THE BATTLE FOR MY SOUL had begun. There was no honeymoon. I was plunged headfirst into what I can only describe as a circus mixed with an orgy. If personnel had actually enforced the rules, everyone in the building would have been fired by lunch.
My day started at 9:00 AM, but Ahmet didn’t roll into the office until 3:00 PM. No one outside of Atlantic knew of his unusual schedule because I switched all calls to an extension at his house until he arrived. From nine until noon, when Doug’s assistant arrived, I answered Doug’s phone, ordered two coffees for him the way he liked it—milk and sugar—and did his general bidding, including running interference with his daily list of female callers.
Doug had many women who called him every day. People in the industry called them Doug’s Dolls. The list included Reen Nalli, Laurie Weintraub, Lisa Hartman, Marilyn Martin, Allanah Myles (she danced on Tunc’s desk for him), Diane Gibson (Atlantic star Debbie Gibson’s mother), and Gloria Loring (Robin Thicke’s mother). Many of these women got recording contracts from Doug.
The most important of Doug’s Dolls was Atlantic recording artist Laura Branigan. Ahmet discovered Laura, and Ahmet told me that he and Laura had had an affair. I don’t know if it was true, but it was the kind of thing these guys would do—exchange a record deal for sex, then toss the girl to someone else. Doug paid extra attention to Laura’s career, finding songs like “Gloria” that she turned into hits, and ordering Peter Koepke, his A&R assistant, to scour Europe for other hit songs that Laura could cover. Doug seemed quite enamored with her. He never seemed happier than when he was with her or speaking about her. One day, after a meeting with Laura, he came out of his office and stood in the executive hallway; in front of the other assistants, he proclaimed that Laura was the love of his life. Of course, he was married at the time.
Doug gave me special instructions on how to answer the phone when she called. Every morning, he’d be with the senior vice president of promotion, Vince Faraci. When the phone rang and I heard, “It’s Laura,” I put her on hold, called Vince’s extension, and asked for Doug. I told Doug—and only Doug—that Laura was on the phone. Then I watched Doug do what I called the hundred-yard dash, running from Vince’s office all the way down the hall back to his office to answer the phone.
Despite the fact that he had so many women in his life, I sensed a deep loneliness in Doug. Sometimes in the morning, as I answered Ahmet’s phones, Doug sat in my tiny office and made calls from my chair. It seemed like he just didn’t want to be alone.
Ahmet’s late arrival was due to his idiosyncrasies, not laziness. Despite his notorious penchant for partying until the wee hours, he didn’t sleep late. Quite the opposite: I would barely have my coat off every morning when he’d call with the same three questions: “Where was I last night? What day is it? What time is it?”
The first two questions I understood. Ahmet lived hard. His nightly routine was fourteen vodka tonics, four lines of coke, and two joints. This usually came after smoking several joints in the Atlantic bathroom and having a few drinks in his office during the day. I marveled at his constitution. When he’d get fucked up, he’d leave credit cards all over town, and since I typed his nightly itinerary, he often needed my help to retrieve his personal effects the next day. But the third question—what time is it—I could never understand. He had a clock the size of Big Ben in his bedroom.
He occasionally invited me out on his nightly escapades. We weren’t friendly yet; it was a function of my job. On those nights Ahmet put me in charge of his nightly cash—he’d spread his thumb and forefinger to show me the size of the stack he wanted, and I’d get it from the Atlantic accountant. It usually came to around $2,000, plus bribe money in case he got into trouble. He almost always got into trouble.
Everything was about sex at Atlantic. Discussing sex and having sex took up a large part of the day, and there was always time for pleasure on Ahmet’s watch. There was a term for sex that we all used—“slapping it,” or “slappage” for short. These words were hilarious coming from Ahmet’s Turkish mouth. Few people saw this side of him.
I learned to be careful entering any office, because some executives watched pornography behind closed doors. They also walked around with pornographic magazines hidden in manila envelopes, and they’d read them during meetings. Is it any wonder these guys were sexual animals in the workplace? Watching porn all day got them hyped up and ready to go. This behavior created a culture of toxic masculinity.
