Fade in: Interior—-office of Kerry! producer Stan Waldman
Morning
Nate laughed. A tiny little chuckle. He hoped Paul didn’t notice. There they sat, he and his manager/dad, in the waiting room outside the office of producer Stan Waldman, a man who would soon decide his fate. Would Waldman hire him, or would he send him away?
Mr. Waldman and superstar comic Kerry Flanagan were casting a new sitcom. And Nate was here, at an honest-to-God contract negotiation. Nate was sick to death of cattle calls, those herds of faces that somehow looked far too much like his, sitting eagerly with headshots in hand, hoping to read the scenes that would bring instant stardom. That’s what Paul had gotten for him so far—enormous, get-your-hopes-up-but-not-too-far cattle calls. One had even led to a role on a soap, not quite a featured role, but Nate had made the best of it.
But he sat here now, not because of Paul, who thought he was the best manager in the world—he wasn’t—but because Nate took this into his own hands. He knew his imitation of his arrogant father would someday come in handy. As soon as Nate had seen the notice in Variety about this new Kerry Flanagan show and seen that Flanagan’s character had sons, Nate had brazenly called Stan Waldman’s office. Using his best Paul Berrigan, he pitched the idea of Mr. Waldman giving his “son” an audition. Nate was flabbergasted it worked, but Mr. Waldman told “Paul” to send in his son’s résumé, and then he put his secretary on the line to set up a sit-down.
That led to a round of auditions. How Paul and his mother, Monica, didn’t get suspicious when he left the apartment for these appointments, he didn’t know. Probably because they didn’t care if he came or went. After all, his life was like a bad movie anyway. That first trip, his mother did ask. He told her he’d gone to see Dr. No, the movie featuring Sean Connery as secret agent James Bond, which had just opened and was so popular that Monica was bound to know about it. That excuse worked, so after that, he figured she and Paul decided he’d become a big movie fan.
He took the city bus to the studios, and first came the cold read. He liked the character, so he felt like he did a great job. He managed to convince them that his manager was out of town for a few weeks and that he would call them back. That violated every industry rule. The callback was sacred, and it was always done by the show’s reps. But somehow, they believed Nate.
So he called them back with his Paul Berrigan voice, and he was invited back to do chemistry readings. They liked him and wanted to see how he worked with others reading for the roles of the brothers his character had. Those readings must have gone well, because when “Paul” called back in two days, Nate was asked to read for Mr. Waldman and the star, Kerry Flanagan.
That reading went extremely well, despite the fact that Mr. Flanagan didn’t seem to be interested in what they were doing at all. Mr. Waldman, however, was quite complimentary. When Nate and his potential costars were finished, Mr. Waldman said, “Give us a minute, Nate. My secretary will be happy to get you a soft drink if you like.” Then he looked at the other boys. “Thanks for coming in, guys. We’re finished with you today. Stay safe.”
Nate retreated to the outer office with the two guys he’d just read scenes with. One of them, the older one, said, “Wow. Sounds like you’re about to get hired. They sent me on my merry way and didn’t call back to give me the news until three days later.”
“A week for me,” the younger boy said.
The older one added, “Well, Nate”—he extended his hand for Nate to shake—“see you on set.”
“I haven’t gotten the part yet,” Nate answered.
“You will.”
The boys had barely left the office when Mr. Waldman’s voice came over the speaker on the secretary’s desk: “Send Nathaniel Berrigan back in, please.” She opened the door and ushered Nate back into the office.
“So, is your manager back in town? We want to speak to him, and we need him here tomorrow, if possible. Can I call him?”
“Sure thing, Mr. Waldman. He should be back this morning sometime,” Nate lied.
“So I can make the call this afternoon?”
“Definitely.”
“Pleasure to meet you, Nathaniel.”
“Call me Nate. And thank you.”
Kerry Flanagan made no move as Mr. Waldman ushered Nate out.
When that call came, Paul blew up like a puffer fish. He was convinced his influence among industry bigwigs had, out of the blue, gotten Nate the audition. What a fool. Nate wasn’t very old and hadn’t been in the business very long, but he was well aware of the way those bigwigs looked at Paul. They were more than happy to get rid of him as quickly as they could.
