I'm Glad My Mom Died(63)

We’re on the last scene of the day, one that takes place in one of our main sets—a robot-themed restaurant where all the waiters are, you guessed it, robots. My character is supposed to jump up on a table and tackle someone… or something. I don’t know or care. The scenes, the actions, the lines—they all blur together at this point.

I’ve done the stunt a few times. Between the stunt and the long hours and the bulimia, I’m spent. All I want to do is get home to some whiskey.

Finally, just past one in the morning, we wrap. I get home, pour myself a full glass, and down half of it before showering off my false eyelashes, my caked-on foundation, and my hair spray–stiff hair. By the time I’m out, the whiskey’s kicked in. I’m bleary-eyed when I check my email. Messages pile in—half of which I won’t even look at because I apply the same haphazard approach to my inbox folder as I do to everything else in my life these days. I’m about to X out of the window when I spot an ominous subject line hovering near the bottom of the unread email string. It’s from my management company, saying we need to talk first thing in the morning.

I click out of my email, top off my glass, and try to fall asleep.





64.


THE NEXT MORNING I’M ON the phone with Agents 1–3, Managers 1 and 2, and Attorneys 1 and 2. I don’t remember when exactly the team got so big, and I’m still not sure why—I can’t remember the last exciting idea anyone on this team had and half the time they just echo what someone else on the conference call said then laugh for too long—but apparently this is what you do when you get successful in showbiz.

“Wait, they’re cancelling the show?” I say, unable to hide my glee.

“Yep, we knew you’d be excited,” Agent #1 says.

“Best part is…” Agent #2 starts in, pausing for dramatic effect (I swear agents are the best performers.) “… they’re offering you three hundred thousand dollars.”

I pause. This doesn’t sound right to me. “Why?”

Manager #2 chimes in. I can tell he feels intimidated by the rest of the men, so by the time he finally chimes in, whatever he says spills out rapidly as if he’s been prepping himself to say it, working up the confidence while the others have been talking.

“Well-think-of-it-like-a-thank-you-gift,” he blurts out in one mushed-together phrase. He lets out a sigh of relief after he spits it out, like he’s done his part and now he doesn’t have to speak again for the rest of the call.

A thank-you gift? I’m suspicious.

“Yeah, a thank-you gift,” Manager #1 repeats. “They’re giving you three hundred thousand dollars and the only thing they want you to do is never talk publicly about your experience at Nickelodeon.” Specifically related to The Creator.

“No,” I say immediately and instinctively.

A long pause.

“N-no?” Agent #3 finally asks.

“Hell no.”

“It’s free money,” Manager #1 offers.

“No it’s not. This isn’t free money. This feels to me like hush money.”

A strained silence. One of them clears their throat.

Through the years, I’ve slowly learned that the entertainment business is one where what’s being said is rarely what’s being talked about. This way of operating not only disagrees with me but seems genuinely impossible for me to adapt to. Everyone else seems so able to position things discreetly and choreograph their phrasing so that the heartbeat of what’s being said is delicately danced around, but what winds up happening is that I usually just don’t understand what’s being talked about and have to ask outright.

There are occasional times, however, where I do get exactly what’s happening, like this time right now. And in these instances, instead of asking outright what’s going on, I’ll just say it. The results vary. Sometimes it’s laughter. Sometimes it’s discomfort. This time it’s discomfort.

“Well, I-I wouldn’t think of it that way if I were you,” Manager #1 says with a nervous laugh.

“That’s what it is, though. I’m not taking hush money.”

“Well, um, okay. If you’re sure…” Agent #1 or #2 says (their voices are indiscernible).

And with that, they all hang up. Click. Click. Click. Until I’m the only one left on the conference call line. I hang up too and sit on the edge of my bed.

What the fuck? Nickelodeon is offering me three hundred thousand dollars in hush money to not talk publicly about my experience on the show? My personal experience of The Creator’s abuse? This is a network with shows made for children. Shouldn’t they have some sort of moral compass? Shouldn’t they at least try to report to some sort of ethical standard?

I lean back against the headboard of my bed and cross my legs out in front of me. I extend my arms behind my head and rest them there in a gesture of pride. Who else would have the moral strength? I just turned down three hundred thousand dollars.

Wait…

I just turned down three hundred thousand dollars. That’s a lot of money. I’ve made a decent amount on this Sam & Cat spin-off, but definitely not enough that three hundred thousand dollars doesn’t make a difference. Shit. Maybe I should’ve taken it.





65.