The Mailroom: Hollywood History from the Bottom Up (10 page)

SHAPIRO:
Some found it humiliating. I didn’t. It seemed like honest work. However, I did learn humility by filling the paper towels in the men’s room. Or mixing chemicals for the Photostat machine and worrying that my hands would get damaged. I also had to fill Nat Lefkowitz’s fountain pen. Lefkowitz, an accountant, ran the New York office. Every morning I’d go in with a bottle, put down a towel, and very carefully fill his pen to the brim.

LITKE:
My first day I learned to water the plants and change the toilet paper.

WEST:
I thought it would be glamorous, but it was the furthest thing from it. I was a schlepper. It was a lot of garbage work.

SHAPIRO:
One day a trainee named Tony Fantozzi and I were sorting mail, when Lloyd Alene said, “Tony. There’s a phone call for you. It’s Mr. Lastfogel’s secretary.” Neither of us could believe it: Abe Lastfogel, the chairman and owner of the William Morris Agency, calling Tony Fantozzi—a kid who’d just started in the mailroom?

Fantozzi listened for a moment and then said, “Of course I’m free to have lunch with Mr. Lastfogel on Thursday.”

After he hung up, he turned to me and said, “Abe Lastfogel wants to have lunch. What a great place to work! The head of the company calling a guy in the mailroom? I mean, this is
great
.”

Twenty minutes later he got another call. It was Lastfogel’s secretary saying, “I’m sorry. We thought we were calling Tony
Franciosa
.”

SHAPIRO:
Almost immediately I went on a delivery run. Pearl Bailey was my last drop-off. At her office I handed her an envelope, and she said, “Thank you, honey. I’m just about to see a cut of my movie. Come on and watch it with me, let me know what you think.” I couldn’t say no and didn’t want to. Later I left thinking, This is my first day, and already, what a thrill. This job is gonna be really good! Then I realized that I’d be back so late, I’d probably get fired. Fortunately, when I explained to Lloyd Alene, there was nothing he could say.

WINKLER:
When I delivered an envelope to Zsa Zsa Gabor at the Waldorf-Astoria, she came to the door in a negligee. Immediately I had all these fantasies of her inviting me into her bedroom, where I would have this wild sexual encounter with the beautiful Miss Gabor. Instead she said, “Zank you,” and closed the door in my face.

BRILLSTEIN:
On my first trip outside the office I delivered a $25,000 check to Red Buttons at 50 Sutton Place South. I knew what was in the envelope because, like any ambitious guy with a head on his shoulders, I opened all the interesting-looking letters and packages before handing them over. Everyone did it, because information is king. In the office I’d go into the men’s room, run the water as hot as possible, and wait for the steam to do the rest. I’d read and then carefully reseal. I’d find client lists, contracts, personal correspondence, checks. I never worried about being caught, because usually another guy from the mailroom was at the next sink doing the same thing.

Buttons’s check was part of the hundred thousand a year he got from CBS to be exclusive. Go back to 1955: $25,000 was like, what—three or four hundred grand now? If I could have made $25,000 a year somewhere, I would have signed on for life.

When Buttons answered the door, he took the envelope and looked inside. He didn’t notice, or didn’t care, that it had been tampered with. Then he handed me a quarter tip. That works out to 1/100,000 of the check I’d delivered. I didn’t take the money. I said, “I’m not allowed to.” But I did take away a valuable lesson about the parsimony of comedians. And to be honest, had it been a dollar, I probably would have grabbed it.

UFLAND:
I took something to Mrs. Lastfogel at her apartment in the Essex House hotel. She was a pistol and had a mouth like a truck driver. When she tried to tip me a dollar, I said, “I’m sorry, I can’t take that.”

“I know how much money you make,” she said. “Take the fucking tip.”

ROSENFELD:
For most deliveries we walked. Sometimes we took the bus or the subways. But cabs? You could take a cab only if the load you had weighed more than you did.

