’t speak. (disturbed all of a sudden) Oh, my. MONICA: What? PHOEBE: What happens if I meet the man of my dreams, except he’s mute and I blow him off because I think he’s rude, even though he’s totally gorgeous, and the truth is it’s not that he’s rude but he literally can’t say anything. And here I’ve insulted him and will probably never get to know what’s probably a completely fantastic, groovy guy. RACHEL: Umm, let’s go back to that horsewhipping thing. Cut to opening credits--happy music, smiling faces, swimming in dirty public fountains. Chandler and Joey’s apartment. Joey sits in one of a pair of matching leather recliners watching TV. In last week’s episode, he and Phoebe joined a 24-hour gym in the West Village. (In real life, Joey was given an ultimatum by the show’s executive producers after he took off his shirt and the flab rolled over his belt and into commercial airtime.) Chandler--who has been pinching at Joey’s love handles a bit too often lately, leading many to wonder what those two actually do on their matching recliners besides watching Baywatch--hasn’t had a date all season. In fact, he’s barely had a story line. Until now. He opens a kitchen cupboard. Empty. He opens another. Only a box of Wheaties. He panics. CHANDLER: Joey! Did you eat my last Top Ramen? JOEY: (pats his gut) No way! CHANDLER: (ranting mildly) Top Ramen, Top Ramen, I need my Top Ramen, I must have Top Ramen, I am hungry for Top Ramen…. JOEY: Chill out, man. Go downstairs and get some. CHANDLER: No way! I am not paying premium for my Top Ramen! That place gouges you on everything--from Fig Tarts to Pop Newtons. JOEY: Don’t you mean Pop-Tarts and Fig Newtons? Canned laughter. CHANDLER: Whatever. JOEY: You know, I coulda sworn they were advertising Top Ramen at three for a buck. CHANDLER: Three for a dollar? Three Top Ramen, assorted flavors, assorted spices, curly cutey swirling Top Ramen noodles with a seasoning packet, only three for a dollar? Chandler exits the apartment in a flash. Downstairs at the Corner Market. A sign reads “Top Ramen, 3 for $1.” Chandler arrives, trips his way over to the disheveled soup aisle. CHANDLER: Top Ramen! Top Ramen! Three for a buck! Top Ramen… There is a gaping hole on the shelf where the Top Ramen used to be. CHANDLER: Oh, my God! It’s like, gone! It’s all gone! He attacks the shelves, looking for one last Ramen, which, as fate would have it, he spies hidden behind some dried Lipton soup mix. His eyes light up. Slow Motion--Chandler reaches to grab the lone Ramen. Assorted instant soup mixes fly from the shelf, including the Ramen, which sails through the air, spinning deliciously. Chandler’s eyes become wide with challenge: he dives to catch it in midair but misses. The Ramen lands with an audible crunch. Chandler reaches for the injured package, but is beaten to his prize by the heel of a man’s shoe. Crunch! CHANDLER: You…You…You smashed my Top Ramen! Bryce, handsome with brown hair and a hot body, notices Chandler sprawled on the floor. BRYCE: Maybe you should go with canned soup next time. More canned laughter. Chandler seethes. CHANDLER: You are an inane, careless ass, and you should watch where the hell you’re going! Bryce smiles. BRYCE: Relax, friend. I doubt it was the last Ramen in Manhattan. There’s another store across the street. They’ve probably got tons of it. CHANDLER: Not for 33 and a third cents, plus tax. Friend. BRYCE: Oh. Well, sorry. And by the way, I’m not. CHANDLER: Not what? BRYCE: An inane, careless ass. CHANDLER: What, you meant to step on my Ramen? A mysterious young woman, pretty, with styled hair and perky tits like Rachel and Monica, approaches from a neighboring aisle. YOUNG WOMAN: Bryce? I found it! She holds up and shakes a small box containing nonaspirin pain reliever. BRYCE: Great! (turns to Chandler) Look, I’m really sorry. If you want- CHANDLER: You mean to tell me you smashed my Ramen for buffered pain reliever? Don’t you know that aspirin