by Jeff Baron
I went back upstairs and read Stefanie’s email again. It’s interesting that Dan Welch knew not to reply to her last email. It sounds like that’s what got her to make a higher bid for my movie. She sweetened the pot.
I went back through Dan Welch’s old emails to see what she means when she says she can double her offer. I found the fifty-page Revised Option Agreement we got from her studio’s business affairs department. It was revised because the first Option Agreement wasn’t going to pay me enough.
I didn’t know how much people usually get paid for movie ideas, but five hundred dollars from a big Hollywood studio sounded too low. Then I asked Martin Manager. He said they were trying to take advantage of me because I’m a kid and I would probably say yes because I want to be in the movie business.
Dan Welch wrote back to Stefanie and complained, and the next week they sent me a new contract, which was much, much better. They offered to pay me 10,000 dollars right away, then another 40,000 dollars when they make the movie, and also 1% of the net profits.
So that means now I would get 20,000 dollars right away, then 80,000 when they make the movie, plus 1.5% of the net profits.
Stefanie did always want to make the movie. She said, “I want this,” right after I finished pitching the story on Skype. And she kept wanting it. The only reason she doesn’t have it is that she won’t let me write the screenplay.
Now she says I’ll have “a significant consultation” with the screenwriter. How does that work? Does that person listen to all of my ideas, then take them and write the screenplay?
What if that person doesn’t like my ideas? What if I don’t like what they write? I already wrote a lot of the screenplay. Will they use what I wrote so far? If they do, will the credits say who wrote which parts?
There’s a lot to think about. And we haven’t even heard back from Hank Hollywood or Ashley yet. We can’t decide right now. Dan Welch would say, “If Stefanie wants it as much as she says she does, she won’t suddenly stop wanting it if we don’t write back to her today.”
Chapter 24
I HATE PACKING!
I don’t know why I can’t just get over this and learn how to pack. But I can’t. I don’t want to think about what I’m going to wear the day after tomorrow. I have no idea. I hate bringing too many things, because it’s too heavy, and I also hate being somewhere else and seeing clothes in my suitcase that I would never wear there in a million years.
Or if you don’t bring enough, you just keep wearing the same thing, which I actually don’t mind. But sometimes it bothers the people I’m with.
My mom used to pack for me, but she stopped a few years ago. I don’t blame her. It’s so strange to me that I know exactly what I want when I’m writing something or making a podcast, but I have no idea what I want when it comes to clothes. I put off packing until the morning of the trip. My mom won’t even stay upstairs. “Sean, I love you, but I can’t witness this.” I just stand there and stare at my closet.
“Seany! Five minutes.”
I start throwing things into the suitcase. It doesn’t matter. If I need something I didn’t bring, I can get it there. Thorny likes shopping. When Jakey and Rachael (my cousins) visit her, they always go to the mall. I’m not really a mall person—though now that I think of it, it might be a good place for a podcast.
My dad drove me to the airport in his van, which is always fun and much less embarrassing now that the slogan is gone.
“You’re a brave man, Sean Rosen.”
“What do you mean?”
“Getting on a plane by yourself. Getting into a car that my mother is driving. Spending three days alone with her.”
“She isn’t as annoying to me as she is to you. And I’m not as annoying to her as you are. Do you think she’ll talk to me about Grandpa?”
“I can’t even guess.”
“Is it okay with you if I ask her about him?”
“Definitely. Just because I don’t want to think about him doesn’t mean you can’t.”
“Good.”
“Seany, I know it sounds like I hate my parents.”
“I understand, Dad.”
“You do?”
“Well . . . if I found out you were robbing things from the houses you work in . . . I might not hate you, but I’d be really mad at you. You know . . . for embarrassing us. And for taking stuff you don’t even need.”
“Just for the record, I never even thought about taking anyone’s stuff.”
“I know. It was just an example.”
“I’m supposed to remind you to text us when you land, and then when you get to Grandma’s.”
“No.”
“No?”
“When you’re on your honeymoon, you don’t get texts from your son.”
“I know. But your mom would feel better if . . .”
“Tell her I swear I’ll call you if I need you.”
“You sure?”
“Pretend I don’t exist for three days.”
“You crack me up. We’ll do our best.”
The flight was fun. Since I was flying by myself, the flight attendants kept checking on me and bringing me drinks and snacks. I took out my digital voice recorder and interviewed the people I was sitting next to. I’m not sure I’ll ever use them in a podcast, but they have an interesting job.
ME: How did you get started?
LADY: For me, it was the family business. I started when I was three. I did it on stage for the first time when I was four.
MAN: I never even thought about doing it until I met her.
LADY: No. He isn’t what you’d call a natural.
ME: (to him) How did you learn?
MAN: She taught me. One of her brothers helped too. You just have to practice. For hours and hours and hours.
LADY: He isn’t a natural, but he’s got stick-to-itiveness.
ME: He’s got what?
LADY: Stick-to-itiveness. He doesn’t give up. He sticks to it until he gets it.
ME: Oh.
MAN: I was motivated. She was traveling all the time with the act, and I wanted to be with her. Plus, I was ready for a career change.
