The Mailroom: Hollywood History from the Bottom Up (47 page)

I covered for the receptionist again at five, during her coffee break. That’s when they brought Klein back from the hospital. His head was all taped up. A little later I got a call: “Marty wants you to drive him back to White Plains.”

It wasn’t said like I’d be helping him, but as if the company had thrown me a bone: “You should get in good with Marty Klein; he’s a senior executive.”

Instead of repeating the silent treatment, this time he rambled. I guess he was comfortable with me because the last time I hadn’t bothered to make eye contact or hassle him. Okay, so he was doped up on Percodan. He kept telling me how unhappy he was with his career.

The longer we drove, the more he loosened up. He said he’d started representing the trumpeter Al Hirt because he’d heard “Jambalaya” and it changed his life. He loved big Al, but in retrospect the future of the business was television: “We’re going to make more money on this package for James Michener’s
Space
than I’ll make in my whole fucking career,” he whined. “That tells you what kind of mistakes I’ve made in my life.”

The guy was bumming out. Losing it. And I was on the receiving end of his stream-of-consciousness confessional. When we got to his house he finally got it together enough to say, “Pick me up tomorrow, seven-thirty sharp.”

The next day it rained so hard that the Hudson River flooded over on the parkway. I had to take an alternative route to Klein’s house and I got there at 7:35. I imagine that he had woken up, finally clearheaded, thinking, “I let this kid see me as a human being,” and was mortified, because when I pulled up he flew out his front door yelling, “Where the fuck were you, you piece of shit!”

I said, “Excuse me, I’m five minutes late. Have you looked outside? It’s pouring rain, sir.”

“Don’t give me that bullshit,” he snapped. “Don’t talk back to me, you fucking asshole. Get in the car!” Then he said, “I’m late. You can’t fucking drive. You’d probably crash the car anyway.” I got in the passenger seat and he drove. At the Hudson River Parkway he floored it and we hydroplaned while I seriously considered the possibility that I was going to die.

We took the exit for Willis Avenue and the Third Avenue Bridge, right opposite Yankee Stadium. It curves around a big stone wall that holds back the embankment. Klein slammed into it. “You cocksucker!” he screamed at me. “Why don’t you drive?” But instead of pulling over, he stayed behind the wheel.

Just as we made it over the bridge onto Second Avenue and 128th Street, he ran into the back of another car. This time Klein stopped, got out, swapped information with the other guy, then said to me, “I’m fucking tired of this. You drive now. If you hadn’t been late, none of this would have happened.”

I kept my mouth shut.

Before going to the office we had to stop at the Apollo Theater, where Sammy Davis Jr. was taping a special. I parked, we got out, and I locked the car. Klein wouldn’t let me come inside the theater. He took the car keys and made me wait outside, in an alcove, in the rain.

Again, I kept my mouth shut. I was pissed off, but I didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of arguing or asking for anything. I’d rather be wet than have to rely on that scumbag.

When we finally got to William Morris, I reported to the mailroom. Before long I got called in to see Ed Khouri and Ruthanne Cionne. They said Klein had told them that I had fucked up his car. He’d said I was half an hour late, that I had driven irresponsibly, that I’d crashed once into a wall and then hit another car.

“He’s lying,” I said. “That’s bullshit and I’ll prove it. Get him down here.”

They seemed to already understand; maybe it had happened before. Khouri said, “Look, Marty’s like that. Just take the rap. No one’s going to fire you.”

“Fuck the rap,” I said. “I’m not taking any rap.”

And that was that. Except for one thing:

I later found out that Marty Klein had called my house at 7:31 in the morning. My grandmother lived with us, and when she answered the phone he’d said, “Where the fuck is that son of a bitch?” She said, “Who do you think you’re talking to, young man?” and hung up on him.

Fortunately, I never got assigned to his floor again, which was fine with me because it was full of guys with big jars of Tums on their desks; they all had ulcers from booking people in Atlantic City and siphoning money off. Eventually they all got let go.

The incident wasn’t really good for my stock at the company, but at that point I’d been there long enough to know I was going to leave sooner rather than later.