is in aisle number two, with scrubbing sponges and personal hygiene products? BRYCE: Look, I’m sorry. I just moved to the city and I’ve never been in this store before! I’m sorry! Bryce and the mystery woman leave. CHANDLER: OK, fine! Go ahead and go! Just…leave me…stranded…alone…with no Top Ramen. Rachel and Monica’s apartment, one hour later. Rachel is on the sofa reading W. Phoebe is still gluing appliqués to her denim jacket. A few pairs of jeans are now stacked on the table as well. Monica crosses the living room into the kitchen, transfixed by the personal ads in her trendy newspaper. MONICA: This is nothing but…people for sale. Tons and tons of people! RACHEL: I know, it’s incredible. MONICA: Tell me, what exactly is a DBJM ISO S/MHF? PHOEBE: Divorced black Jewish man in search of…well, this is tricky. Is it S slash M space HF, or S slash MHF? MONICA: No space, just a slash. PHOEBE: In that case…Divorced black Jewish man in search of a single or married Hispanic female. Canned laughter. Lots of it. RACHEL: Wow, you’re good! PHOEBE: I used to sell personals in a previous life. More canned laughter. RACHEL: No kidding? PHOEBE: Well, not a real previous life--in this life. Before I did what I do now. RACHEL: Which is? PHOEBE: Don’t you have fashion photographs to look at? You know, emaciated women in evening gowns made by apparel slaves? Cautious canned laughter. MONICA: Hey, Phoebes, what would it mean if there was a space? PHOEBE: Remember the one about riding crops and handcuffs? MONICA: Ick. PHOEBE: You asked. The front door opens, no knock. Joey enters. JOEY: Is Chandler here? MONICA: (in a poor imitation of a Caribbean accent) No way, mon. Haven’t seen him all morning. JOEY: Shoot. He went to the corner market an hour ago and he’s not back yet. PHOEBE: And the problem is…? JOEY: The problem is, it doesn’t take an hour to go to a store that’s maybe 50 paces away from the front door of our building. MONICA: Maybe there’s a long line. RACHEL: Maybe they didn’t have what he wanted. PHOEBE: Maybe he forgot where he was going. JOEY: We’re talking Chandler, here! PHOEBE: Oh, that’s right. I’m confusing him with you. MONICA: (inspired) Maybe he got a crossed signal! JOEY: Hey…don’t be saying things like that about Chandler. He may not be in the altogether, if you know what I mean (points to his head), but he’s a good man. MONICA: Or maybe their signals didn’t cross. Maybe he actually connected! PHOEBE: So, Joey, tell us. What kind of initials have you dated? Mild canned laughter. JOEY: ’Scuse me? RACHEL: You know, initials. MONICA: (In her Caribbean dialect) Yah, mon, like a cocoa-brown SWF, 20-something. JOEY: Oh, I get it. Yeah, yeah. (to Monica) Hey, what’s wrong with your voice? MONICA: (as if it were an accomplishment) It’s for my new job at the Jamaican Jerk House. JOEY: Love it. Mean it. Not. Anyway, I once dated a… (uses his fingers to “count” the letters) T--F--H--D--W with H--somethin’ somethin’ somethin’. RACHEL: Which translates how? PHOEBE: (befuddled) Don’t look at me. JOEY: A two-fisted heavy-drinking woman with handcuffs in the glove box and five on the floor. MONICA: What was she, a lady of GLOW? Canned laughter. JOEY: Nah, my cousin Frankie’s sister, Magdalena. PHOEBE: Hullo…that still makes her your cousin, which, last time I checked, was illegal, not to mention highly abnormal, unless you’re from the deep, deep South, where they don’t have televisions to tell them what’s normal. JOEY: It wasn’t a real date! We just went bowling together a few times. I never even kissed her. PHOEBE: She’s probably still standing on the front porch of that row house in the Bronx, her lips puckered up, waiting for your tongue to… (beat) I’ve got to get away from this glue! The fumes… Chandler enters nonchalantly, also without knocking. JOEY: Chandler, buddy, what happened? CHANDLER: Um…nothing? Everything? Venus collided with Mars? I don’t know! Tell me! JOEY: (worried) Venus collided with Mars? You