ME: What was your job then?
MAN: Long-distance trucking.
ME: Big change.
MAN: No kidding.
They’re jugglers. They perform at senior complexes like the one Thorny lives in, but unfortunately they’re not going to her complex this weekend. They wrote down where they’re performing in case we want to come. I got them to juggle those little bags of peanuts. In their act, they juggle fire, but they don’t let you do that on a plane.
I thought about telling them that I’m in show business too. There’s a lot going on in my career, and sometimes not telling anyone about it feels lonely. Maybe the jugglers I met on a plane and will probably never see again are the perfect people.
But you never know who’s going to post what you tell them. Some people never post (me), and some people post everything (Thorny, Brianna). I have no idea if these jugglers post or not. I don’t want my parents and friends to find out about my career before I tell them myself.
The plane trip went really fast. Near the end, I took out my Hollywood Reporter to read. Maybe I was hoping the jugglers would ask me why I have it, and maybe I would tell them, or just tell them a little. But they either didn’t see it, or they don’t know the magazine. Now that I think about it, I’ve never seen an article in The Hollywood Reporter about juggling.
Chapter 25
When I got off the plane, Thorny was waiting there. You’re not supposed to be at the gate if you’re not flying, but I guess she talked her way in.
“Look at you. You grew a foot.”
“Actually, I already had both these feet.”
“Funny boy. Seriously, you grew twelve inches.”
“Since Jakey’s bar mitzvah? Maybe one.”
“Well, I’m shrinking, so it seems like more. C’mere, you.”
She came toward me to give m
e one of those hugs. I took a step back.
“Grandma . . .”
“No more talking. I need a hug.”
“But . . .”
“Get over here. Mmm-mmm.”
Ouch. We’ll definitely have to work on this.
Florida is nice and warm. Grandma drove us home from the airport. I wanted to go to her condo to change into shorts and use the bathroom, but she wanted to go to Publix (the gigantic food store) first.
“The restrooms there are very clean.”
“You’ve been in the men’s room?”
“As a matter of fact, yes. There was a line at the ladies’ and I didn’t want to wait. And trust me, they keep it so cold in that store you’ll be glad you didn’t change.”
“What if I’m not glad?”
“You can complain about it the whole way home.”
She was right. The men’s room at Publix is very clean, and fortunately, no one’s grandmother was in there. She was also right about the store being cold.
Thorny let me get whatever I wanted. I hate shopping for clothes, but it’s fun being in food stores, especially when you travel. I like seeing products I’ve never seen before, even the store brands.
We walked up and down the aisles. Thorny doesn’t really cook, but she loves eating and she loves when other people eat. I tried not to get too many things. For example, I don’t think I should get more than one kind of cereal, because I’m only going to be here two mornings.
“Get what you want. Believe me, it won’t go to waste. When you leave, you’ll take it, I’ll eat it, or I’ll give it to someone.”
It was fun, but I was glad to go outside. It’s freezing in there. I was colder than the four kinds of ice cream we bought.
We got to her condo complex. It’s called Paradise Valley. I’m not sure why. I mean, it’s pretty nice. A bunch of buildings that all look the same. Palm trees, ponds with ducks, swimming pools, and lots of grass. Well, it looks like grass. Don’t try walking on it barefoot. But there’s no valley.
The first stop is always the clubhouse. You need a guest pass to be able to use the facilities. The clubhouse is a gigantic building filled with pool tables, card tables, Ping-Pong tables, a million other activities, and a giant auditorium.
We walked into the office.
“Sean! Welcome back! Look at you!”
Rosita has been working at the office since I first came to Paradise Valley, when I was very little. I never come more than once a year, but she always remembers me.
“Hola, Rosita.”
“¡Ah! ¿Hablas español ahora?” (“You speak Spanish now?”)
“Sí.” I used to take French, but there was this complicated situation with my French teacher, so I switched to Spanish. I like it.
“¡Ven aquí y dame un abrazo!”
I wasn’t sure what she said. I’ve only been taking Spanish for a few months. Then she held her arms out. I went over and she gave me a hug. A nice normal hug. Thorny should take lessons from Rosita.
I got my pass, and we went to Thorny’s condo.
“Come on, Sean. Let’s go to the pool. Get your trunks on.”
“My trunks?”
“Do not assume that the name you learned for something is the correct name.”
That is so Thorny. I actually wrote it down, because I want Grandma in my screenplay to say that. I don’t think I have to get permission from Thorny, because we’re related.
There are pools all over Paradise Valley. We don’t go to the one right near Thorny’s condo anymore. I think she had a fight with someone. Probably not a hitting-each-other fight, but I’m not sure. She won’t tell me. “It’s not important. The walk will do you good.”
Some of the people here go around on these big tricycles. They’re just like the ones you rode when you were little, but they’re grown-up size. I guess they’re safer than bicycles. They look a little funny, but I still want to try one.
This isn’t a regular vacation time, just a weekend, and the weekend didn’t even start yet. My parents let me skip school today. Thank you, thank you, thank you. So I’m the only kid at the pool. Everyone here knows Thorny, and Thorny knows everyone.
