EPISODE 13: THE FIRE ESCAPE
Saturday, November 10, 2001
Back to The Hollywood Reporter’s 2001 Next Gen party of November 6.
More people started arriving. I saw my editor in chief. “Hi, Karl,” he said, in a suit, smiling and offering his hand. “Karl, how are you my friend.”
Except for a features editor, in an adjunct office outside the newsroom, I’m the only Black representative of The Hollywood Reporter. I do not have any active peers, really, at this point so I observe and keep my real-time perceptions to myself in the moment.
There are people at the top of their game, even those in their 40s come off as boyish and bratty, suburban-handsome or, in the case of the women, mildly narcissistic and pretty.
I saw a shorter man who looked like an edgier Rob Schneider push up a wooden window frame and blow smoke onto the fir escape. No one noticed since the area was recessed from the main floor of the venue and hall-way sized. People started coming over to go for a smoke since indoor smoking was banned in L.A. on New Year’s Eve 1998. One woman fished in her purse for her cigarettes and told the window man, “Honey, on the red carpet I got asked if that blonde starlet and I were sisters! She has the same hairstyle as me. Wait ‘til you see her dress!” A reporter introduced me to her film producer husband, she said we speak to each other all the time on her line and we shook hands. Another reporter showed up with his pretty brunette girlfriend. She had a perpetual frown but smiled through the assortment of Industry introductions. One woman who works with her man said, somewhat cattily, “I’m the one who steals your boyfriend on Friday nights!” and giggled. The girlfriend folded her hands in front of her and leaned back in a flash of sizing up this woman and her banter – she seemed taken aback – shook her long Pantene-shiny hair and smiled, saying, “You’re welcome to him,” with a straight face. I believed her, as did everyone else, and that was the end of any catty asides to The Girlfriend. As one of the editors told me recently, “Rudeness is an occupational hazard of this business,” and that pretty much nails it.
The boyfriends and girlfriends of people in this Industry that aren’t in the business themselves can catch a lot of catty inconsideration or testing. This is what Stone would never tolerate. This girlfriend in question aced the test by not even playing the game.
She may as well have said, “You’re welcome to him, you fucking tired bleep.” I talked to her privately to ease any tensions and show her that some of us are nice and have social skills. I liked her.
I saw another reporter from the newsroom and called him over to join our group. We knew we couldn’t all stand around this exit because the fire marshal was there so the reporter climbed up onto the windowsill, opened it and climbed onto the 4th floor fire escape. This ended up becoming our party central where all the action was and stayed. The party inside was now about 350 people deep and while the party was for the Next Generation of 35 years old and under, a lot of those guys are still ‘suits’ and the majority had the zip of a slice of cold tofu. Also, it was getting hot inside. .
The fire escape was a peninsula of painted white steel with a staircase on the side and no walkway. Except for the steps to the fire escape, all of the sides of the walkways did have railings, so at least 8 or 9 of us could stand outside on it and not risk falling. A film reporter popped her head out to check on us and I pulled her up. Next her husband. Then the girlfriend who’d checked her work rival. Then a dark-haired woman who folder her arms as the 97% humidity marine layer blew over us. She leaned against the wall and said she came here like two days before 9/11 and she can’t get a gig. She likes L.A., she said, and I didn’t tell her that you can easily go two years without work, I just advised her to stay proactive in this insane business of Hollywood and to stay committed to her artistry. By this time, we’re all on the fire escape: reporters, producers, top agents, industry worker bees like me and it’s very Gothic as Hollywood glows noir-ishly in the dense fog.
I’m silent for a quick minute as I gaze onto Sunset Blvd. and see The Glass Shack, the place where I worked for 3 years just to stay in the game, the one that I quit 6 months ago before I landed with The Hollywood Reporter. The place were I worked without taking a night off for 3 years, filming TV shows, a movie and a movie of the week on my actual days off. I felt truly at ease because I’ve paid my dues for this Industry and I know it wasn’t long ago that I was being completely dissed by the very Industry I now work in. My power is in my personality, my experience, knowledge and my access on everything that the Industry knows. I see it all come in. It’s a private moment and I know that I earned my place. Period. These people don’t know the half of it.
Like the times I was extremely outspoken and brazenly reversed slights intended to knock me down. Things that are part of Hollywood underground lore for the few I told or who witnessed these moments in action. Wild stuff where I was at a remove and reversed any brazen behavior against me. Times like when I was a disco cowboy for my first commercial for Japan in 1997, where I walked off the set when a hornet’s nest got knocked down and a cloud of them flew into the actor’s and actresses hair sprayed heads, got trapped and stung them again and again, those with allergic reactions triaged on the lawn outside of the actual rodeo set in the City of Industry, ambulances rushing in and the director still wanting to film. I refused and was paid in cash for the job, on site, since my staying to film wasn’t up for discussion. We’d filmed all day. They had what they needed. The store owner who walked right up to me on Hollywood Blvd., took his dick out, and put it on my leg and who won’t be doing that again anytime soon after I dealt with him privately. The guy was so pathetic. I remember thinking that’s one tidbit that won’t ever make my E! True Hollywood Story. I remember telling Nigel and us laughing hysterically abut it. The moral of the story: don’t put your dick on my leg. I met Stone that night and the rest is history.
Back to the fire escape: me and the cast of characters are holding court. A lot of the people haven’t been in Los Angeles long. Some raise their hand to say they’re from the Midwest, the Stout. It’s quaint. I try to put them at ease, some seem nervous, and the business is in a slump and closing ranks.