WEST:
Sometimes it seemed like it did. We often lugged large metal film cans containing kinescopes. They weighed maybe ten, fifteen pounds each, and we had to deliver them, no matter what the weather, to networks, clients, and producers. If it was more than forty blocks, they’d give us two dollars for cab fare. In those days I think a tuna sandwich was sixty-five cents and coffee was a dime. If I could take three buses with two-cent transfers, I could pick up two days’ worth of lunch and pocket the spread. No one ever asked for a receipt. I ate that way for two years.

BRILLSTEIN:
I used to clip money from my father for cab fare so I could come back quicker to the office. Schlepping around New York in the summer was no holiday for a heavyset guy, and I knew that making deliveries would get me absolutely nowhere at William Morris. In order to learn the business, I had to be
in the building
. A trip usually involved a bus and lots of waiting. I’d be out of the loop for two hours. I might as well have worked in the garment center pushing dress racks along the sidewalk. To make friends, overhear something, be invited anywhere, or be in the right place at the right time to kiss a little ass, you had to be in the center of the action.

SHAPIRO:
I had to pick up some guests for a TV variety hour called
The
Martha Raye Show
. That night she had on some of the New York Giants and Brooklyn Dodgers. I took a limo to Ebbets Field to pick up Peewee Reese and Duke Snider. My heart was pounding. Reese was my lifetime hero, and I worshiped him because we were both little, both infielders. I admired what he’d done to support Jackie Robinson. I even had that famous picture of him with his arm around Robinson.

I purposely got to Ebbets Field early, in the third inning. I met pitcher Don Drysdale. It was his first season; he was just seventeen years old. I met Jackie Robinson and Roy Campanella. It was like a dream. I don’t know if they realized I was from the mailroom; maybe they thought I was an agent. I didn’t bring it up.

After the game, in the limo—a big Cadillac town car—I sat in between Peewee Reese and Duke Snider. At one point they told the driver, “Pull over for some beer.”

I said, “But you’re my heroes! I didn’t think you ever drank beer. I thought you did everything perfect.”

“Ahhh, kid,” they said as we stopped at the curb, “we shit around . . .”

WINKLER:
Sid Feinberg had an emergency. He gave me an envelope and asked me to take it to the singer Billy Eckstine in Harlem. There were papers inside that needed to be signed
right away
. Feinberg said it was such a rush that I should take a taxi. He gave me a few bucks for cab fare.

When you make forty dollars a week, you don’t jump into taxis so quick. I walked to the subway on 59th Street. The uptown express was just pulling in when I got to the platform. Next stop, 125th Street. I got off and walked a couple blocks to Billy Eckstine’s apartment. He signed the contract. I got back to the subway just as the downtown train pulled in. Next stop, 59th Street. I walked into Mr. Feinberg’s office, gave him the contract, and said, “Here.” Instead of saying thanks, he just stared at me and then told me he couldn’t believe I’d made it so quickly, even in a taxi.

“Not only do I think you kept the taxi fare”—which I had—“but I think you forged Eckstine’s signature,” he said. I tried to defend myself, but he cut me off. “I’ve seen some scams before, but this one . . .” He could hardly speak. Feinberg was about to fire me, but some instinct— perhaps just to show me that he was no fool—made him call Billy Eckstine first. Of course Eckstine confirmed that I had been at his apartment and that he had indeed signed the contract.

Feinberg felt so guilty, he gave me a full-time mailroom job.

BRILLSTEIN:
William Morris had a great reputation for servicing. That means when a client appears at a nightclub or on a television show, someone from the agency goes to let the client know he’s there to help. Generally the talent couldn’t care less if anyone is around, but at William Morris covering the client was the same as covering our own ass. No one could complain that we
weren’t
there. The unenviable task was doled out to poor schmucks who wanted to score points and get out of the mailroom. Thus, more chances to perfect the greeting: “Hi! I’m Bernie Brillstein from William Morris.”