The promotion department was the worst. Once I walked in on two promotion executives watching a Japanese porn movie while one of Atlantic’s biggest stars sat with them eating Chinese food. Let’s just say I felt it in the air. Another promotion executive decorated his office with dildos, S&M harnesses and ball gags, masks, lube, and a cat o’ nine tails whip. It looked like the Pink Pussycat Boutique. (The Pink Pussycat Boutique is a sex shop in the Village. One Atlantic vice president had a house account there, and after sales meetings executives would order sex toys, pornography, and lube, which the boutique delivered.)
By the time I arrived at Atlantic, Ahmet didn’t want to be bogged down with the dull details of running the company anymore. He’d been the greatest talent finder in the business, but he had burned out. Now he just wanted to play. He needed an entire entourage to help him function—enablers, drug dealers, hookers, groupies, hangers-on, bodyguards, and yes, his secretary. I became his unofficial cleaner. By the end of the night, his clothes were usually encrusted with cocaine or vomit or both, and he needed a good wiping down. In a way, I’d been training my whole life for the role. It didn’t feel that different from taking care of my family, just with more drugs and vomit.
For a normal twenty-five-year-old girl, cleaning puke off an old, drug-addled lecher might have been a deal breaker. I guess I wasn’t normal, because I loved it. Ahmet was free. His life was the exact opposite of mine, and I got paid to live some of the wildest parts with him. It knocked me out. How could it not? My mother could barely afford a stuffed animal, and here was a man whose chauffeur drove him in his Mercedes to the company jet. Here was a man who gave Eric Clapton advice and wrote Henry Kissinger letters. He had everything I wanted, but unlike during my childhood, I wasn’t on the outside looking in. I was in.
Then again, every day gave me compelling reasons to get out. Ahmet ran Atlantic like a dysfunctional family. He created a world of extreme contradiction that could go from fun and exciting one moment to upsetting and abusive the next. When you’re new at a job, especially as a woman, you don’t know if you can speak up. If you let the first offense go, it becomes much harder to stop the second one from happening. I didn’t know where to draw the line, and I didn’t even know that a line should or could be drawn. It just seemed normal.
For instance: I’d been on the job a few weeks when I stepped into the elevator with two executives. Somehow, between floors two and one, they pulled my skirt down to the floor. When the elevator doors opened, I faced the crowded lobby in my panties. This was normal.
For instance: every day, senior vice presidents under Doug Morris came into my office and bragged about how big their dicks were, and how great it was going to be for me if I fucked them. They’d brag about each other’s dicks too. This was normal.
For instance: many mornings I would open Ahmet’s mail to find Polaroid pictures of him naked, performing various sex acts with various women, along with a letter threatening blackmail. This was a rough way to start my day—Ahmet’s body looked like a shriveled egg—but for Ahmet, blackmail was as normal as breakfast. It was part of his everyday life. He had protocol for these packages—I’d turn them over to Sheldon, Sheldon would call the girl and get her to sign a nondisclosure agreement, then he’d pay her off from a safe full of cash he kept in his office for just that purpose (this cash, as we’ll see, often came from unpaid royalties). This was normal.
I didn’t question it. I wasn’t even shocked—that’s the scary part. Right from the start, I enabled this behavior. The men called me “cunt,” “cunty-poo,” “blow job.” It was against the rules, but again, no one enforced the rules. If you spoke up, you were out. They could replace you in three seconds.
I did take one stand, though. Tunc Erim kept pinching my ass, and I wanted it to stop. Unsure of how Ahmet would take the news, I approached Noreen Woods, Ahmet’s retired assistant. Noreen still played a huge role in Ahmet’s life. She was like his right hand. She knew every thought he had before he had it. Her entire life was dedicated to him. I hoped, as a woman, she would sympathize with me and fix the situation for me, but she said what I feared she would: “You have to tell Ahmet.”
