“Mr. Carter?” the stagehand said. “It’s been fifteen minutes. Are you ready?”
Poor time management was a side effect of Cash’s special treats, but his anxiety was completely gone. In fact, Cash could barely feel anything at all. Everything felt light and easy around him, as if he were drifting through the clouds in a hot-air balloon. Only when he opened his dilated eyes and looked around was he reminded he was in a bathroom at all. His preconvention cocktail had done the trick!
“Mr. Carter? Did you hear me?” the stagehand asked, growing more impatient by the millisecond.
Cash giggled. There was something so funny about being called Mr. Carter by someone almost twice his age.
“Yeah, I heard you,” he said. “Showtime!”
Cash begrudgingly left his porcelain sanctuary and followed the stagehand down the hall. The greenroom was more crowded than he thought it would be. Seven people were seated with their chairs facing him, and in Cash’s delayed state, it took him a couple moments to recognize them.
Damien Zimmer, the creator of Wiz Kids, was seated in the middle with the show’s executive producer, Jim Kaufman. To their right were Cash’s cast mates, the beautiful Amy Evans and the hunky Tobey Ramous. To Damien and Jim’s left were two middle-aged men and one woman, each wearing a designer suit. Cash knew they were executives from the network, but since executives were fired and hired so frequently, he didn’t know their names.
“Well, this is a surprise,” Cash said.
“Would you give us a minute?” Jim asked the stagehand.
The overworked man was desperate to get things started, but he gave them some space.
“Sit down, Cash,” Damien said, and nodded to an empty chair.
“Um… okay,” Cash said, and took a seat.
All of them stared at him with stern expressions—except his costars; they were looking down at social media on their phones. Cash could tell they were all pissed off at him for something—something much worse than taking his time in the bathroom. Perhaps he had said something uncouth in an interview or forgot to live-tweet during a rerun.
“So…,” Cash said. “What’s up?”
“Before we begin, it’s important you know we’re all here because we care about you,” Jim said.
“Duh, it’s WizCon,” Cash said. “Everyone is here because they care about me.”
The remark inspired several eye rolls and exhalations, but Cash wasn’t trying to be a smart-ass. On the contrary, after three painkillers, two edibles, and a shot of whiskey, he was too numb to be anything but literal.
“This is serious, Cash,” the woman executive said. “This isn’t going to be a pleasant conversation, but it’s a necessary one before things get out of hand.”
“Out of hand?” Cash asked. “What the hell are you talking about?”
Everyone passed the responsibility of leading the conversation to the next person, until it landed in Damien’s lap like a heavy stack of books—books he did not want to read.
“Things have always been rocky between us, so I’m probably not the best messenger for this,” Damien said with a dramatic sigh. “Ever since we wrapped season nine and went on hiatus, you’ve gone totally out of control. At first we thought it was just a phase, but after two months of utter nonsense, we’re afraid it’s far worse. We’ve all cleared our schedules so we could be here today and address your recent behavior.”
Damien was right—he wasn’t the right messenger. In fact, he was the last person on earth Cash would listen to about behavior.
At just thirty-five years old, Damien Zimmer had the ego and the entitlement of all Hollywood’s worst clichés put together. He began his career as a child actor on a cheesy sitcom called Who’s the Parent?—which was more memorable for its obnoxious laugh track than its writing. When Damien was in his midtwenties, he developed Wiz Kids as a starring vehicle for himself. The network purchased the show but thought Damien was too old and forced him to cast younger actors. Even though Wiz Kids became a huge hit and made him filthy rich, Damien had always despised Cash for “stealing” his part and the spotlight that came with it.
“Hold up,” Cash said. “Is this an intervention? Right before a convention?”
“Damn right it is,” Damien said. “And I believe it’s more than warranted. You’ve been seen getting wasted at clubs all over town, getting high in public places, speeding down Sunset Boulevard with hookers in the backseat of your Lamborghini, and the LAPD are at your house every other night to shut down a ridiculous party.”
“First off, those were strippers, and I drive a Maserati,” Cash clarified. “And it’s not like throwing parties and getting drunk is against the law.”