But when Paul asked what he was laughing about, Nate just said, “Nothing.” And wished they’d get shown in before Paul asked too many questions, got too many ideas.
Paul Berrigan was a total loser. As a manager. As a father. Nate had come to that realization long ago. At first, it wasn’t like he was old enough to do much about it. He had to pretend Paul knew what he was doing. But Nate was old enough now to take care of himself. He sat in awe of how he’d managed to get this audition. And he intended to get that contract sewn up if Paul didn’t screw it up for him. Paul was good at that.
So they sat. And funny thing—well, it wouldn’t be so funny for the secretary who had stepped out of the office ten minutes ago and wasn’t back yet—the intercom was open. Paul and Nate could hear everything that was being said in Stan Waldman’s inner sanctum.
“Hold up, will ya?” Waldman seemed to be on the telephone. “Ken MacDonald’s agent’s on the line. He wants us to consider Mac for the role of the publisher.”
“That old fag?” Nate recognized that voice. Who wouldn’t? It was Kerry Flanagan, star of stars. “No way. Not in my show.”
Hearing that, Nate could imagine how quickly the producer must have covered the receiver. America’s favorite comic should not be overheard spouting that kind of stuff. Nate knew what the word meant, and he certainly knew most people didn’t say that word. They might think it, but they didn’t say fag out loud. If Paul was a real father, he would have covered Nate’s ears—or at least reacted in some way, for he surely heard it the same as Nate. But Paul Berrigan is no father, just a drunken, scheming sperm donor.
“Sorry, Kerry wants to go another way with the role.” Via intercom, Nate heard the sound of receiver meeting phone. Waldman had hung up.
“You know, Ker, Mac might have been good in the part.”
“I don’t work with queers, you hear? Not now, not ever.” Flanagan was adamant. “But from the looks of this office, you do. You gotta fire that flaming faggot decorator of yours. Him and his fancy-schmancy desk you’re sittin’ behind.”
Kerry Flanagan, worshipped by millions, is no Mr. Nice Guy. Queers? Flaming faggots? His fans would be in shock. They might say or think those words themselves, but they certainly wouldn’t want to hear them from their idol’s lips. Nate was sort of in shock himself. But Nate was smart for his age. He knew that tirade jab was just a control tactic. He was sure of it. The producer was supposed to be in charge, but it was clear the man in charge of this show was Kerry Flanagan. And Kerry was not the Mr. Nice Guy his public image made him out to be. Nate was taking mental notes. He’d remember that when he got in there.
“Look, Kerry, I’m not listening to your bullshit. I like my office just the way it is.”
“Whatever you say, Stan. Whatever you say.”
“Shall we get on with what you came for?”
“Another kid to read for Brian. Damn, Stan. I though we agreed on that little shit we read yesterday.”
“This is the kid we read yesterday. Are you so out of it you don’t remember we agreed to offer him the part? His reading today is just a formality. You know how it goes. Huh?” No answer from Mr. Flanagan. Again, Mr. Waldman’s voice: “Berrigan? Nathaniel Berrigan? Nate? He was perfect. We both agreed, and afterwards we decided to call him back today. Remember, before we heard Nate read, I called up my friend who produces the soap the boy was on? Ring a bell? M’ friend sent me a loop of some of his scenes. I was impressed. I thought you were. Then the reading with the other kids we cast. Perfection. Ker, does any of this register with you?”
“Yeah, yeah,” they heard Mr. Flanagan say. “I remember the kid. Just wanted to make sure you did.” That statement was, Nate thought, not very genuine. As disinterested as Mr. Flanagan seemed yesterday, he probably didn’t remember Nate. And despite the fact he supposedly conferenced with Mr. Waldman when I was waiting in the outer office, Mr. Flanagan, it seems, doesn’t even remember they’re calling me back for a contract negotiation. He may be America’s favorite comedian, but I predict he will not be easy to work with. But I don’t care. I want this job.
Paul slapped his leg. Nate knew he was eating this up. To get to hear the private conversation of a powerful producer and a superstar was right up Paul’s alley. Nate was more cautious. Especially when they heard Mr. Flanagan was not letting it go.
“Soap, huh?”