BERKOWITZ:
I worked for Len Rosenberg, who ran the TV Department. A year later he went to California. I tried to go with him but they wouldn’t let me. Instead I was assigned to work with Ron Yatter. I wasn’t a secretary and I wasn’t an agent. I was just supposed to listen and learn. But when I walked into his office on a Tuesday to start, he said, “I’m really busy. Can you come back on Monday?” A week later? I went into my office, shut the door, and almost cried. But I made it work with Ron until I passed the bar in 1989. Then I moved to Los Angeles, spent two years in TV packaging, and quit to go to CAA.

HARRINGTON:
The mailroom is like the minor leagues, the farm team: The goal is to make it to the big show. But after going through all sorts of shit in New York, I didn’t believe that these guys really represented what being an agent was. I’d read the memos from the West Coast. They were putting movies together and handling big stars. I wanted to be in the movie business. New York handled publishing, Broadway, and Atlantic City. I didn’t care about that world. I knew I had to go to Los Angeles—but not for William Morris. I hated the company. Most people were secretly—or not so secretly—miserable and looking to leave. I just had to wait until I had my vacation. My plan was to fly to Los Angeles and find work. I lived for that moment.

I became eligible for my vacation in November 1985. One of my best friends had become a producer on a TV show in Los Angeles called
Matt Houston
. He said, “Just get out here and get a job. We’ll take care of the rest when you come.”

My aunt was a travel agent. She got me a free courier ticket, for which I had to deliver an important envelope to a bank in Beverly Hills. I could only afford to stay five days.

I interviewed at Triad, ICM, APA, CAA, and the Gersh Agency. At ICM they said I didn’t type well enough to be an assistant. APA was sort of chic; they’d just been fired by Al Pacino, but they had Steve Martin, John Candy, Rick Moranis, Vanessa Redgrave, and a lot of television clients, including Pee-wee Herman when he was a megastar. APA offered me $375 a week to be an assistant; Triad offered $350. CAA told me I could start in the mailroom, but I wouldn’t do that again.

I didn’t even stop by the William Morris office.

I went to APA and worked as a secretary for a year. I increased my income by almost 50 percent immediately. Then my boss, Ames Cushing, became an agent at William Morris, and I got her job. I was an agent at APA for two or three years before I went into management.

HUVANE:
I lucked out. I had temped for Myrna Jacoby when she was a commercial agent. When they moved her into theatrical she asked me to be her assistant. Myrna was inclusive. She treated me like a colleague. I didn’t abuse it. I never overstepped my bounds. I never assumed that, because they were giving me some leeway, I was more than what I was. Nine months later, Johnny Planko’s desk came up and the company wanted him to have a male assistant.

Johnny was a character, heir apparent on the East Coast and probably the only rival to Sam Cohn at ICM. His client list was spectacular, and he was still in his thirties. The first day I worked for him, he took me out for Bloody Marys for lunch. We didn’t come back to the office until six o’clock. I thought, This is wild. Johnny was very kind to me. I learned a lot working for him. When he was on, he had brilliant insights and a knack for relating to people.

But I left William Morris in 1988 because I’d looked around and seen a lot of old-timers who were not happy; they weren’t valued the way they should have been. I didn’t want that to be me.

I met with Ron Meyer from CAA and thought he was the most decent man I’d encountered in the business, as well as incredibly successful. I figured if he could be that successful
and
nice, I not only wanted to be at his company, I wanted to be
him
. I didn’t want to be Mike Ovitz. Success only exaggerates what you start with. Most people don’t just
become
assholes, they’re assholes to begin with. If you said hello to Ronnie, regardless of whether or not he remembered who you were, you got a “How are you? Nice to see you.” People were afraid to say hello to Ovitz in the hallways. Ronnie was the soul of CAA. He has heart. Ronnie invited us to his home. He shared his life with us. The only time I was ever invited into Mike Ovitz’s home was because I represented Meryl Streep and he invited her to dinner, and she wanted me to come. Ronnie is more genuinely concerned about people. At William Morris, I didn’t know anyone who had both success and concern.