mean the planets? PHOEBE: Oh, my God! Where will all the women and men come from now? CHANDLER: (swatting at both Joey and Phoebe with his hands) Get away from me, you ignoramuses. They didn’t have any Top Ramen, so I had to go up the street. JOEY: Oh? CHANDLER: Oh! JOEY: Oh, yeah? CHANDLER: Yeah! JOEY: (beaten) Well, in that case sorry, bud. But hey, where’s it at? Joey makes stupid hand signals, possibly but not probably suggesting Top Ramen. CHANDLER: You mean, the… Chandler responds with similar gestures. CHANDLER: On the stove! JOEY: Enough for two? CHANDLER: You know it! Joey and Chandler exit, an arm wrapped around each other’s shoulder. PHOEBE: And you thought the personals made no sense. The buying office at Bloomingdale’s. Rachel and Bryce, the handsome stud hired in last week’s episode (and Chandler’s stepper-onner of Top Ramen), are analyzing large fabric swatches. RACHEL: (holding one up) What do you think? Too Southern California? BRYCE: Too Florida. RACHEL: Like there’s a difference? BRYCE: Look at the cut, it’s retiree city. RACHEL: And there are no retirees in Palm Springs? BRYCE: We’re buying young women’s, Rachel. That’s totally Golden Girls. Canned laughter--again. RACHEL: What about this one? BRYCE: A little too Partridge Family. RACHEL: Yeah, it does kind of resemble that ugly bus. They laugh, accompanied by nostalgic canned laughter. Rachel rummages through more swatches, holds yet another ugly one against her chest. RACHEL: Um…Bryce? BRYCE: Yeah, Rachel? RACHEL: I need to get something off my chest. BRYCE: I’ll say. That’s the worst one so far. RACHEL: No, I…I mean about yesterday, when I accidentally grabbed your butt in the storage room. I am so embarrassed by that. I hope it doesn’t impact our professional relationship. BRYCE: Don’t worry about it, it’s completely forgotten. RACHEL: It really was an accident. I would never intentionally grab your butt. Well, I mean not never never, but not… What I’m saying is, you have a really great butt. BRYCE: Thank you. RACHEL: (frustrated) But that’s not what I’m saying! You see…I have Ross. BRYCE: Who probably wouldn’t be thrilled to know you go around squeezing other guys’ butts. RACHEL: I swear, I thought it was a stack of fall fabric samples. I would never do anything to jeopardize my relationship with Ross. BRYCE: I’m sure you wouldn’t. Listen, Rachel, it’s no big deal. It was an accident, it doesn’t matter. Besides, (beat) I’m gay. RACHEL: Y-you are? BRYCE: Relieved? RACHEL: I…I don’t know. Ross knocks on the door frame and enters the room. ROSS: Hi, there, worker bees. RACHEL: (startled) Ross, sweetheart! Hi! ROSS: How’s my honey? RACHEL: Sweet on you, sugar pie. (beat) Ross, this is Bryce, the new assistant buyer I told you about last night. Bryce, this is my boyfriend, Ross--who I was mentioning a minute ago. BRYCE: The pleasure’s mine. ROSS: Don’t be so sure. Suspicious canned laughter. ROSS: You ready for lunch, honey doll? RACHEL: Sure, sweetie bear. Let me grab my purse. ROSS: I’ll go find Chandler. RACHEL: You brought Chandler? Great! There’ll be four of us. BRYCE: Who’s Chandler? ROSS: He’s our resident clown. (looks around) He was with me a minute ago. I hope I don’t have to go pry him out of the mannequin room again. Canned laughter. RACHEL: (flinging purse over her shoulder) I’m ready. BRYCE: (securing his fanny pack) Me, too. Before Ross has a chance to go looking for him, Chandler enters excitedly. CHANDLER: Whoa-ho, guess who got lost in the lingerie department! ROSS: Glad you found your way out. BRYCE: (coyly) Likewise. CHANDLER: (recognizing him) You. You again. RACHEL: You know each other? CHANDLER: This man is a Philistine! ROSS: No. Actually this unnaturally handsome duoped is your lunch date. RACHEL: Well, no, not exactly his… CHANDLER: My what? BRYCE: This is perfect…Chandler, was it? I owe you one anyway, after smashing your Ramen the other day. ROSS: What Ramen? RACHEL: You’re the Top Ramen guy? ROSS: What Ramen? RACHEL: I’ll tell you later. BRYCE: Yes, I was the stupid, careless ass who smashed Chandler’s lunch in the Westside Market on Saturday. CHANDLER: Inane, careless ass. RACHEL: Fine, fine, whatever. Let’s go. CHANDLER: I’m not going if he is. ROSS: Grow up, Chandler. BRYCE: That’s OK, Ross. I’ll stay here. You guys go have a good time. RACHEL: (to Bryce) We can’t leave you here. (to Ross) We can’t leave him here. (to Chandler) It’s only his second week and he doesn’t know anyone. ROSS: (whining) I’m hungry. CHANDLER: Oh, all right. He can come. (pointing at Bryce) But keep your feet to yourself! BRYCE: I’ll try. Ross and Rachel sit at a four-top table in a nice Manhattan restaurant. Lunch is obviously over. Bryce and Chandler stand together, beside the table, ready to go. CHANDLER: Thanks again for lunch, Ross. That was a treat. BRYCE: Yes. It was really kind of you. ROSS: Don’t mention it. RACHEL: So you boys are off to work? CHANDLER: No pay, no play! (to Bryce) Let’s go, big guy. ALL: See ya! Bye! Chandler and Bryce exit. ROSS: Well, that was an awfully nice lunch. RACHEL: The two boys sure hit it off well. ROSS: Yeah, they did, didn’t they. You know, if I didn’t know better, I’d be tempted to say that Bryce and Chandler had a thing for each other. RACHEL: Oh, Ross. (beat) Oh, Ross! The women’s apartment, one week later. Phoebe is at the table working on her denim appliqués, now and then taking a sniff of glue. She now has a huge stack of denim clothing beside her. Monica and Rachel are in the kitchen chopping vegetables. Ross is on the sofa reading the newest edition of The Manhattanite. Joey enters abruptly, without knocking. He carries a basketball in one hand and a note in the other. JOEY: (waving note) Can you believe Chandler? He blew off our game so he could go clothes shopping with his new friend--(said with disgust) Bryce. Did he mention where they were going? MONICA: No, he didn’t. Sorry, sweetie. JOEY: Well, I’ll find him. And when I do, he’d better have bought me something. Joey storms out. ROSS: Hey, listen to this one. (reading) BiWM ISO daddy. Hairy male or butch les w/strap-on will do. RACHEL: You don’t need to read those, sweetie. ROSS: What’s a BiWM? It sounds like a kinky convertible. Canned laughter. MONICA: It means bisexual white male. PHOEBE: Very good! RACHEL: (cautiously) Mon? MONICA: (shrugs) I’ve been working the slow shift at the Jerk House. ROSS: Hey, here’s a good one. It’s a Crossed Signal. (reading) Saturday, Westside Market. I smashed your Ramen, you stole my heart. Three days later we shared a cab. Wanted to kiss you but I chickened out. Call me. Bryce. RACHEL: Oh…My…God! ROSS: Now, honey, relax. Maybe it’s a different Bryce. RACHEL: What, there was a Ramen stomping festival for men named Bryce in the Westside Market last Saturday? How could it not be our Bryce? MONICA: Would somebody clue me in, please? RACHEL: Chandler met a boy in the market the other day. The other boy stepped on Chandler’s Top Ramen. The boy, it turns out, is Bryce, the new guy at work. Bryce and Chandler had lunch with Ross and me and left together. ROSS: In the same cab. PHOEBE: So now Bryce has fallen head over heels for Chandler. But Chandler, like always, doesn’t know it. Poor Chandler is always the last to get clued in to things--well, except for Joey, who is really always the last to get clued in. Meanwhile, Phoebe--that would be me--is left explaining everything to everyone else because I tend to provide comic relief and insight to every situation. All at the same time. Not entirely unlike the idiot savant who appears in many of Shakespeare’s plays. (sniffs glue) Mmm, this stuff is addictive. Later that night. Bryce’s apartment, the epitome of contemporary, multiethnic, queer domesticity--all that’s missing is the same-sex partner and a small pet. Bryce crosses into the kitchen as Chandler, carrying a shopping bag decorated with Antonio Sabato Jr.’s torso, enters. BRYCE: So, are you pleased with your purchases? CHANDLER: Absolutely! A new silk shirt and a striking tie to go with it. (He holds them up together--a lavender silk shirt and a purple tie covered with small pink triangles) It’s a very festive pattern on the tie, don’t you think? BRYCE: Absolutely. CHANDLER: But speaking of money, what do I owe you for the taxis? It was, what, ten, 12 bucks each? BRYCE: Ten bucks, but don’t worry about it. CHANDLER: No, no, my friend. Let’s keep this even-Steven. Chandler pulls a $10 bill from his wallet and crosses into the kitchen to hand it to Bryce. Once in the kitchen, he notices an artistic black-and-white photograph of a male nude hanging on the wall. CHANDLER: Oh wow, you’re into Greek art? BRYCE: Uh, it’s not exactly Greek, Chandler. It’s a Bruce Weber. CHANDLER: Why, it all but resonates with the form and line of antiquity. BRYCE: It’s hot, huh? CHANDLER: Hot? BRYCE: (grinning) Yeah, hot. You like it don’t you? CHANDLER: Well, certainly--who couldn’t appreciate the rounded lines of the shoulders and buttocks…the subtle shadows on the arms and thighs… (getting warm) the slightly arching back… (beat) I have to go. BRYCE: Cut it out, Chandler. We’re going to have dinner and watch Baywatch together, as agreed. Let’s be adult about this. CHANDLER: I am being adult! This highly heterosexual adult male does not watch Baywatch with men who don’t ogle Pamela Lee. BRYCE: Like you really ogle Pamela Lee. CHANDLER: Of course I do! Joey and I exclusively ogle the babes on Baywatch! BRYCE: You and Joey, eh? Bryce grabs Chandler around the waist and yanks him close so that the two men are face to face. CHANDLER: Now don’t get rough here! BRYCE: All I ever hear about is Joey. What’s the story between you two, anyway? CHANDLER: (squirming) Just let go of me, you, you--presumptive ass! BRYCE: Joey never holds you like this, does he? CHANDLER: Of course not. It’s obscene. BRYCE: It’s what you’ve been wanting for a long time. Admit it. CHANDLER: Hogwash! Let go, you big bollocks. You’re suffocating me. Chandler struggles to free himself--sort of. BRYCE: If that’s what you want…. Bryce lets go. CHANDLER: I…I didn’t mean completely. Audible gasps from the audience. BRYCE: No? (wrapping his arms around Chandler’s waist) You mean you like it? CHANDLER: It’s kind of tight, but… Do you work out? You must. Hmm. Great arms… Well…other than the precarious closeness of the two bodies, it’s…it’s… BRYCE: (gently) You can say it. CHANDLER: Not bad. BRYCE: So you like it? CHANDLER: To a degree. We’re still just friends, of course. BRYCE: Of course. CHANDLER: And there’s nothing else between us? BRYCE: (looks down and sees what’s between them) Not exactly. (beat) Is that a degree in your pocket, or are you just really happy to be here? CHANDLER: OK, I lied! It’s the boys in red bathing suits I like! It’s the boys! The boys! Oh, kiss me! Bryce leans forward and kisses Chandler on the lips. The audience shrieks and howls. After an extended, wet kiss, Bryce pulls his head back and loosens his grip on the petrified yet enamored and utterly transformed Chandler. Later that night, Bryce’s bed. On the night stand is a tube of lube and several torn condom packs. Chandler rests his head on Bryce’s requisitely muscled shoulder. BRYCE: You OK? CHANDLER: More than OK. I’m stunned. I had no idea what I’ve been missing all these years. BRYCE: It kind of puts your world in perspective, doesn’t it? CHANDLER: It really does. But…. Chandler becomes contemplative. BRYCE: What’s the matter? CHANDLER: It’s silly. BRYCE: (delicately touching the tip of Chandler’s nose) Come on… CHANDLER: Nothing’s the matter, honestly. It’s just…does this mean Joey and I have to buy you a recliner for our living room? BRYCE: I don’t know. Ask him. Camera pulls back and reveals Joey, sound asleep beside them. JOEY: (groggy) Mph…mmm…recliner…Baywatch…Hasselhoff. Mmm. BRYCE and CHANDLER: Nah. Let him sleep. ©1999 Alyson Publications (0899)