I thought servicing was bullshit, an old premise that served no function except to remind you of the good time you thought you’d have that didn’t turn out that way. Like a hangover. But I was ambitious, so I did it. I figured out quickly that the talent always has stuff to do. Maybe he needs a little rest time. Maybe he wants to get laid. Maybe he wants to study the script. Or maybe he’s just not in the mood for you to show up. It’s a hassle for him to entertain some fresh-faced mailboy he hardly knows. “Oh, Bernie Brillstein’s here. Shit, I’ve got to spend an hour and a half with him.”

But sometimes it works out. One day in January 1956 Harry Kalcheim said, “Saturday night Elvis Presley is doing
Stage Show
. Would you go and take care of him?”

Stage Show,
featuring Tommy and Jimmy Dorsey, was a short-lived TV variety show produced by Jackie Gleason as a lead-in for
The Honeymooners.
I’d met Elvis earlier when he came in for his signing picture, but I still didn’t know much about him. This was before the Ed Sullivan appearance, so he was still well below the pop-culture radar. In fact,
Stage Show
was his first TV appearance: Saturday, January 28, 1956.

I got to the rehearsal at the CBS Fifty-third Street Theater and found Elvis talking to a reporter from
Pageant
magazine. After a while I introduced myself.

“Hello, Elvis. Bernie Brillstein from William Morris.”

“Hello, sir,” he said. Sir? I was only a few years older, but the legend is true—Elvis was very polite, and he seemed to genuinely welcome my presence.

It was cold backstage, and as we talked I could see Elvis shivering. After a few minutes I excused myself and ran across the street to a haberdashery and bought him a sweater. I gave it to Elvis and he loved it. A photographer from
Pageant
magazine took a few pictures of him holding my gift. I still have that photo on my office wall.

SHAPIRO:
When we were asked to cover temporarily for an agent’s secretary, we called it “floating.” You could end up in any department, and it gave you the opportunity to find out where you thought you’d best fit in later on.

BRILLSTEIN:
You also got a shot at displaying a second of smarts or personality so someone might notice you.

SHAPIRO:
Once, I temped for Marty Jurow, who handled Edward G. Robinson. His secretary, Florence Gaines, was on a call when Robinson phoned. She put him on hold, turned to me, and said, “Edward G. Robinson is on three. Pick him up; he wants to leave a message.”

There was no mistaking the voice. “This is Edward G. Robinson. I have to dictate some things to you regarding my settlement with my wife. We’re getting divorced. I want you to take all this down. Give it to Mr. Jurow.”

Robinson started talking about money, about paintings, about the artists, then stocks and bonds. I wrote frantically, but my shorthand was no good. Florence left for lunch, and when she came back, I was still on the phone. When we finally hung up, I had twenty pages of dictation and the absolute certainty that I should have taken speed writing instead. I typed up my notes and gave them all to Florence. It wasn’t perfect, but I only cared that it was done, and never thought about it again until eight months later when I was in the Television Department at a meeting. Someone mentioned that Edward G. Robinson’s divorce settlement had gotten all fucked up. There were all kinds of inaccuracies. I slowly put my hand in front of my face and began to sweat. I knew it was my fault, and I was sure someone would remember. But no one seemed to notice, and I got away with it.

BRILLSTEIN:
You don’t earn anyone’s respect by staying in the mailroom. You’re just another office boy who jumps when someone says, “Go get me lunch.” Unfortunately, getting out is not as easy as taking a test, getting an A, and being promoted. You need to attract the attention of a higher-up who can help. That’s why people who
want
the jobs
get
the jobs. They’re never content to sit and wait to be noticed. Any schmuck can do that, and lots of schmucks have.

I did a few things to set myself apart from the crowd.

I kissed ass. But not the big executives. I didn’t want to reach too far too soon.

I showed up early for work. Our office didn’t open until 9:00 A.M., but I got in every day at 8:00 because I knew that Nat Kalcheim walked in at 8:15 or 8:20. I made it my business to stroll through the halls so he’d see me.