Read Online Going Down in La-La Land by Andy Zeffer - Free Book Online
Authors: Andy Zeffer
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Agency.
Whitman turned out to be a hunk of a gay man who I would have loved to be supervised by in bed. My interview turned out to be very amusing.
“ Basically our past receptionists were more interested in dating and marrying an agent than doing their job,” Whitman said with a wry manner, cutting to the chase.
“ Every week the necklines got lower and the skirts shorter, while the phones were increasingly put on hold. It got to the point where it became a competition, and things got a wee bit catty. The agency can’t become an episode of The Bachelor. We’ve had a better track record with gay men, and most of the administration staff is gay themselves.”
Whitman also stressed that he was not looking for an actor to fill the job.
“ If you want to be an actor you can go sell star maps on Hollywood Boulevard,” he said.
“ The only thing that has brought me to LA is the warm weather,” I answered in a boldface lie, proceeding to tell him I was just looking to get settled and had no interest in acting whatsoever.
Good thing I was smart enough not to mention “Screen Actors Guild member” on my application where it asked for professional organizations.
There were two floors in the agency and two receptionists to each floor. The other receptionists consisted of an unusual-looking woman named Kim, a sweet gay guy named Toby who had been hired a few weeks earlier, and an ex-alcoholic gay man in his forties named Matthew who was head receptionist and took his duties way too seriously. I knew this Matthew guy was trouble from day one. He had the most irritating Texas drawl. There is no worse accent in my mind than a Texas drawl.
“ Well, we’ll make sure you have everything down and right in no time at all,” he told me the first day on the job, asserting his authority and coming off like a complete prick.
Kim, the lone female receptionist, appeared to be thirty but was actually thirty-nine. She was odd looking, resembling a younger version of Endora from Bewitched, and ironically enough had jade green feline eyes, one that was noticeably smaller than the other. Apparently she was not one of the receptionists vying for the affections of an agent. She was too involved in a torrid romance with a guy in the copier room.
Right away she had begun to fill me in on the office gossip.
“ Matthew, the head receptionist, had his alcohol rehab paid for by the company. That is why he is loyal to the point of ridiculousness,” she confided to me in a sly whisper, her feline eyes gleaming with mischievousness.
Within a few days I found out who was dating whom, which agents were gay or in the closet, and which ones were on antidepressants.
“ See that one over there,” she discreetly pointed out some guy waiting at the elevator. “He sent his assistant out to pick up his herpes medication, so the whole office knew he had VD the next day. Can you believe anybody would be that stupid?”
Such a large talent agency was a huge microcosm. What was most fascinating was that Ivy League graduates, some with law degrees, started out working for $8.50 an hour in the mail room. From there they moved up to being an assistant, and then with luck and years of hard work and putting up with all sorts of bullshit they became agents. That’s where they hit pay dirt and started making the big bucks. Of course, the guys above you had to like you as well. Otherwise, you were screwed. Every white-collar job in America comes along with ass kissing and backstabbing, and in entertainment the amount is ten times so.
Now, anybody who could take a job paying $8.50 an hour in Los Angeles either came from money or already had connections from within. So of course nepotism played a huge part in the whole thing.
“ Yeah, that one and so and so are cousins,” Kim commented on a few agents who shared the same surname. “And there are a number of married couples too.”
It seemed to me that many of the agents were nerds in high school or
Whitman turned out to be a hunk of a gay man who I would have loved to be supervised by in bed. My interview turned out to be very amusing.
“ Basically our past receptionists were more interested in dating and marrying an agent than doing their job,” Whitman said with a wry manner, cutting to the chase.
“ Every week the necklines got lower and the skirts shorter, while the phones were increasingly put on hold. It got to the point where it became a competition, and things got a wee bit catty. The agency can’t become an episode of The Bachelor. We’ve had a better track record with gay men, and most of the administration staff is gay themselves.”
Whitman also stressed that he was not looking for an actor to fill the job.
“ If you want to be an actor you can go sell star maps on Hollywood Boulevard,” he said.
“ The only thing that has brought me to LA is the warm weather,” I answered in a boldface lie, proceeding to tell him I was just looking to get settled and had no interest in acting whatsoever.
Good thing I was smart enough not to mention “Screen Actors Guild member” on my application where it asked for professional organizations.
There were two floors in the agency and two receptionists to each floor. The other receptionists consisted of an unusual-looking woman named Kim, a sweet gay guy named Toby who had been hired a few weeks earlier, and an ex-alcoholic gay man in his forties named Matthew who was head receptionist and took his duties way too seriously. I knew this Matthew guy was trouble from day one. He had the most irritating Texas drawl. There is no worse accent in my mind than a Texas drawl.
“ Well, we’ll make sure you have everything down and right in no time at all,” he told me the first day on the job, asserting his authority and coming off like a complete prick.
Kim, the lone female receptionist, appeared to be thirty but was actually thirty-nine. She was odd looking, resembling a younger version of Endora from Bewitched, and ironically enough had jade green feline eyes, one that was noticeably smaller than the other. Apparently she was not one of the receptionists vying for the affections of an agent. She was too involved in a torrid romance with a guy in the copier room.
Right away she had begun to fill me in on the office gossip.
“ Matthew, the head receptionist, had his alcohol rehab paid for by the company. That is why he is loyal to the point of ridiculousness,” she confided to me in a sly whisper, her feline eyes gleaming with mischievousness.
Within a few days I found out who was dating whom, which agents were gay or in the closet, and which ones were on antidepressants.
“ See that one over there,” she discreetly pointed out some guy waiting at the elevator. “He sent his assistant out to pick up his herpes medication, so the whole office knew he had VD the next day. Can you believe anybody would be that stupid?”
Such a large talent agency was a huge microcosm. What was most fascinating was that Ivy League graduates, some with law degrees, started out working for $8.50 an hour in the mail room. From there they moved up to being an assistant, and then with luck and years of hard work and putting up with all sorts of bullshit they became agents. That’s where they hit pay dirt and started making the big bucks. Of course, the guys above you had to like you as well. Otherwise, you were screwed. Every white-collar job in America comes along with ass kissing and backstabbing, and in entertainment the amount is ten times so.
Now, anybody who could take a job paying $8.50 an hour in Los Angeles either came from money or already had connections from within. So of course nepotism played a huge part in the whole thing.
“ Yeah, that one and so and so are cousins,” Kim commented on a few agents who shared the same surname. “And there are a number of married couples too.”
It seemed to me that many of the agents were nerds in high school or
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