Nate heard the derision in Flanagan’s voice. I can win him over. I can win him over. I can win him over. Just don’t screw this up. Get me that contract, Paul.
“Yeah.” Mr. Waldman said that as if he had no intention of getting into it again with Kerry Flanagan. So, Mr. Waldman’s in my corner. “Here’s his headshot. Nathaniel Berrigan. I know you remember him. Wonderful read. Great chemistry with the other boys. A few commercials, two years, off and on, on the soap. Experienced. The right age. Quit shitting me, Kerry.”
There was a long pause. Then Nate heard Flanagan’s voice again, this time with a bit more music in it, a bit happier. “He kinda looks like me.”
Yes!
Nate felt a stir in Paul, sitting next to him. He probably has a hard-on from that last statement coming out of Kerry Flanagan. It’s the cherry on the sundae. Nothing will stop those negotiations now. Nate smiled at his own good fortune and also at Paul’s thinking he might have a cash cow sitting next to him. Sad thing to think about your own father’s thought processes, but that’s the way Paul thinks. It’s all about money. So much so that Paul had completely, Nate knew, glossed over the fact that he, Nate, had already been here several times for auditions. Paul had only heard the money phrase: He kinda looks like me. Paul had just sat beside him and heard the same vile things Nate heard, but letting his son work with a man like Kerry Flanagan was A-OK if it led to the big bucks. But I can take care of myself, Paul. No worries. You don’t have to protect me from Kerry Flanagan. No. As if you ever would. This is gonna be my show, my job, my ticket. No thanks to you.
Then the door to Stan Waldman’s private office opened. The tall, impeccably dressed, silver-haired man with the bushy mustache peered out, first to the secretary’s desk. Nate figured this was the first he knew his secretary was on a break. Then he turned his gaze to Nate and Paul.
Nate and Paul stood. Paul tugged at Nate, pulling Nate just a tiny bit behind him. So, he’s taking charge. The manager. The man. Nate smiled.
Holding out his hand, Mr. Waldman bypassed Paul and greeted the son, “Nathaniel….”
Nate shook his hand and began to remind him it’s “Nate,” but his father pushed him aside, cutting him off. Paul held out his hand to Mr. Waldman and started to speak. But the producer turned and ushered them into the room before Paul could get his clutches on him. Score one for Stan Waldman.
But the man’s tactic hadn’t dissuaded Paul Berrigan. He quickly regained what little composure he’d lost—Nate had seen this happen far too many times—and with his uniquely irritating bravado, stepped to Flanagan first, then to Mr. Waldman, who had regained his power spot behind his desk, and shook hands.
“Glad you could see us. I’ve guided the kid’s career every step of the way. Give him the part, and I can assure you that you will love his work,” Paul said. “Nice desk.”
Nate almost laughed. Paul has no sense of “reading the room.” He just heard what Kerry said about that desk, and yet Paul still thinks Stan Waldman is the man in charge.
From the corner of his eye, Nate saw Kerry shoot a look at his producer.
“Happy to have you, Paul. Good to see you, Nathaniel,” Mr. Waldman said.
“Nate,” Nate said, quietly. He didn’t want to ruin this, couldn’t ruin this. He was willing to let Paul take the lead—until his superego kicked in and the deal started turning sour, at least. That happened a lot with Paul. Nate knew he, Nate, could wow this powerful man and even more powerful superstar with his quiet, humble ways. And his talent. He would clinch this. Still, he was underage, so it was up to Paul, his guardian, to seal the deal. If I could do the paperwork, control my own money and career, I would. But for now, I have to let Paul do all that legal stuff. My day will come soon—come on, eighteen—and then I can only hope Paul and Monica socked away some of the dough I’ve made because I’ll be out of there. They can sink or swim, as far as I care.
“Nate—I remember,” said Waldman, smiling. Nate liked Mr. Waldman. He seemed to see something in Nate that many in the industry didn’t see. Wow. I can do this.
“But we use Nathaniel professionally,” Paul interjected, like he couldn’t be left out of the conversation, such as it was. And once again, Paul completely ignores the I remember. Paul is predictable, at least. Can’t keep his mouth shut.
It’s my career. Nate glanced at his dad. I’ll handle it. You just keep quiet until your signature is needed on the dotted line. He wished he could say that out loud.
