AGENTS OF DISASTER

The William Morris Years

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When I was a playwright in my early twenties, a friend slipped one of my scripts to a William Morris agent he knew in New York, and she was intrigued.  It was exciting to think I was going to get some kind of high-level, brand-name representation. 

The agent, “Audrey” (not her real name — I never use real names) was known for her good taste in clients, and for being a real looker.   I flew to New York to meet her.   

At first I was overawed by the office itself — a skyscraper in the middle of midtown with giant ceilings like a bank, marble floors, high-speed elevators.  The William Morris office lobby was likewise impressive — cavernous, busy and expensive-looking.   I took the time I had to wait for her on one of the vast leather couches to make free long-distance calls — a definite perk. 

Her office had the kind of tall windows with a view you see in movies to signify that a character is successful. 

Audrey had a very interesting stable of working playwrights — largely New York gay guys.  They adored her. 

Audrey took me out one night for Mexican food.  She was a wiry, skinny racehorse of a woman with dyed blonde hair, a mid-Atlantic accent and large, if unrevealing, blue eyes — a real poker face.  I remember very little about that evening, other than the fact that she ordered us a vast slurry of margaritas.  At one point, she decided that we were going to dance.  I realized she was extremely drunk when she suddenly dipped, like I was going to catch her romantically. She ended up pulling me down rather messily on top of herself in the middle of the restaurant. 

I realized after a while that Audrey drank unto blackout pretty much nightly — she was a true oblivion-seeker.   

Audrey didn’t get me any work at all, but handled all the business I brought in by tossing my contracts at the phalanx of lawyers who were constantly chewing the blood out of the vicissitudes of intellectual property down in the William Morris lawyer-cages. 

I stayed with Audrey until she was suddenly fired from William Morris.  The story I heard was that she was at Tony Danza’s cousin’s wedding, and got so blotto she decided to dance topless.  Her boss, a frightening, pockmarked giant of a man with dyed red hair and sallow white skin, allegedly had to ambush her and wrap her in his overcoat to stop the scene. 

Everyone urged her to go into rehab because she was killing herself, but she told one playwright friend of mine: “What makes you think I want to live?” 

She ended up drinking herself to death at the age of 47, after launching quite a few illustrious careers (mine excluded). 

Her boss, “Gerry,” ended up with my William Morris contract when Audrey was fired.  He was a terrifying bastard with an enormous office and a huge desk, covered with pictures of his lumpy wife of countless years and potato-faced children.   After attending a performance I did, he called me repeatedly to ask about a very fetching friend of mine.  “Oh, Dara?  She’s an acupuncturist,” I said. 

“You mean a masseuse?”  He asked. 

“No, an acupuncturist.” 

“I need a masseuse.  Ask Dara if she does any massage.”  

The writing on the wall was clear: if I wanted any professional help from him at all, my friend Dara was going to have to whore herself out to this monster.  That was the transaction.  Obviously, I didn’t follow through, and he ignored my career entirely. 

After Audrey died, her ex-assistant became an agent at William Morris (after they sent him to rehab.)  He told me harrowing tales about Gerry.   Apparently, whenever Audrey fucked up, which was a lot because she was constantly drunk, Gerry would call her into his office.   Audrey would wince and go to him, and orally gratify him so he would fix whatever problem she caused by being an alcoholic.  This apparently went on for years.   Also, a female playwright I was longtime rivals with apparently treated him to scorching phone sex on the regular. (She ended up cashing out with a popular mainstream bondage film.) 

Much later, Gerry went out with a narcissistic woman who used to be a friend of mine.  I was incredibly grossed out when she informed me she had to “peg” him with a dildo on a regular basis.  “He’s a real gangster!” She told me. 

I started calling him Nosferatu. 

At one point, my literary agent, at a separate agency, completely melted down and disappeared.  He too had apparently been managing my career while drinking gallons of vodka, smoking crack and hooking up with cab drivers.  Nobody had any idea, other than his long-suffering boyfriend.  When he got out of rehab, William Morris was only too happy to have him. 

My agent also got a massive book deal for a chronicle of his addiction, for an advance which amounted to at least 3 times more money than I have ever made for anything.  He promised me repeatedly that he would never write another book — he was an agent, first and foremost. 

This, of course, was all narcissistic addict garbage.  He ended up writing three books — the third came out the same week as my last book, so my book got none of his attention whatsoever — and as a result, no attention.  We had an abusive relationship.  He yelled at me all the time and spoke down to me like I was an errant teenager.  At first I understood the dysfunction of it, and even enjoyed it.  

The agent and I finally parted ways when my editor decided that “take out all the politics and swear words” was all the comment (or editing effort) she was going to expend on my first draft — and my agent, sleek sociopath that he was —  backed her up. 

“Have either of you read me?” I was forced to ask.  

I am currently without representation, and GOOD RIDDANCE. Agents are like pets.  They should be spayed, neutered, and crate-trained. 

Cintraw@gmail.com

Artwork: “Heidi Disturbed,”highlighter, pen on paper, Cintra Wilson circa 2002.