MENDELSOHN:
I floated on Dennis Arfa’s desk. Dennis handled music and comedians. I worked closely with his clients: the Beach Boys, Billy Joel. I also had friends I tried to bring into the agency. Benicio del Toro. Stephen Baldwin. Musicians. Comedians. But my job was to be a good mailboy, not bring in talent. I was too ambitious and never as good a mailboy as they wanted. After six or seven months I was dismissed.

GRUBER:
I was only in the mailroom full-time for twenty-five days. I scammed my way out quickly by working the morning desk for Fred Milstein, the head of the Motion Picture Department. I got him to give me enough to do so that he would have to call the mailroom every day and say, “Michael can’t leave. I need him.”

Right time, right place, right person. I made myself useful, wasn’t a pain in the ass, didn’t have attitude. At some point it became a problem because Fred wasn’t supposed to have two assistants, but by then I was so ingratiated that they found a way for me to be the assistant for the entire group.

When Fred moved to Los Angeles, he asked to bring me. The answer was no. So I took on the toughest job in the office, working for Lucy Acedo in Variety Television. Actually, I was coerced into working for her by being told I’d have a lot more responsibility on the desk than a regular assistant. It was, “Wink wink, we’re gonna make you a junior agent. You’ll be able to go out, have an expense account.”

Lucy’s desk opened the door for me. I became the guy who booked
David Letterman
and
SNL
and
Friday Night Videos,
and I was at the comedy clubs every night. It took what was just my hobby and made it a career. I signed a lot of hot young comedians: Adam Sandler while he was still at NYU, Chris Rock when he was getting kicked off the stage at Catch a Rising Star, Ben Stiller, Will Smith, Cindy Crawford.

Eventually I moved to Los Angeles, too.

POSTER:
I was asked to work for the boss, Mr. Stevens. I came in at 9 A.M. He’d call me from his house and tell me what he wanted for breakfast. The company cook had quit and I couldn’t wait for anything to be delivered, so I had the mailroom pick it up from Joy Deli: usually coffee and toast. I’d transfer it to a china plate and bring it in.

My job was to open the mail and lay it out. I had to read magazines and highlight clients. I cut out gossip columns from the newspapers. Sometimes I ran calls. Otherwise I wasn’t really part of the game. I didn’t feel competitive and the need to politick. At the time, I thought more about getting a boyfriend than getting ahead.

I never became an agent. The Motion Picture Talent Department was too crowded, so I left. I wanted to go to a smaller place where I could be part of something from the beginning and build it, where I could make a difference.

SANDS:
I worked for Rob Prinz, in the Music Department. But we didn’t get along and I moved to another desk, booking R&B acts across the country and trying to outhustle hustlers. When Dennis Arfa started his own agency and another guy got canned, I got promoted.

I lasted five years. In 1990 I hooked up with the chief psychologist at Bellevue—a character who drove a pink moped—and he took me under his wing. In college I’d been a psychology major and worked in a residential facility for women who had been deinstitutionalized, and in a children’s hospital. He got me my first job at Bellevue, to work with homeless schizophrenic men. Now that I think about it, starting in the mailroom, being an agent, working with homeless schizophrenic men—it’s all the same: taking care of unusual people.

HARRINGTON:
There’s a book Sparky Lyle wrote about the New York Yankees,
The Bronx Zoo
. It takes place in the seventies, when they won a couple of World Series with Thurman Munson, Catfish Hunter, and Reggie Jackson. It was this dysfunctional nut family that achieved greatness. But if you look at the afterword, at what happened to the people along the way, you see that most of them are has-beens or washed up; only a few of them are remembered as legends. William Morris was like that. It was a mess. They didn’t realize it was already over for them. Ovitz had changed the agency business and they were a pale third.

I figured I’d stay in Los Angeles for five years and once I knew the business I could come back and be on the thirty-third floor with the lifers because I’d know how California worked. Of course, I got my own life in Los Angeles. I got on the treadmill and couldn’t get off, nor did I want to anymore.