EPISODE 10: CHARACTER STUDIES
Saturday, October 6, 2001
The Emmys are tomorrow, and I have a 6 hour-shift to work in the newsroom tomorrow while it’s live. I typed up and faxed our newsroom staff dinner. The editorial assistant who trained me has been gone for 3 and a ½ weeks and I’m still a temp.
One of the editors calls went to voice mail. It wasn’t my extension, but he came out onto the newsroom floor and bellowed, “Goddamnit, who is answering the phones out there?” I said I hadn’t heard the phone. I’ve got at least 37 extensions I’m covering on the floor myself. More “Goddamnits” ensued and then a stand down and repeat of; “Goddamnit, who’s answering the phones out here?”
“He says he didn’t hear the phone!” a staffer piped up. The man school his head in a slow, annoyed roll and went back to his work, griping all the while. I took umbrage with it while my supervisor told me to dismiss the outburst.
I said, “This is what I get for working my day off and by myself.” She continued to try to smooth things and I finally told her, “I don’t think as a $22-an- hour temp that I need to be fussed at like that.”
Sunday, October 7, 2001
The Emmys were canceled. The U.S. bombed Kabul this morning. I did not know any of the news and got to the newsroom none the wiser. I don’t watch TV before going to work and it wasn’t in the papers since it happened this morning. I still had a job to do and did it well even if my two biggest contributions were manning all of the incoming news calls and ordering food for 19 people. The newly promoted editor called me into his office at one point and said, about my future tole, “If I can’t get any assistance from Human Resources, then I’m going to go to Bob Dowling and get results. I know you’re in a tenuous position and I want you here.”
I don’t want to give Terrific anymore commissions. They got their $3000 – it’s going to be deducted from my starting salary – and they’re still making daily commissions off of my hourly temp rate. They’ve profited enough. I’m the one losing hours and money; I had to be very clear about that with THR last Friday. I’d like for the full-time transition to happen and have employee benefits.
Still, I’m thrilled about getting this job. It’s more amazing that I realize at times because it takes up so much of my time and energy. It’s a great opportunity and will change things for me in the Industry. There’s so much I’d like to do. I’d like to write, but not as a reporter. I’d like to be a fiction writer or non-fiction writer on creative topics.
I like my job and those in power like me and trust me implicitly. I’m one of the nicer people in this scene. I got my foot in the door now, but I won’t do the typical career path of doing the job for 2-3 years as an assistant then go stay in marketing or PR. I’ll have to go back to work as a performer or produce/executive produce my own show. No one will see me coming as fierce as I’ll be.
To lighten the mood, I brought in a picture of myself as a WWF wrestler from 1998 and the reporters loved it. I wore an apple hat and a suede vest and all tan clothes. The TV editor said, “We should just make you best dressed for the Emmys. You look great today. Are they going to hire you permanently? I hope so! I don’t know how you feel about us, be we like you.” One of the copy desk crew made me laugh by saying, “What’s the word on the streets, Huggy Bear? Just kidding. It looks good man. If you’re the token Black man, outdress the reporters. I just want to do my job and get my props as part of this staff. The whole delay here is on the part of the New York bureaucracy and my own agency’s greed. It sucks but will be rectified. I’m a blessed man with a lot to be grateful for in life.
Monday, October 8, 2001
Tension in the newsroom. One of the editors likes to jab and play and make extra work out of nothing. He argued with a critic and kidded another editor about his love of Guinness beer. He then called out to me that his restaurant of choice for our non-Emmys dinner last night, “fucked up a couple of our orders.” I said, “You have the hard copy of the order I faxed. It wasn’t me, I don’t know what to tell you.” That was the end of that. I don’t think about him. I only answer to the Editor-in-Chief and I’ve had to defend myself against passive gripes all-around. I don’t let these guys fuck me up. It’s not even that we don’t like each other. It’s just that I’ve been reading about these blustery method-of-operations for your and I’m no stranger to bitchy men from my 17 years in show business, starting professionally when I was 15. I can argue them down in a New York minute, but that won’t likely happen here because my future isn’t contingent on The Hollywood Reporter anyway. I’m the only Black man in the newsroom; I wouldn’t waste my time arguing with people. I’m not a reporter. Peter Pryor is my favorite of the editors. He’s calm and he’s the most down to earth of them all. I’m doing fine. I’m going to survive. I’m happy. All this job hustling this summer, I’ve gone up a waist size to a 36. I can get back in shape as any actor does. It’s always when you’re too busy to do it or coming from highs and lows of stress or depression.
Monday, October 15, 2001
Today anthrax reigned over everyone’s consciousness. An ABC staffer’s 7-month-old baby tested positive for anthrax. I was on a break on the terrace today and was told that a mailroom person had to be tested for anthrax after handling, but not opening, a package that had a “suspicious” tear in it. I handle the newsroom mail until my co-worker I filled in for this summer returns, so I was told this news so that editorial didn’t freak out. The LAPD was called, took 25 minutes to come and then said that they couldn’t do anything because these things require a postal inspector. All I can do on my end when the tubs of mail come, and there are tubs to the newsroom every day, is bandage paper cuts and only handle mail when I know the return addresses. Paranoia is too high to forward bullshit mail or to people who aren’t on staff anymore and the sender’s info is outdated. I’ve struck that, unless it’s important or newsworthy. I’m using every human sense and precaution. I don’t open mail with no return address, with grease stains or odd threading inside. I’m working with another temp, who is filling in for my predecessor who left last month, and told that she didn’t have to open anything she didn’t feel comfortable doing. I turned in our time sheets today at Terrific and Josie was there as I got off the elevator. “THR is just waiting on approval!” she gushed. I may as well have given her my $3000 fee myself. I wasn’t bitter. I just thought, “Tell me something I don’t know.”
