For all the money thrown around foolishly in Hollywood, surprisingly little of it is spent on interior design. Most offices are surprisingly Kmart-like, homogenous and functional and sometimes funky. The reason is simple. No one ever stays in an office long enough to do more than put up a poster of their last project and a picture of the family. If the job goes well, you get bumped up to a bigger, better office. If it doesn’t, you move on to another characterless office at another studio. It drives the mail room guys crazy.
Jonathan Scott’s office was befitting one of the 247 vice presidents who worked on the Sony lot. The title Vice President of Comedy Development for the Columbia TriStar Television Group was pretty much as low as you wanted to be in
the studio system—senior vice president was, of course, better, and executive vice president better still. But to be a president was even cooler—after all, Sony, Columbia’s parent company, had only twenty-six of those, one for each division, plus a few extras. The United States of America, by comparison, has one, but the world of fantasy is so much more complicated than the real world.
That Nancy and Perry’s meeting was taking place in Jonathan’s office was good—for Jonathan. It meant that executives from higher up in the food chain would be coming to his turf, a clear sign that Dire Straights, the pilot script, was his project.
As writers, Nancy and Perry were the first to arrive. A male assistant with a headset ushered them into Jonathan’s office. The first thing Jonathan did, after pleasantries, was leave—having no intention of sitting in his own office with two writers. He skulked in the hall until his bosses arrived, running late as always.
“I think we can pretty much cut to the chase here,” said Jonathan, leaning against his desk as Nancy and Perry sat on the couch and the two senior executives took the two chairs. “We’ve read what you’ve done and we feel passionate about it.”
The others nodded in agreement as they scanned Perry’s treatment.
“I believe it’s important to go only with projects you feel passionate about,” said Jonathan.
“Passion is what this business is all about,” added one of the other executives. “Without passion, what do we have?”
“This whole concept is exactly what TV needs right now,” said the other. “It’s very fresh and yet traditional.”
“That’s where the culture is right now,” said Jonathan. “People want new things, but they want them to be familiar. That’s why it’s so easy to be passionate about this show.”
“I consider myself a passion player,” said Nancy firmly. “And I know this is the best work we’ve done. And there’s no one I’d rather be in business with than Columbia. I wouldn’t even take this project anywhere else.”
Perry leaned forward to speak, but Nancy squeezed his knee in a none-too-subtle reminder that this was her turn. He was left to ponder how, exactly, he had managed to write something that was new and old at the same time.
Jonathan looked for a sign from the most senior executive. He received a slight nod.
“I think we’re ready to put Comstock on the lot and tape this pilot. Our guys will do everything in their power to get this on a network for next season—and I think you both know that NBC owes us a big favor this year. I’d have no qualms calling in this favor on your show.”
“That’s fantastic,” said Nancy. “We want partners who feel as strongly about this as we do.”
Perry felt a bit of a squirm factor. He was all for schmoozing Hollywood types—he’d done his share of it—but Nancy was pouring it on bit heavy.
“We’ll want protection, of course,” she went on. “We have to be the show runners, or we’ll take it elsewhere.”
“That goes without saying,” said Jonathan. “It’s not just the script we’re buying. It’s you. It’s your energy, your intensity, your …” He paused, not wanting to use the P word yet again, but the thesaurus in his mind faltered. “And yes, your passion. Heather says such great things about you, and you know how important her word is to us.”
“I’m very glad to hear that,” said Nancy. “We’re not interested in a one-show arrangement. I have a notebook with dozens of good ideas, and after we prove ourselves to you with Dire Straights, we fully intend to gear up to do more shows and become a major force.”
“That’s the type of thinking we like to hear,” said Jonathan.
She was clearly pleasing the two executives. In fact, everyone was happy but Perry, who wondered what these wonderful ideas were and who had come up with them. He hadn’t, and Nancy certainly hadn’t bothered burdening him with any ideas she might have had. Besides, wasn’t he the creative force behind Comstock?
As congratulations were exchanged and arrangements made to bring the agents into this, Perry sat on the couch, stunned. I sold a script, he thought. To a big studio. His biggest credit so far had been the game show and writing smart-ass questions. Now he was a real writer. And very soon, he’d be a real producer.
“It was almost anticlimactic, wasn’t it?” he said as they walked down the hall after the meeting. “I expected more. Maybe champagne. Confetti. Party favors.”
“Didn’t you feel the energy level in the room?” asked Nancy incredulously. “That was the most intense vibe I’ve ever felt. It was like the room was vibrating. Did you see how well I played them? I told them everything they wanted to hear. It was like I could read their minds.”
“Maybe it hasn’t sunk in yet,” mused Perry. “What do we do now? Do you want to go to Starbucks or something?”
“We’ll celebrate tonight. I’ve got to get back. And I should call Heather on the cell as soon as I get in the car. She’s waiting to hear from me.”
They kissed good-bye and Perry got in his Honda and drove off. When he got to the corner, he had an idea—perhaps they should do the Trader Vic’s thing for dinner tonight, and invite some friends, maybe even his brother. He waited at the corner for Nancy’s car. After a few minutes, when he saw no sign of her, he figured she had gone out another exit, and he moved on.