Even though I accompanied Ahmet on his wild nights, he was still an imposing figure. Plus, this guy was sexual harasser number one. What would he say if I told him one of his senior executives touched me in a way I didn’t like? I approached him nervously and told him about Tunc.
“Tell him to come in here,” Ahmet said.
I buzzed Tunc and said, “Mr. Ertegun wants to see you.”
When Tunc entered, Ahmet ripped him a new asshole and made him apologize. Tunc walked out like a dog hit over the head with a newspaper. He never touched my ass again. It was the first time Ahmet stood up for me. I was hooked.
From then on, I’d do anything for Ahmet, even if I knew it was wrong. It started with little lies: “Mrs. Ertegun, Mr. Ertegun won’t be home tonight; he’s in a closed-door session.” Ahmet would pat me on the head and give me a treat—backstage passes to a Genesis concert, where I met Phil Collins.
Then, the lies got bigger:
“Ahmet would never screw an R&B artist out of royalties.”
“Of course he had lunch five days in a row with Eric Clapton, why else would it be on his expenses?”
And bigger:
“Oh my God, the WEA warehouse was broken into, $1 million in Atlantic product gone. I wonder who the suspects are?”
“We had no knowledge of a merger between our parent company, Warner Communications, and Time Inc.”
I did more than lie; I also kept Ahmet’s secrets. One night, I had to get his signature on some documents, so I ran over to his suite at the Carlyle Hotel. He answered the door wearing a half-open robe and led me into an enormous room complete with a baby grand piano, three scantily clad babes, a table full of cocaine, and several bottles of vodka. Keep in mind, the last time I had to get his signature I found him getting a blow job in a recording studio. This time, I kept my head down as I handed him the papers and a pen. “Look up,” he said. “You might see something you like.”
The following day, I acted as if nothing had happened, and as my reward, Ahmet invited me to see the Who perform their rock opera Tommy for one of his charities. It was a private show, and I got to meet Roger Daltrey and Pete Townshend. Yes, I felt conflicted. I saw many women get used like Kleenex—artists, employees, groupies—and I didn’t like it. But that was the price of entry. And let’s not pretend it was the hardest price to pay. I was living my dream, answering phone calls all day from the likes of Jimmy Page, Robert Plant, and Mick Jagger, and sometimes partying with them all night. Huge artists were always stopping by the office—one day Melissa Etheridge performed a concert just for us in the conference room. There was no filter between me, as Ahmet’s secretary, and the world-famous artists.
In fact, we all had something to gain from helping Ahmet do whatever he wanted, whenever he wanted, at whatever the price. The artists had their careers to think of. I had a career of my own to consider, and after working at Atlantic a few months, I developed a new passion. I wanted to be an A&R executive. That was my price.
A&R stands for “artists and repertoire,” and it is one of the most important jobs at a label. A&R executives have a laundry list of duties. They find and sign talent, and they often help with every phase of making an album, from finding a producer to selecting the songs. If an artist does not write her own songs, the A&R executive works with music publishing companies to find songs for her. The A&R executive is also responsible for managing the recording budget and making sure the studio and musicians get paid. In the boardroom, the A&R executive gets glory for the hits and suffers rejection for the stiffs.
Working in A&R wasn’t always my goal, but I could hear their department meetings from my office, and I realized how dumb these guys were and how easily I could do their jobs. Most importantly, I realized that a good A&R executive was almost as important as an artist. Hit records were the lifeblood of any label, and A&R was the pumping heart.
As this goal solidified in my mind, my moral lines became blurred. The voice of Sister Rose Ellen—my conscience, for better or worse—grew fainter. The voice of Ahmet Ertegun—a man with no conscience—replaced it. Some days, when I’d find myself rolling hash joints for Ahmet, or making dominatrix appointments and lying to his wife for him, I’d feel a pang of Catholic guilt. But I quickly learned to rationalize my way around it. After all, didn’t Jesus say, “Judge not lest ye be judged”? I had some unusual desires myself, desires that Ahmet encouraged, and I didn’t want anyone judging me.