Hollywood never scared me – it’s infuriated me aplenty – but never scared. I’m the cool one talking to everybody, but we’re not talking about our jobs because we are grateful for them. We all talk about our true feelings on the backwards frustrations of the Industry., what people never say in this Industry but that you have to learn to interpret. It’s a decadent time and we know, this group of people in our mid-20s and 30s, that we’re lucky and different from other generations because the days of flagrant money and decadent exhibition are gone. No one in this group is on a power trip and it’s refreshing to know that we can talk as Industry professionals and ramble without the racial or hierarchal divisions.
A couple of people congratulate me on being hired at THR. One white woman, she looks like Bubble, the secretary on the show ‘Ab Fab,’ played by Jane Horrocks, comes up to my chest, apologized and asks me if I’m gay. I’m amused and ask her why? “Because you’re so polite.” My response: “That’s because I was raised with manners.” A few of the gathered people laugh in appreciation and a CAA agent raises his glass and says, “I like your Mom! Cheers!’
One guys says, “You have cool hair.’ It’s 97% humidity and I know my hair has probably gone haywire. “Not in this fog,” I laugh. “That’s not true. It’s beautiful,” says one lady, grabbing a lock of my hair. Another girl follows suits and two agents, both men, join in and they all put my hairstyle back in place like a hair team on a set. It’s surprising. They’re serious. This will be good since they may be representing me at one of their agencies when I leave THR.
I meet another agent and his platonic date, a slightly vapid redhead prone to laughter that sounds like she’s just been scared and then a release of relief. Some of us climb back through the window into the party to get more drinks. I got another vodka and Red Bull from the bartender who gave me the pen to give Jenilee Harrison my e-mail after our picture. “My bar is your bar, Karl,” he smiles, handing me the drink. Halfway around the room the glass slipped and splashed onto two older ladies shoes. “I’m sorry, “ I say. There is no damage and we move on. I went back to the bar, stuffed the tip jar, and got a replacement. One of the ‘American Pie’ actors is there, short and slight at 5’7, and looks like someone’s pampered nephew.
A Black bartender who asked me for industry advice earlier in the night – I told him to ignore the spin and do his thing – is walking with a tray of drinks, the venue is so hot that sweat is literally dripping into his eyes – and I take my extra napkins and blot the sweat from his face and his eyes. “Thank you! That’s feels real good.” I’ve been a bartender, that’s what sets you apart when you can remember the pressure. I’d rather be the real one.
I walk to a spacious area, processing the fun night when a film director and his date came over to me. For descriptive purposes, ‘Jeff,’ a shorter 5’8 to 5’9 White guy with the vocal confidence of a seasoned comic and a receding hairline is a true force of physical mature. He says, “Karl, you’re so cool. I’m so glad you’re hair,” I thank a PR woman that we both know and say she’s very graceful under pressure and I deftly imitated her warding off six questions at once. She’s a very stiff, patrician woman and one of Jeff’s friends. Once she walked away, Jeff bent over laughing and said, “Well, you know, that’s the Orange County in her, that bug up her ass.”
This is her friend?
It’s obvious he’s had too much to drink or hopped up. His girlfriend has auburn, loosely permed hair and is in a strapless dress, trying to smile.
Jeff goes on to tell me, “You’re so cool, Karl. And me? I’m divorced. I’m balding.” He said he’s 30. I’m 32. He’s lying. “You have a full head of hair, this big rock star look and I’m balding!”
He seems concerned about this. I say maybe it’s because of an over-abundance of testosterone, trying to make a harmless spin.
“Are you serious?” he asks, hopefully. I say yes and to look on the bright side – he’s got balls.
“And you know, you’re right!? Let me tell you something, I have got the biggest cock. Ask her,” he says, pointing to his girlfriend next to him, whose pupils are dilating in shock, “She can tell you. Tell him! Don’t I have a massive cock?!”
“Yah! It’s rully big,” she giggles sounding stoned. He says, “That’s all? It seems to work for you!” he tells her. She’s trying to calm his gesturing hands and have him lower her voice, but he goes on and on while we try to steer him back to an inside voice and off the topic. She looks like she’s about to cry and I see her run off in tears. I have to take staircases down the venue to find her, inconsolable, knees inverted and crying on a lounge chair off the exit. I sit with her until her hyperventilation eases, she says she can’t believe he’d embarrass her like that, and I tell her no one is looking down on her for his behavior and that we’re all on her side and that his nonchalance in trying to be what he thought was clearly hilarious, to her discomfort, is wrong. Since I work for THR, I’m able to go to the gift lounge and get her a swag bag before she leaves and bring it to her, which helps, and she smiles and we chat for a while. I also grab a box of artisanal lollipops for the unemployed N.Y. writer lady who just moved to L.A. who I met on the fire escape. She says thanks and admits she’s too tired to have gotten it herself. I get a swag bag for myself, instead of waiting until the end of the night, so that Stone can share in the spoils later. An accountant from THR sees me and says, “Don’t try to be all humble with that little brown and blonde layered hair thing happening,” and moves my hair out of my face. I laugh and we hug. I climb back onto the fire escape with my former group and we all kick it until the party ends and a fire marshal informs us we shouldn’t be out there. We come down and back in and no one notices our rebuke. We’ve had our fun. I compliment the band, who are packing up, and talk to some neo-soul musicians who’d come to support the lead singer. We riff about the Industry and say our goodbyes. I walk onto Hollywood Blvd. from the venue, confident that I can work these parties easily, and hail a cab home.