Morning
Nate laughed. A tiny little chuckle. He hoped Paul didn’t notice. There they sat, he and his manager/dad, in the waiting room outside the office of producer Stan Waldman, a man who would soon decide his fate. Would Waldman hire him, or would he send him away?
Mr. Waldman and superstar comic Kerry Flanagan were casting a new sitcom. And Nate was here, at an honest-to-God contract negotiation. Nate was sick to death of cattle calls, those herds of faces that somehow looked far too much like his, sitting eagerly with headshots in hand, hoping to read the scenes that would bring instant stardom. That’s what Paul had gotten for him so far—enormous, get-your-hopes-up-but-not-too-far cattle calls. One had even led to a role on a soap, not quite a featured role, but Nate had made the best of it.
But he sat here now, not because of Paul, who thought he was the best manager in the world—he wasn’t—but because Nate took this into his own hands. He knew his imitation of his arrogant father would someday come in handy. As soon as Nate had seen the notice in Variety about this new Kerry Flanagan show and seen that Flanagan’s character had sons, Nate had brazenly called Stan Waldman’s office. Using his best Paul Berrigan, he pitched the idea of Mr. Waldman giving his “son” an audition. Nate was flabbergasted it worked, but Mr. Waldman told “Paul” to send in his son’s résumé, and then he put his secretary on the line to set up a sit-down.
That led to a round of auditions. How Paul and his mother, Monica, didn’t get suspicious when he left the apartment for these appointments, he didn’t know. Probably because they didn’t care if he came or went. After all, his life was like a bad movie anyway. That first trip, his mother did ask. He told her he’d gone to see Dr. No, the movie featuring Sean Connery as secret agent James Bond, which had just opened and was so popular that Monica was bound to know about it. That excuse worked, so after that, he figured she and Paul decided he’d become a big movie fan.
He took the city bus to the studios, and first came the cold read. He liked the character, so he felt like he did a great job. He managed to convince them that his manager was out of town for a few weeks and that he would call them back. That violated every industry rule. The callback was sacred, and it was always done by the show’s reps. But somehow, they believed Nate.
So he called them back with his Paul Berrigan voice, and he was invited back to do chemistry readings. They liked him and wanted to see how he worked with others reading for the roles of the brothers his character had. Those readings must have gone well, because when “Paul” called back in two days, Nate was asked to read for Mr. Waldman and the star, Kerry Flanagan.
That reading went extremely well, despite the fact that Mr. Flanagan didn’t seem to be interested in what they were doing at all. Mr. Waldman, however, was quite complimentary. When Nate and his potential costars were finished, Mr. Waldman said, “Give us a minute, Nate. My secretary will be happy to get you a soft drink if you like.” Then he looked at the other boys. “Thanks for coming in, guys. We’re finished with you today. Stay safe.”
Nate retreated to the outer office with the two guys he’d just read scenes with. One of them, the older one, said, “Wow. Sounds like you’re about to get hired. They sent me on my merry way and didn’t call back to give me the news until three days later.”
“A week for me,” the younger boy said.
The older one added, “Well, Nate”—he extended his hand for Nate to shake—“see you on set.”
“I haven’t gotten the part yet,” Nate answered.
“You will.”
The boys had barely left the office when Mr. Waldman’s voice came over the speaker on the secretary’s desk: “Send Nathaniel Berrigan back in, please.” She opened the door and ushered Nate back into the office.
“So, is your manager back in town? We want to speak to him, and we need him here tomorrow, if possible. Can I call him?”
“Sure thing, Mr. Waldman. He should be back this morning sometime,” Nate lied.
“So I can make the call this afternoon?”
“Definitely.”
“Pleasure to meet you, Nathaniel.”
“Call me Nate. And thank you.”
Kerry Flanagan made no move as Mr. Waldman ushered Nate out.
When that call came, Paul blew up like a puffer fish. He was convinced his influence among industry bigwigs had, out of the blue, gotten Nate the audition. What a fool. Nate wasn’t very old and hadn’t been in the business very long, but he was well aware of the way those bigwigs looked at Paul. They were more than happy to get rid of him as quickly as they could.