Ahmet made it all seem so natural. He was like the snake in the Garden of Eden charming me with that red, delicious apple. He told me that men couldn’t biologically control their sexual urges. He told me that I couldn’t expect a man to remain faithful. He told me that my greatest bargaining chip as a woman was my pussy. I believed it because I revered him. I bit the apple.
Meanwhile, my mother was still suffering through radiation treatments. Since we didn’t have a car, she had to take the bus to her appointments. My father never went with her. He never asked her how she was doing or tried to support her. In fact, when she got sick, he packed up his things and moved into another bedroom in the house.
I felt helpless and scared for her. The treatment destroyed her stomach, and I spent most of my lunch breaks running to the only supermarket in Midtown, at Fifty-Sixth Street and Sixth Avenue, to buy her food, hoping to find something she could eat. At least I felt I was helping in some way.
Witnessing my mother’s sickness made me appreciate the importance of medical benefits. I assumed they came with my job. When my knee started troubling me again, I went to the doctor and learned different. According to Atlantic’s Human Resources Department, I was a temp and did not qualify for benefits. I immediately went to Jenny’s office. Our friendship had cooled considerably since I had begun working for Ahmet, but she coordinated my benefits, so I had no choice.
“Can I ask you something?” I said.
“What’s on your mind?” she asked without looking up.
“Why didn’t you tell me that this is a temp position?”
“I wanted to make sure you liked the job before making it permanent,” she said.
Total bullshit. Either she arranged the position that way to make the paperwork easier, or she did it to test whether or not Ahmet would like me. I couldn’t let the situation stand, but I didn’t want to mess with Jenny. As Ahmet’s senior assistant, she had more power than I did. Still, I could barely afford to help my mother, let alone pay for the treatment I needed. I decided to go over Jenny’s head.
I went into Ahmet’s office and said, “I think things have been going well the past few months. Since you haven’t said otherwise I assume you’re happy with my performance. So I was wondering if you could make my position permanent.”
“What are you talking about?” he said.
“I’m a temp.”
“You’re here every day.”
“I know. But I have no health benefits.”
“That’s ridiculous. Of course your job is permanent.”
I left his office happy. This was the second time he stood up for me. Asking Ahmet for help was difficult. I feared him as much as I revered him. He rarely joked or even cracked a smile around me. He let me call him Ahmet in the confines of his office, but in public he was Mr. Ertegun, and God help me if I forgot it. Even when I’d start to feel rapport building, he’d do something to show how little he trusted me. But after straightening out my health benefits, I felt our relationship beginning to thaw. I had another procedure on my knee, and afterward, I had to walk with a cane for two weeks. Ahmet also walked with a cane, so when he saw me hobble into the office, he said, “Get in here; you’re doing it all wrong.” He proceeded to give me a physical therapy lesson for half an hour. He held all calls while showing me how to distribute my weight correctly with the cane. He said, “Do it again, do it again,” not letting me leave until I had used the cane to his satisfaction.
I decided to return the compassion. He had a water pitcher in his office. It was my job to fill it every day, but I found this demeaning and refused to do it. As a result, a thick layer of dust settled on it. It was a physical manifestation of my resolve. One day, a stifling, ninety-nine-degree day in early July, Ahmet had a tooth pulled. He showed up to work in intense pain. I felt sorry for him, so I washed the pitcher in the kitchen, filled it with ice water, and poured him a glass.
“You drink it first!” he shouted.
I was pissed. After all the trouble I just went through, this motherfucker thinks I’m trying to poison him?
“Forget about me being nice to you ever again!” I yelled.
Ahmet broke into a yellow-toothed grin and laughed. He was busting my balls, a sign of acceptance. I couldn’t help but laugh too, but my laughter came from a deeper place than he could know. After a lifetime of feeling rejected, I had finally found a place where I fit, a home, a family. It was a fucked-up family, but at least it was mine.