“Hi Cara!” says Billy, the chipper receptionist oblivious to my thousand-mile stare.
“Hi,” I mumble, barely able to acknowledge him. I have a date with the electric chair.
Marcy’s already waiting inside Tom’s office. A woman of utmost integrity and a former ABC head herself, Marcy has had to endure more than a couple of talented, drug-addicted and totally-out-of-their-fucking-mind stars, but I doubt she’s ever seen someone behind the camera as stoned as I am. Which is a huge problem. Sure, it’s practically an article of faith that we’ll be covering for the talent—bailing them out of jail, mopping up after their on- and off-camera tirades, clandestinely shipping them off to rehab, publicly rallying around them. But I’m on the business side. Addiction on my side of the desk isn’t creative or hip or forgivable—it’s irresponsible, unthinkable; a firing offense.
On the other side of the table opposite Tom and Marcy is Stu,ABC president, flanked by Tom and Caryn, gorgeous, elegant, and quick, There are five or six other ABC executives, most of whom I’m convinced are paid just to attend meetings and nod in agreement. All anxiously await my briefing.
“Hi Cara!” Tom, Marcy, and Caryn say cheerfully.
I utter a soft baritone “Hi.” Followed by, “I’m really sick. Sorry.” Now I’m channeling Paul Robeson.
“Awww” and “Oh no,”” say Tom and Marcy sympathetically, but Tom seems just a tad impatient. “You know Stu, don’t you?” Tom says in a friendly voice.
“Yes of course,” I say, lowering my voice even deeper. “Hi, Stu.”
Then I realize that I’m not only lowering my voice, I’m lowering my head so that I am actually talking into my shirt. That’s okay. The lowered head really makes me look sick—with such a deathly, unnamed illness I can’t even hold my head up. Marcy goes around the room introducing the other ABC execs. There’s Andrea Wong, composed, poised, professional, seated at the end of the long U shaped sofa. She’s never made a fool of herself, I think. My polar opposite. She will go on to become the President and CEO of Lifetime.
“Tell Stu about all those actors you like,” Tom prompts me.
I’m not one of those casting directors who’s good at pulling names out of the air.. Not even on a good day at the office. I like to work from lists, giving thought to exactly the right choices, as most casting directors do. I clear my throat and focus on not swaying.
“Who’s that, that, guy? You know, that guy?” Tom gives me a meaningful look.
“Which guy?” Marcy and Caryn say, helping me along.
“You know,” says Tom. “He’s funny.”
Since Carsey/Werner only deals with comics, this isn’t narrowing the field any. Then out of nowhere I say in my deep husky sick voice, “Mark McKinney?”
“Yes!” says Tom happily.
“Yes?” I hear a surprised me say out loud. How’d I do that? Maybe I can get through this. I’d zeroed in on Mark McKinney because he was a particular favorite around the office at the moment.
Then Stu asks me, “Cara, have you ever seen Mark act, though? I mean, besides the Kids In The Hall stuff. I know he’s really funny, but that’s sketch comedy, can he carry a series?”
Think, Cara, Think. I’d seen Mark about six months ago in New York—way off Broadway. I’d learned from my idol Jeff Greenberg to hone in on just the right kind of experimental theater productions and leave no stone unturned. That meant sitting through a few dozen retch-inducing Mabou Mines to find a talent like Mark, who really shone. But it had been so long since I’d seen this show at some small kitchen sink theater somewhere in the middle of Manhattan. The odds of my pulling the name of the show out of thin air are nil to . . . . Fuddy Mears! Fuddy Mears! The name of the play has come to me. I rejoice! Fuddy Mears!!! I’ve pulled the rabbit out of the hat! The name of Mark McKinney’s play was Fuddy Mears. I did it! I did it! I did it! In my mind I’m skipping through a field.
“Mark was wonderful in a play called Fuddy Mears,” I tell my shirt in my deep monotone, hoping that everyone in the room is impressed, not just by my impeccable taste, but by my dazzling savant-like computer of a brain. I continue, trying to use as few words as possible. ”It ran in a small theater.” Pause. “Last season.”
“Can we get him?” asks Tom.
“I don’t know. He turns down everything,” Marcy says.
Then Caryn pipes up. “Hey! Aren’t you going to New York next week?” She knows I’m flying out for Christmas to see Arthur and several Broadway shows. “Take him out to lunch or dinner and find out exactly what he would want to do if he were interested in television.” I’ll end up meeting him at the Russian Tea Room the following week to have just that conversation.
“Who else?” Tom says.
And out pops the name of a woman out of Chicago. She’s been stuck in my head for at least a year, ever since I saw a very badly shot, grainy tape made during a live performance at Second City with her and another wonderful comedienne. The two of them had taken a fairly hack comic device—nuns—and turned them into something clearly more interesting and intelligent. “I also like a woman named Tina Fey out of Second City. And her partner Rachel Dratch.”
“Good,” Tom says, “Get us tape on Tina Fey.”
“Yes,” says Marcy “We’d love to see her.”
Could I actually be pulling this off? I mention a couple of other New York actors I’ve seen on tape: Dreamy Lee Pace. I see Lee, with his gangly limbs and thick expressive eyebrows as a young swoony future lead. Glenn Howerton, a Juilliard trained actor who, unlike most of those graduates, is very natural on film. Name after name is bubbling up against all odds.
And finally, I sense that everyone in the room is in the mood to get home, remembering Christmas, and family, and shopping. Then,
“Okay great,” says Stu, rising from his chair. Meaning the meeting is officially over. Everybody departs in a chorus of goodbyes and “Happy Holidays.”
I walk back to my office and greet an anxious Elizabeth with the universal sitcom gesture for relief: wiping the imaginary sweat off my brow, flicking it into the air and uttering “Whew!”
I don’t go to the company Christmas party the next night. Television show Christmas parties run the gamut from five-figure spectacles replete with ice fountains, Cristal, and caviar (Cheers) to sad trays of Swedish meatballs, depending on how successful the shows have been. Previous parties have been given at Micheline star restaurants or on vast soundstages. It’s a command performance, where Talent mixes with techies and gophers—the one day a year where the stars find themselves making awkward conversation with grips and gaffers. But I can’t bear to show my face. Even if I’d gotten through the meeting with Stu, I feel humiliated and embarrassed. Only Elizabeth knows how disgraced I feel.
I lie in bed all day and night that Saturday feeling depressed. It’s not even my bed; I’m at my mother’s condo. Julia my BFF is in the middle of her excruciating chemo and is at her mother’s home so she can’t keep me company. My mother has mustered the last of her strength to make it to some Christmas party with her neighbors, Jane Keane (“Trixie” on The Honeymooners) and her husband, Joe Hecht replete with actors and comics who were big post WWII. I stay in her bed all day alone, watching old movies to distract myself from my guilt and the likelihood that I’ve just killed my career.
On Monday Elizabeth walks into my office first thing. “Oh my god, Cara everyone at the party was asking about your flu and if you were feeling any better?”
I’ve dodged a bullet. At least for now.
.
Is it a good thing that I can picture this scene?
I cannot even fathom how you pulled this off!! I am loving..well wrong word...you know what I mean...your writing about your journey!