For obvious reasons, I can’t pick up my phone when it rings. When the sadistic horror-movie surgeon finally answers for me, and puts the call on speaker, I learn that all forty-five of my reps are on the line. This is usually an indication of either something very good or something very bad. If my luck lately is any indication, it’s not the first thing.

“Hey! How’s it going?” my Social Media Content Manager asks, followed by, “How are you?” and, “Happy Tuesday!” by my Lawyer and Publicist or my Posture Consultant and my Cuticle Coach. It’s hard to tell because all four have similar voices and also because my cognition has not been its best since I was sewn into this horrible multi-person arthropod.

Because I am at the front of the human centipede, and can still use my mouth, I respond. I tell them, “Honestly, I’ve been better.”

That’s when a chorus of disapproving groans emerges from the other end of the phone line. My Hand-Modelling Agent clears her throat. I think she’s clearing her throat, anyway. Lately, there are so many kinds of upsetting noises being emitted around me that I try not to parse them too closely.

“That’s actually why we’re calling,” she says. “Your attitude.” She continues, “We understand that you’ve been complaining a lot since you landed this gig.”

“Well,” I respond, “complaining is just how I deal with things. Like how animals pant to cool themselves off? It doesn’t necessarily mean that I’m in distress. It’s just . . . cultural.”

Glennon, my Baby-Bird-Technique Nutritionist, interrupts to gently ask me to stop being so political, and I acknowledge that I almost talked about being Jewish just then, and say I’m sorry. Glennon reminds me that mentioning any kind of faith-based identity might jeopardize my access to future jobs in this political climate. But Glennon’s glad-handing soon gives way to a much blunter critique when my Ear-Candling Tech’s apprentice steps in to say that my team has absolutely had it with me and my excuses.

Don’t I know that I have a highly coveted gig as any part of a human centipede right now, asks my Morning Pages Handwriting Interpreter. “In this business? In this economy? Post-strike? Post-COVID? Pre-pilot season? Mid-Linsanity, Part Two? And with all these mergers going on?”

“Speaking of mergers,” I say, eager to at least express how unideal it is to be sewn, anus to mouth, to strangers who also submitted extensive writing samples before auditions and callbacks. But my objection is drowned out by my Lucid Dream Doula, snapping at me to be thankful for the networking opportunity. Don’t I know about the loneliness epidemic? I nod, which sets off some kind of chain reaction along the other end of me, or so I surmise from the muffled shrieks.

I try to focus on the bright side of my situation. My former Positive Mind Set and Leg Day Trainer—who gave up months ago on both my disposition and calves—always used to remind me (at a cash-only, hourly rate) that I’m only as happy as I decide to be. How funny it is that now I’m on all fours every day, forced to do those glute isolations he was such a stickler about. I mean, not funny-funny. But it’s something.

“Also—guess what?! You’re at the front! You’re at the front! You’re at the front!” shouts my American Girl Doll’s Stylist. “Do you know how many clients I have who would give anything just to be in the middle of that ’pede?” I don’t.

“Enough with the attitude!” exclaims My Favorite Sea Anemone’s Bodyguard. I wonder if I’ll ever see that slimy dipshit again. I’d sure like to go home and use the money from this gig to buy some more stupid pets like Spikey. Gut flora, or maybe possums. Or, wait—is there money? Maybe I’m just doing this for exposure. I can’t remember what I signed right before I got the call sheet, to be honest. I just remember being reprimanded for being late. But the trains!

My team, who have put me on hold—I assume to discuss how they’re going to drop me as a client—are all paid on Zelle auto-renew, so I don’t have to worry about getting up to sign any paperwork if we go our separate ways. Detachment is only figurative these days, I guess. I’d sigh, but somebody on the line might hear me throwing a pity party of one (plus however many people are sewn to my ass).

At this point, the sadistic horror-movie surgeon who got me into this pickle is drawing circles in the air with his index finger, indicating either that I should wrap up this phone call or that he’s about to do something else really horrible.

It’s time to sign off. Luckily, the Intimacy Coach who supervises all my scalp massages has checked in on me to let me know that the team is still spitballing the pros and cons of working together going forward. Also, that she’ll circle back once she has some boots-on-the-ground intel. I thank her so profusely that it borders on ass-kissing. But, from where I am, I can only kiss the air. Small mercies. There really is no business like show business. ♦