But when Paul asked what he was laughing about, Nate just said, “Nothing.” And wished they’d get shown in before Paul asked too many questions, got too many ideas.
Paul Berrigan was a total loser. As a manager. As a father. Nate had come to that realization long ago. At first, it wasn’t like he was old enough to do much about it. He had to pretend Paul knew what he was doing. But Nate was old enough now to take care of himself. He sat in awe of how he’d managed to get this audition. And he intended to get that contract sewn up if Paul didn’t screw it up for him. Paul was good at that.
So they sat. And funny thing—well, it wouldn’t be so funny for the secretary who had stepped out of the office ten minutes ago and wasn’t back yet—the intercom was open. Paul and Nate could hear everything that was being said in Stan Waldman’s inner sanctum.
“Hold up, will ya?” Waldman seemed to be on the telephone. “Ken MacDonald’s agent’s on the line. He wants us to consider Mac for the role of the publisher.”
“That old fag?” Nate recognized that voice. Who wouldn’t? It was Kerry Flanagan, star of stars. “No way. Not in my show.”
Hearing that, Nate could imagine how quickly the producer must have covered the receiver. America’s favorite comic should not be overheard spouting that kind of stuff. Nate knew what the word meant, and he certainly knew most people didn’t say that word. They might think it, but they didn’t say fag out loud. If Paul was a real father, he would have covered Nate’s ears—or at least reacted in some way, for he surely heard it the same as Nate. But Paul Berrigan is no father, just a drunken, scheming sperm donor.
“Sorry, Kerry wants to go another way with the role.” Via intercom, Nate heard the sound of receiver meeting phone. Waldman had hung up.
“You know, Ker, Mac might have been good in the part.”
“I don’t work with queers, you hear? Not now, not ever.” Flanagan was adamant. “But from the looks of this office, you do. You gotta fire that flaming faggot decorator of yours. Him and his fancy-schmancy desk you’re sittin’ behind.”
Kerry Flanagan, worshipped by millions, is no Mr. Nice Guy. Queers? Flaming faggots? His fans would be in shock. They might say or think those words themselves, but they certainly wouldn’t want to hear them from their idol’s lips. Nate was sort of in shock himself. But Nate was smart for his age. He knew that tirade jab was just a control tactic. He was sure of it. The producer was supposed to be in charge, but it was clear the man in charge of this show was Kerry Flanagan. And Kerry was not the Mr. Nice Guy his public image made him out to be. Nate was taking mental notes. He’d remember that when he got in there.
“Look, Kerry, I’m not listening to your bullshit. I like my office just the way it is.”
“Whatever you say, Stan. Whatever you say.”
“Shall we get on with what you came for?”
“Another kid to read for Brian. Damn, Stan. I though we agreed on that little shit we read yesterday.”
“This is the kid we read yesterday. Are you so out of it you don’t remember we agreed to offer him the part? His reading today is just a formality. You know how it goes. Huh?” No answer from Mr. Flanagan. Again, Mr. Waldman’s voice: “Berrigan? Nathaniel Berrigan? Nate? He was perfect. We both agreed, and afterwards we decided to call him back today. Remember, before we heard Nate read, I called up my friend who produces the soap the boy was on? Ring a bell? M’ friend sent me a loop of some of his scenes. I was impressed. I thought you were. Then the reading with the other kids we cast. Perfection. Ker, does any of this register with you?”
“Yeah, yeah,” they heard Mr. Flanagan say. “I remember the kid. Just wanted to make sure you did.” That statement was, Nate thought, not very genuine. As disinterested as Mr. Flanagan seemed yesterday, he probably didn’t remember Nate. And despite the fact he supposedly conferenced with Mr. Waldman when I was waiting in the outer office, Mr. Flanagan, it seems, doesn’t even remember they’re calling me back for a contract negotiation. He may be America’s favorite comedian, but I predict he will not be easy to work with. But I don’t care. I want this job.
Paul slapped his leg. Nate knew he was eating this up. To get to hear the private conversation of a powerful producer and a superstar was right up Paul’s alley. Nate was more cautious. Especially when they heard Mr. Flanagan was not letting it go.
“Soap, huh?”
Nate heard the derision in Flanagan’s voice. I can win him over. I can win him over. I can win him over. Just don’t screw this up. Get me that contract, Paul.
