All That You Leave Behind: A Memoir(28)
Years later, I now realize how fucking hypocritical I was being. But at the time, I was wounded. The new guy I had started seeing broke it off with me, saying, “You are great but you have some issues you need to work through.” He told me to call when I was ready. Instead, I called my dad over and over, seeking guidance, admitting that I had handled everything wrong, wondering how to feel about another failed relationship and the fact that Paul had moved on so successfully.
His responses were always solid and sound and made me feel better.
Dolly, he was a significant person in your life, but sadly not a significant person. His quiet rage at the accomplishment of others, his inability to take action in his own life, professionally and emotionally. She will know him as you now know him. Do not give either one of them the satisfaction. Seriously honey, he was the best 180 pounds you ever lost. Life is long.
I printed out the email, stared at it, and for the first time in a long time, felt that I could breathe.
16
The Criers Get Nothing
Click, Print, Gun, my piece about Cody Wilson, the 3D-printing assault weapons guy, was a success. In the first week of its release on YouTube, five million people viewed the twenty-seven-minute film. Those were insane numbers for a movie that long. VICE was pretty happy. It was another way for their brand to be seen as close to the zeitgeist. I was thrilled beyond measure and stayed up the night the film hit the Web to count the views hour by hour. Virality was intoxicating, and it felt like my work getting noticed in a big way.
When Stephen, a rival producer from a competing tech website, direct-messaged me on Twitter and asked to meet for a drink, I immediately responded in the affirmative. I didn’t want to leave my job at VICE, but I knew my money situation needed improvement. I said as much to Stephen at the bar and he encouraged me to send an email of inquiry to the head of the site. I did, and the editor responded, inviting me to come in and meet with him.
I left my desk at VICE in the middle of the day, citing female problems, and took the train into Manhattan. I used the travel time to run through the conversation my dad and I’d had about money one more time.
“How much do you make now?” he’d asked me quickly. I had gotten a raise in the last year and was up to $40,000, but I was still running at a deficit. “Forty thousand. It isn’t enough, considering student loans and rent.” He knew this much; I had been complaining about what VICE paid me for years.
“What do you want to make?”
I had never been asked that question. I paused and said in a questioning tone, “Sixty-K?”
“C’mon, we can do better than that. What about seventy-five?”
“Yeah, that would be incredible.”
“Ask for that and see what they say.”
Within two weeks I had a job offer in hand with a salary of $80,000; they had added the $5,000 to seal the deal. I was elated. I was flying back from a video shoot at a Bitcoin conference when I emailed my best friend, Yunna, with the good news. She matched my excitement but then said, “I think a change is absolutely the right move. VICE has never been that healthy for you.”
“What do you mean?”
I could feel her thinking as she slowly typed out the next text message. “I mean, I think working there makes your drinking issues worse. Am I completely out of line in saying this?” I was irritated at her for bringing up such an embarrassing subject on the heels of my happy news. I swiped left on the conversation to delete it permanently, and we didn’t talk about it again for quite some time.
I left VICE the only way I knew how: loudly. I told them it was because of the money. It was about the money, but also because I would always be viewed as “David Carr’s daughter” there, a title I both treasured and resented. There was also the matter of inadvertent sexism. After Click, Print, Gun premiered we had a company-wide meeting. I had a feeling that Shane, one of the heads of the company, might give the film a shout-out. When he did, I was thrilled. He then put his arm around me and in front of my entire company said, “Who knew this little girl could do it?” It was a bewildering thing to hear and I didn’t know how to react, so I smiled through gritted teeth. I wasn’t an accomplished video producer with many millions of views under my belt; I was a little girl and they were surprised by my talent.
When VICE didn’t match the other offer, I gave my two weeks’ notice. Eventually an exec who I had worked with for years tried to woo me back with a counteroffer that was $25,000 less than what I would be making at my new gig.
“I don’t think that is going to work.”
“I would think about that,” he said.
I stared back at him, silent but waiting for whatever came next. I expected him to tell me we were a family, and if I stayed, my growth at the company would continue. Instead, he chose a different route, a classic tactic.
“Just so you know, you are nothing without VICE. My guess is you’ll fall flat on your face.”
Jesus Christ. Every single part of me wanted to say Fuck you, but I heard my dad’s voice, and I knew, without hesitation, that was not the way to end it.
I smiled and said, “I’ll get back to you about your counter,” and left the room. I went to an empty edit bay. Did he really just say that to me? Could it be true?