“Everyone, this is my grandson Sean.”
I didn’t know what to do, so I smiled and waved to everyone.
“He promises not to splash you.”
“I’ll do my best.”
Sometimes we come down here the same time as my cousins, and it actually is a little more fun to be in the pool with other kids. But there’s also a better chance we’ll splash someone. It’s okay that my cousins aren’t here. I’m not here for a vacation. I came to work. I got in the pool, and I listened to people’s conversations to get ideas for the grandparents in my movie. Two ladies were standing in the water talking.
“Was it breakfast or continental?”
I swam over to them.
“Would you look at the head of hair on this one?” (She was talking about me.) “I would kill for that color. Literally. Kill. Would you please let me have your hair?”
“It depends. Who are you gonna kill?”
“He’s clever too. Clever, and he has that hair. Life isn’t fair.”
“What did you mean when you said, ‘breakfast or continental’?”
“Oh. Sometimes at a hotel, breakfast is included. They don’t say it, but most of the time, they mean a continental breakfast, which is practically nothing. A danish and cup of coffee. To me, that is not breakfast.”
“And juice.” That was her friend.
“Juice? No. They give you the world’s smallest glass of juice. It’s not even a glass. It’s a thimble.”
“A what?”
“A thimble. An eye dropper. You don’t know what I’m talking about. You’re too young. A miniscule amount of juice. Less than a swallow. Half a sip. So if they say you get breakfast, find out in advance. Is it breakfast or continental?”
I got out of the pool and sat on a big chair reading The Hollywood Reporter. For about five seconds. Then Thorny tickled my foot.
“Get up. You’ve been sitting all day.” I know what this means. She wants to play shuffleboard. She’s really, really good at it.
“Let’s go, Sean. A penny a point.” She likes to play for money. I don’t mind. I’m pretty good at shuffleboard too.
“Hah!” That was Thorny knocking my disk from ten to minus ten. I ended up owing her seventy-eight cents. And in case you were wondering, she isn’t one of those grandmothers who bets and doesn’t make you pay. And she never, ever lets you win.
We had dinner back at the condo. Later we were going to meet a few of her friends and go to a show at the clubhouse.
I told Thorny about the jugglers I met on the plane. I showed her their card.
“They’re probably on the C or D circuit. We get better jugglers here.”
“How do you know? You’ve never seen them juggle.”
“And you have?”
“Not really, but—”
“That’s one of the things you pay for down here. The quality of the entertainment.”
“Is Paradise Valley very expensive?”
“Middle to upper middle. I’d call it a B.”
“Have you been to nicer places?”
“I’ve been to more expensive places. I wouldn’t call them nicer.”
I wasn’t planning to get into this so soon, but here goes.
“Dad said Grandpa made a lot of money.”
“Grandpa made a lot of people miserable.”
“Did he make you miserable?”
She looked at me for a minute. “Do you really want to do this?”
“Yeah. I mean, if it’s okay.”
“Okay. Sean, as you know, I think of myself as a smart woman.”
“I think of you as a smart woman too.”
“Thank you. But how smart could I be if I was living with a man who was stealing millions of dollars . . . from his friends . . . from our friends! . . . and have no idea it was happeni
ng? That’s not smart. I still don’t understand it.”
“Why did he do it?”
“I don’t know, Sean. He said it was like an addiction. Once he started, he couldn’t stop. But why did he start? I don’t know. To impress my family? Maybe. We had a little more money than they did. Because he felt cheated? Maybe. His mother died when he was fifteen.
“Whatever it was, it doesn’t justify stealing. Stealing, lying . . . Sean, he hurt people. He made people’s lives a lot worse. People he knew. People we were friends with. People who thought they had money for their old age and found out they didn’t.
“And for what? To have a bigger number in a bank account that no one but him ever saw? We didn’t need the money.”
It sounded even worse than when my dad told me about it. “And you never knew?”
“I can’t explain it. I can’t forgive myself for it either, but no, I never knew. I knew he was a clever guy. He could have been making a good income legitimately. He did. For years. But then it changed, and I never knew.
“We didn’t start living a different life. We were already comfortable. We didn’t move into a mansion. We donated more money to causes I believe in, which made me feel very good. Until I realized it was money he was stealing from his clients. Our friends.”
“How did you find out?”
“I found out when he got arrested. It was a total shock. And what was even more shocking was that he didn’t even pretend he didn’t do it. It was like he was relieved to get caught. He’d been living all alone with this secret for years, and it was finally over. At least for him.
“But for me, for your dad, for your aunt Sandy, and most of all, for his clients, the nightmare was just beginning. I apologized to each and every person he cheated. Even if they believed that I didn’t know, which I doubt—I wouldn’t have believed it—I couldn’t make it right. We didn’t have enough money to pay them back. It was a disaster.”
“Did you visit him in prison?”
“Well . . . as you may know . . . as you should know, the criminal justice system in this country is horribly unfair. When a poor man steals a handbag, they lock him up and he stays locked up. When a man like your grandfather steals millions, he walks the streets for months or years until they finally have a trial.
