HIGHER SOCIETY
a
fanfiction based on George Cukor’s The Philadelphia Story (1940) and
the musical High Society (1956), both of which were based on the
Broadway play, The Philadelphia Story (1939) by Philip Barry. I don’t own the story, but I own the
characters in this adaptation.
Here's a link to Spotify playlist of music matching the story: songs for the Higher Society
∞∞∞∞
Chapter One
It's a pretty good crowd for a Saturday
And the manager gives me a smile
'Cause he knows that it's me they've been comin' to see
To forget about life for a while
And the piano, it sounds like a carnival
And the microphone smells like a beer
And they sit at the bar and put bread in my jar
And say, "Man, what are you doin' here?"
- “Piano Man”, as sung by Billy Joel
Present
Day – New York, U.S.A.
Jack Spencer,
reluctant up and coming celebrity reporter for TMI Online, dashed to a table at
Nathan’s for a meeting with the tabloid’s editor-in-chief, Mars Lancroft, and
Jack’s photographer/camera operator, LaTonya “Toni” Hoffman. Jack was flustered and irritated he had to
come in the first place. He hated the
whole celebrity gossip thing – was disgusted by computer-enhanced, second rate
talents who complained about reporters hiding in the bushes all the while having
assistants plant slander about their fellows in social media. But he couldn’t avoid this assignment nor
this job, at least for now. Jack needed
money to free himself of the constraints that came with living with the wrong
body parts. Female-to-male transitions
weren’t cheap either, even with medical coverage. Therapy, psychiatry, medications – Jack was
in the hole with the constant costs. His
friends in the FTM trans support group said the hormones were “working” and he
“passed” for a man as he developed a fairly full beard and moustache. Jack accepted that there wasn’t much to be
done by his Hobbit body frame. Toni said
he was cute, but he wanted more. Jack
wanted a functional cock. Once things
were right, he promised himself, all would be perfect. Since he was a teen, Jack dreamed of being
that man in a tailored, double-breasted Savile Row suit confidently walking to
his office at the New York Times.. So,
he shook off his disgust with a mental reminder. “I’m playing for something more”, he
whispered to himself as he put on his gratitude face and sat at the table.
“I was about to
give up on you, Spencer!” bellowed Lancroft, who Jack’s mom used to say looked
like B. T. Bauman’s at a 90s gay pride event.
“Now Toni, you'll take your camera stuff, of course. And Spencer well .
. . eh . . . you'll take your own
special talents,” the latter oozing from the older man’s mouth like the
remnants of explosive vomit.
Again, composing
himself, Jack deescalated the initial tone of his question, “What’s the deal?”
“Lancroft wants us
to cover the Reese wedding,” Toni replied.
She was a mashup between Lisa Bonet’s complexion with a Jewfroo and
1970s Pam Grier’s, smiled slightly at Jack as he sat down. Although she had the well-deserved moniker of
“Ice Princess”, anyone who was really paying attention would notice how her
voice and gestures were just a little bit brighter when Jack was around.
“In Wales?” Jack
exclaimed.
“Ah don’t
complain, Spencer!” waved off Lancroft as he inhaled a bit of cheesecake. “After all, you’re Scots-Irish? So, it’s all England, isn’t it? What’s the difference?”
His mom was quite
proud of their Westside Chicago, upper white trash heritage and taught him the
same. But this wasn’t the time to argue
with a man so ignorant as to believe Donald Trump should have a statue and
library next to the Lincoln Memorial.
“The family agreed? Royal types
are notoriously camera-shy.”
“It seems our
leadership has convinced them of the error of their ways,” Toni responded.
“Well if you can’t
handle the scandal, don’t do the scandalous, I always say.” Lancroft showed
that he could do two things at once – roll his eyes and gobble another slice of
cheesecake. “Is it our fault that some
horny, titled 16-year old with a well-heeled and slightly older gentleman
boyfriend got . . . banged up, I think
those English say? Can I help it that
granny’s a strumpet? Try explaining that pregnancy during Christmas dinner at
Buckingham Palace? And it’s not our
fault said such information happened to arrive by snail mail to the office of this
editor-n-chief. I am simply helping our
brethren out, giving the oft-maligned upper classes a chance to give the world
their side of the story – show everyone that they are just like us.” Altruism never smelled so bad. “Listen, the bottom line is those folks want
to keep things quiet and we need the money this story will bring in. Ad sales are down with all this podcast
shit. Don’t make me order you two over
there!”
Toni shrugged and
gave Jack a what-else-can-we-do grin.
“When do we leave?” Jack asked.
Lancroft took out
his phone and started tapping before his staff changed their minds. “You fly out in 3 hours. I’ll text you your tickets”. After a few clicks, he added, “Your seats are
already confirmed, and your equipment will be pre-boarded. You just have to get yourselves to the
airport.”
Jack picked up his
phone to examine the e-ticket. “You know
Mars, your psychic powers always amaze me.
It’s like you can smell our acquiesce before we have even formulated an
objection,” Jack replied.
Lancroft savoured
his last piece of cake, letting it melt in his mouth before chewing. His eyes closed and his face looked like an
addict’s after the first hit of the morning.
When it was gone, Lancroft’s eyes locked with Jack. Older man growled, “Don’t you know what it is
the have a secret no one should hear?”
It wasn’t so much that Lancroft was transphobic. He hated everyone just for existing. But he offered quiet, casual torture with a
splash of nosy to his underlings. It was
a shame the company’s human resource executive was sleeping with him.
“Yes,” said Jack, as
he nearly tripped over his own bile.
