Lost and Wanted(63)
“People keep telling me to stick it out another year, get the co-EP credit—that’s co–executive producer, the next level—and then leave. But I’m just sick of it. You know about ‘diversity staffing,’ right?”
“I’ve heard of it.”
“So basically all the networks have these programs for women and minority writers, where they’ll subsidize the salaries of baby writers from those groups. That’s what you’re called when you’re a staff writer—entry level. Most of the programs will only pay staff writer salaries, so there’s no incentive for the showrunner to promote you. I know a woman who was at a show for three years, as a staff writer, and then they were like, ‘Okay, we need some fresh diversity!’ A lot of people from these diversity programs get fed up and leave.”
“But that didn’t happen to you.”
“No,” she said, “although my salary was paid by the network the first year. The showrunner said he would’ve hired me anyway—he was class of ’92, and I knew him from the Signet, so that helped—but it would’ve been crazy for the studio to pay a salary they didn’t have to pay. And then I was promoted after the first year, and I kept moving up. I had all the right connections, and so for me, it was easier. As usual. But then stuff still happens, even now.”
“Like?”
Charlie rolled her eyes. “This guy Josh, who I know from that horrible CW show—we’re kind of buddies. I can’t talk to Terrence about work because he doesn’t really get it. But Josh and I sometimes go out for a beer after work; he’s this menschy guy, and we always joke that everybody sees us and thinks he’s rich and I’m an actor.” Even in the restaurant I’d noticed people turning and looking at us; in the clothes she was wearing, and especially in Boston, Charlie did look as if she had to be famous.
“We always go to the same dive on Highland,” she said. “And then the other night he asks me if I’m staffing for fall shows, and I say I don’t know. And he asks if I want to be his writing partner.”
“What does that mean?”
“Well, you share the work, and the salary. Josh said he could deal with the pay cut, temporarily, because he wants to write a pilot at the same time. And I was thinking that it would actually be perfect for me right now—you know, to get the co-EP credit but do half the work. And there’s this new Netflix show we’re both really excited about, and we’re talking about it. And then Josh says he thinks we would have a really good shot, because I would make us the ‘high-level diversity’ everyone’s looking for.” Charlie shook her head. “Do you know what that feels like?”
“No,” I said. “But we have this program called ‘Career Development.’ Five of the female professors in the department are in it, and also the one African guy.”
“Right,” Charlie said. “Network shows are seventy-one percent male. And I’m one of the ones who made it, but I had a real leg up. And I just feel like such a fucking traitor sometimes—when we’re in the room, and I laugh at a joke just because everyone’s looked over to see if I’m going to laugh.”
“What did you say to the guy—Josh?”
“I laid into him. I said I’d rather try for the seventy-one percent of spots that go to white men than for the twenty-nine percent that go to everyone else. And then when I got one, I’d like to enjoy the luxury of not having anyone say that I got it because I’m a black woman.”
“What did he say?”
“He wrote me a lovely apology over email the next day. But I still don’t want to be his writing partner.”
“That’s depressing.”
Charlie sat up straight and shook her head. “It’s way less depressing than the disease. I can handle Josh, and all the people who make Josh look like an angel—when I’m feeling good. I can even deal with the physical pain; my doctor says I actually have a high threshold.” She smiled wryly: “A high threshold for a lupus patient. Which would be no threshold for anyone else. The disease basically rewires your neural pathways, so that your brain is getting messages that your body hurts when it really shouldn’t.”
“What are you taking?”
“I tried Lyrica, and now I’m on Cymbalta—the drugs all sound like women in Shakespeare.”
“But they don’t work.”
“They work a little. You know what the worst thing is, though? They call it lupus brain fog. It actually cuts off some of the blood flow to parts of your brain. You can get confused, disoriented. You start forgetting things.”
The waiter came and put the sushi in front of us. It was so pretty that it didn’t look like food.
“Once Simmi came into my bedroom after school, and I got up to give her a hug. I said how happy I was to see her, asked her how school was and all that. And she’s just looking at me like I’m crazy. I told her I hadn’t heard her come in, and she says, ‘Mama, I already came in.’ I looked at the clock and it was four-thirty—she’d been home for an hour. I’d just forgotten that I’d already seen her.”
I imagined not being sure whether my brain was functioning the way it should, and felt a visceral fear. Beneath that fear was something terrible I was ashamed to feel—a faint relief, that it was her and not me. I reached down to pick up my napkin, which had fallen to the floor. When I sat up, Charlie was looking right at me: I thought she had seen what I was thinking, but was pretending she hadn’t.