“Yeah.” Mr. Waldman said that as if he had no intention of getting into it again with Kerry Flanagan. So, Mr. Waldman’s in my corner. “Here’s his headshot. Nathaniel Berrigan. I know you remember him. Wonderful read. Great chemistry with the other boys. A few commercials, two years, off and on, on the soap. Experienced. The right age. Quit shitting me, Kerry.”
There was a long pause. Then Nate heard Flanagan’s voice again, this time with a bit more music in it, a bit happier. “He kinda looks like me.”
Yes!
Nate felt a stir in Paul, sitting next to him. He probably has a hard-on from that last statement coming out of Kerry Flanagan. It’s the cherry on the sundae. Nothing will stop those negotiations now. Nate smiled at his own good fortune and also at Paul’s thinking he might have a cash cow sitting next to him. Sad thing to think about your own father’s thought processes, but that’s the way Paul thinks. It’s all about money. So much so that Paul had completely, Nate knew, glossed over the fact that he, Nate, had already been here several times for auditions. Paul had only heard the money phrase: He kinda looks like me. Paul had just sat beside him and heard the same vile things Nate heard, but letting his son work with a man like Kerry Flanagan was A-OK if it led to the big bucks. But I can take care of myself, Paul. No worries. You don’t have to protect me from Kerry Flanagan. No. As if you ever would. This is gonna be my show, my job, my ticket. No thanks to you.
Then the door to Stan Waldman’s private office opened. The tall, impeccably dressed, silver-haired man with the bushy mustache peered out, first to the secretary’s desk. Nate figured this was the first he knew his secretary was on a break. Then he turned his gaze to Nate and Paul.
Nate and Paul stood. Paul tugged at Nate, pulling Nate just a tiny bit behind him. So, he’s taking charge. The manager. The man. Nate smiled.
Holding out his hand, Mr. Waldman bypassed Paul and greeted the son, “Nathaniel….”
Nate shook his hand and began to remind him it’s “Nate,” but his father pushed him aside, cutting him off. Paul held out his hand to Mr. Waldman and started to speak. But the producer turned and ushered them into the room before Paul could get his clutches on him. Score one for Stan Waldman.
But the man’s tactic hadn’t dissuaded Paul Berrigan. He quickly regained what little composure he’d lost—Nate had seen this happen far too many times—and with his uniquely irritating bravado, stepped to Flanagan first, then to Mr. Waldman, who had regained his power spot behind his desk, and shook hands.
“Glad you could see us. I’ve guided the kid’s career every step of the way. Give him the part, and I can assure you that you will love his work,” Paul said. “Nice desk.”
Nate almost laughed. Paul has no sense of “reading the room.” He just heard what Kerry said about that desk, and yet Paul still thinks Stan Waldman is the man in charge.
From the corner of his eye, Nate saw Kerry shoot a look at his producer.
“Happy to have you, Paul. Good to see you, Nathaniel,” Mr. Waldman said.
“Nate,” Nate said, quietly. He didn’t want to ruin this, couldn’t ruin this. He was willing to let Paul take the lead—until his superego kicked in and the deal started turning sour, at least. That happened a lot with Paul. Nate knew he, Nate, could wow this powerful man and even more powerful superstar with his quiet, humble ways. And his talent. He would clinch this. Still, he was underage, so it was up to Paul, his guardian, to seal the deal. If I could do the paperwork, control my own money and career, I would. But for now, I have to let Paul do all that legal stuff. My day will come soon—come on, eighteen—and then I can only hope Paul and Monica socked away some of the dough I’ve made because I’ll be out of there. They can sink or swim, as far as I care.
“Nate—I remember,” said Waldman, smiling. Nate liked Mr. Waldman. He seemed to see something in Nate that many in the industry didn’t see. Wow. I can do this.
“But we use Nathaniel professionally,” Paul interjected, like he couldn’t be left out of the conversation, such as it was. And once again, Paul completely ignores the I remember. Paul is predictable, at least. Can’t keep his mouth shut.
It’s my career. Nate glanced at his dad. I’ll handle it. You just keep quiet until your signature is needed on the dotted line. He wished he could say that out loud.