The Mailroom: Hollywood History from the Bottom Up by David Rensin Page B
Authors: David Rensin
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how’s everything in the mailroom?”
I said, “Thank you, sir, it’s just wonderful,” or whatever baloney I could muster before I turned the corner and almost had a coronary. No wonder he’s the president, I thought. It was really impressive that he should know the lowest cog in his building, with the possible exception of the janitor. I was the number-six man in Traffic, for God’s sake.
KANTER: For the first few months I was very busy because I was the only one in the mailroom. Then one of Lew Wasserman’s many secretaries left, and I was offered the job.
I had to meet Mr. Wasserman first, and that made me nervous. But it wasn’t much of a job interview after all. One reason I’d been offered the job was because Mr. Wasserman liked to come in early and leave late, and he felt it was an imposition to ask a woman to work until eight-thirty at night.
SPECKTOR: I worked in Traffic about eight months, then went to work for George Chasen. George was always nice to me, but I don’t think he took any personal interest. This is just what he did for a living, and if I wanted to get into the select club of MCA agents, good luck.
Then I was Lew Wasserman’s second assistant. He was intense. It was all about work. No sense of humor, seldom a smile on his face—at least at the office. The agents were scared to death of him. He never said much, but he was the most powerful man you could imagine.
Lew’s office probably wasn’t as big as I still think it was. His desk was at the far end, and he’d come in every morning carrying his coffee cup. In the afternoon I’d sometimes drive him to lunch at the Polo Lounge. He had a great 1951 Bentley, dark green.
Wasserman liked to listen to baseball games. We were driving to some studio and heard Ted Williams hit a home run. It was his last year of baseball. I said, “Oh, isn’t that fantastic for an old man!”
Wasserman said, “Watch what you say, kid. You know how old I am?”
“Yes, sir,” I said. “You’re forty-four. What I meant was an old man in baseball.”
“Well, you know, you’re right,” he said. “He is an old man in his business. And I’m an old man in my business. This business is all about guys like you.”
I thought, I’m twenty-two years old, making a dollar an hour driving this car. What kind of business could it be that’s about me?
RAY: I had been in Traffic about two months and was still number six when I got summoned to Mike Levee Jr.’s office. He was head of the Television Division and had a gorgeous room on the second floor. Levee was as sophisticated, handsome, suave, debonair, and well dressed as Cary Grant. Every time he walked down the hall, women fainted. He was also smart, and he became my mentor.
Levee said, “How would you like me to pull you out of Traffic, jump you over the other five guys, and make you a literary agent?” What he saw in me I do not know. I had only my two months’ experience and a giant crush on Grace Kelly, who used to come in at night and go down to the theater and watch movies. Her only problem getting down the hall was slipping on my tongue.
I had decided I wanted to be an actor’s agent—so I could represent Grace Kelly, of course—and told Mike. Back to Traffic I went. Three months later I was the number-one man. I ran Traffic superbly. I don’t want to pat myself on the back, but I was really good at it. One day Lew Wasserman’s office informed me that I was being made his personal assistant.
For three months I drove Mr. Wasserman around in his Bentley and sat by his desk. I learned almost instantaneously that if I had anything to say to him, I’d better know exactly what I was talking about and make it brief; otherwise he’d tear my throat out. Casual conversation was not Mr. Wasserman’s style.
Eventually I got called to Mike Levee Jr.’s office again. “How would you like me to take you out of Mr. Wasserman’s office and make you a literary agent?”
“Are you kidding?”
I said, “Thank you, sir, it’s just wonderful,” or whatever baloney I could muster before I turned the corner and almost had a coronary. No wonder he’s the president, I thought. It was really impressive that he should know the lowest cog in his building, with the possible exception of the janitor. I was the number-six man in Traffic, for God’s sake.
KANTER: For the first few months I was very busy because I was the only one in the mailroom. Then one of Lew Wasserman’s many secretaries left, and I was offered the job.
I had to meet Mr. Wasserman first, and that made me nervous. But it wasn’t much of a job interview after all. One reason I’d been offered the job was because Mr. Wasserman liked to come in early and leave late, and he felt it was an imposition to ask a woman to work until eight-thirty at night.
SPECKTOR: I worked in Traffic about eight months, then went to work for George Chasen. George was always nice to me, but I don’t think he took any personal interest. This is just what he did for a living, and if I wanted to get into the select club of MCA agents, good luck.
Then I was Lew Wasserman’s second assistant. He was intense. It was all about work. No sense of humor, seldom a smile on his face—at least at the office. The agents were scared to death of him. He never said much, but he was the most powerful man you could imagine.
Lew’s office probably wasn’t as big as I still think it was. His desk was at the far end, and he’d come in every morning carrying his coffee cup. In the afternoon I’d sometimes drive him to lunch at the Polo Lounge. He had a great 1951 Bentley, dark green.
Wasserman liked to listen to baseball games. We were driving to some studio and heard Ted Williams hit a home run. It was his last year of baseball. I said, “Oh, isn’t that fantastic for an old man!”
Wasserman said, “Watch what you say, kid. You know how old I am?”
“Yes, sir,” I said. “You’re forty-four. What I meant was an old man in baseball.”
“Well, you know, you’re right,” he said. “He is an old man in his business. And I’m an old man in my business. This business is all about guys like you.”
I thought, I’m twenty-two years old, making a dollar an hour driving this car. What kind of business could it be that’s about me?
RAY: I had been in Traffic about two months and was still number six when I got summoned to Mike Levee Jr.’s office. He was head of the Television Division and had a gorgeous room on the second floor. Levee was as sophisticated, handsome, suave, debonair, and well dressed as Cary Grant. Every time he walked down the hall, women fainted. He was also smart, and he became my mentor.
Levee said, “How would you like me to pull you out of Traffic, jump you over the other five guys, and make you a literary agent?” What he saw in me I do not know. I had only my two months’ experience and a giant crush on Grace Kelly, who used to come in at night and go down to the theater and watch movies. Her only problem getting down the hall was slipping on my tongue.
I had decided I wanted to be an actor’s agent—so I could represent Grace Kelly, of course—and told Mike. Back to Traffic I went. Three months later I was the number-one man. I ran Traffic superbly. I don’t want to pat myself on the back, but I was really good at it. One day Lew Wasserman’s office informed me that I was being made his personal assistant.
For three months I drove Mr. Wasserman around in his Bentley and sat by his desk. I learned almost instantaneously that if I had anything to say to him, I’d better know exactly what I was talking about and make it brief; otherwise he’d tear my throat out. Casual conversation was not Mr. Wasserman’s style.
Eventually I got called to Mike Levee Jr.’s office again. “How would you like me to take you out of Mr. Wasserman’s office and make you a literary agent?”
“Are you kidding?”
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