Hey, it costs $3000 to join SAG.
Tuesday, October 16, 2001
Missed my train this morning and sat down on the farthest bench closest to the tunnel. I hear a bag being put down and don’t look up. Finally, the owner, a White, short-haired redhead built like a South African farmer, looks at me. Sweat dripping from forehead to nape, skin flushed red, forearms as big as calves from wrist to elbow. Docker-style shorts with big White legs, athletic socks wrapping around flat feet strapped in by sandals. He looked like an overgrown kid. He looked like a man, too, of course, obviously a bad ass. He had a goatee, tattoos everywhere.
“Do you drink?” he asked. “I got liquor. You know, tequila. That good Mexican stuff. It’s called Tequila Salza. That stuff’s like $33.99, $34.99 a bottle. I got if for a good price. “
Coincidentally, I was reading “Mexico” by James Michener and was at the part where the protagonist is talking about Mexican cactus and Indian agave plants.
“I only have 10 bucks, “ I said, which ended the sales pitch. These paranoid times will not make it easy for anyone to sell hooch on the subway.
He noticed I was chewing gum. “Can I have a stick?” he asked. I gave him my last one out of my vest and he lifted his shirt to fan his body. ‘Hermosa’ was tattooed in caps across his gut. I saw what looked like a knife wound, still red and healing, near his hip.
He walked to the other side of the platform and lifted his shirt all the way up to wipe his face. Tattoos on his back, up each arm. He had a light windbreaker on the bench near his tequila bag.
Looking down the tunnel, he came back and asked me, “You think you’d go to jail if you walked straight down there?” I knew he was asking for himself and asked, “Walk down the track?”
“Yeah. You’d probably go to jail. Yeah,” he said, with missing lower teeth in spots and where his canines should be.
“Probably,” I said. “You’d also get electrocuted.”
“No shit? How?”
“The third rail. It’s electric.”
“I didn’t know that.”
He sat down and asked me where I worked. I lied and said I was a customer service rep at a bank. Long pause. He stood up. I saw a massive tattoo on his arm. “When did you get that?” I asked.
“In the joint. It goes all the way up.” He showed me his other arm. “I got this in jail from 1984 to 1990. Got the rest when I went back from ’91 to ’93, then again from 95 to ’90-….? I forgot. I been to jail 3 times. This one hurt the most,” he lifted his shirt to show a naked woman on the right side of his stomach. “That hurt the most because it has the most detail. A Mexican guy in the joint did it, all the shading, his name was ‘Dice.’ Then I finally get my wife’s name put on my neck here – ‘Danielle’ – and she leaves me. Ain’t that a bitch? Oh well….take care,” he said and the train came.
He was a great character study. You just don’t see many balls-out, hard-headed White bruisers around L.A. anymore. So many that play tough are really whiners and as tough as kindling wood. This dude at the train was just what he looked like. He was a real character in a town of doughboys and I had to give him credit for being his belly-out self. He’d have made a great military point man. Guys like that survive, visible drawz and all.
Spent my day dealing with a lot of Hollywood’s monied elite giving me the business like they had REAL problems. They’re like aquarium seals spinning balls on their noses. Spin, spin, nothing at stake but applause and a splash in the water. And sardines for a job well done. Plenty of sardines, actually, and lodging. They really can be nauseating.
About the anthrax. One of the staff had called in sick yesterday, sure they were in the early stages of poisoning and debating getting tested. God! So I said, “Out of 90,000 people in a recent poll, 87% say they’re not afraid to open their mail.” They looked at me, head-lowered in a double take and said, “And they also don’t work in the media, do they? They don’t know of these things. Of course they aren’t scared.”
That was a hoot. I knew it would get them started.
Reading a magazine on the way home on the train, an ad spread of a legendary name in the business. He’s short and getting fat, but hell he’s past retirement age and was very handsome as a young man. He’s also cheap. A friend of mine worked one of his parties at a major venue and he didn’t tip him one dollar. This was A-list all the way. Pictures of him now, artfully draped in shapeless linens to hide his girth didn’t make me feel sorry for him. I threw the magazine in the trash.
Saturday, October 17, 2001
Early Saturday morning, listening to LL Cool J’s greatest hits. I was in 11th grade when ‘Rock the Bells’ was the most smokin’ rap record out and he was only 16. He’s definitely a pioneer and really has to be admired for holding down his business. He has lasted and has the looks and bravery, even with the increased posturing and lip-licking mugging, to continue to surprise if he wants to. I think he’s a performer that could do whatever he wanted if he continues to take some risks. If I was a producer or director I’d give him some ‘Midnight Cowboy’ style stuff – challenging with some emotions to play. He has more presence and versatility than a lot of his competition. I’d work with him in a minute. He’s been good in Halloween H20, Deep Blue Sea and OZ on HBO. He’s made classic records; he’s got the skills.
There’s war occurring: anthrax is freaking everybody out and is a tired joke in Hollywood at this point. I’m personally not scared to do my job. I’m still waiting to be hired here at THR. Right now it’s just a matter of time and most likely, right now, a budgeting game. New York is stalling on my hire. The East Coast part of me is shocked that that New York media execs are, in this/my case, worse and more apathetic than L.A. media execs. Another New York City myth goes down the drain. If it were up to L.A. I’d be full time by now.