20 May 2010

Brankton Walks Austin (p7)



Brankton’s phone rang. He welcomed the interruption, immediately thumbing the green talk button out of habit expecting his unflappable gal Friday or the other smart one whose name he rarely said because it was the same as his ex’s. “Excuse me,” he said walking away from the Rebbe with his finger in one ear and phone to the other.

“I’m actually glad you called,” he said as he moved beneath the shade of a nearby palm on the far corner of the synagogue’s pie-shaped lot.

“Brankton! It’s Pat O’ from UTA!” Pat O’ was always yelling into phones as he was usually en route to or from his office on the Miracle Mile with the convertible top down. Apparently the uber-agent had never gotten the memo that cell phones no longer require such shouting in the 21st century or that sunblock should be amply lathered on sun-exposed pasty skin – he had recently lost several pieces of his scalp, nose and ear to the surgeon’s scalpel. At least he was now wearing a Woody Allen-styled hat during his commutes.

“Oh, sorry, man,” said Brankton. “Thought you were my admin.”

“Yeah, no worries; not sure you’re going to be so glad about my calling though. I’ve got some news.” Pat O’ said ‘some’ as if he had just substituted it for the word bad, like he had done with the words "illness" for "cancer" when he told his aged mother about her only son's skin issues.

“What’s going on, Pat?”

“Apparently you have a script with a UTA cover on it from a cat in Austin or Nashville or someplace in flyover land?” he asked.

“Austin. Yeah, it’s pretty good. Just read it,” said Brankton lying about having read the script like most in the business in L.A. have lied to their writer friends when asked if they got a chance to read their scripts. They say things like, "Yes, of course." Or, the more inspired, "Really liked the story, thought the characters were interesting." Brankton, however, had two admins and a professional service to provide coverage for any project in need of some executive notes for the writers on the shows under his purview.

“Well, it’s not from my office, B-dawg. We never sent this -- Jack Mann project is it? -- to NBC. And you know we wouldn’t have sent it to you regardless, but over to that king of all assholes, Spilka.”   Even though Pat was in his late fifties, he could still carry himself at a Hollywood Hills soiree; and with his money and Power100 ranking, he went home with many young (and old) industry talent in skirts.  Even one or two well-known starlets, feeling it all slip away, willing to stoke the ego of a not unattractive, still slim, vapid agent, had made that walk of shame from casa de Pat.

“Marcus Spilka is on his way out, Pat,” Brankton was taking stock of the situation. “Let this play out.”

Jacqueline Manon Laurent strained to hear what Brankton was saying from her own convertible. Jackie was having a hard time of deciphering it, the conversation, since it was all one-sided responses of a pissed-off Angelino.

“Brankton, I’ve only got a quick second! But, you need to know that this writer was hip-pocketed -- without approval -- by some dumb-ass assistant here, and when I find out who it was, they’re fired.”

“Pat! Just a second!” Brankton looked sideways to see if this scene he found himself in was attracting attention. “I’m here in Austin, now, and by the time we’re done working up a deal with the writer, you’ll promote this assistant, whoever he is, to agent.” Brankton considered that Pat O’ could be working with Marcus Spilka, head of NBC Universal Comedy Development, class-A douche bag rumored soon to be fired, and currently in possession of the job Brankton wanted. “Don’t bet on the wrong horse here,” he said.

“NBC’s my bet, Brankton. Gotta run!” Pat O’ hung up his cell phone and tossed it across his expansive desk in his even larger office slightly disgusted with himself. He picked up his office phone and called NBC.  Pat O' was making a bet, against his better, cancer treatment induced hazy judgement.

“Jesus Christ!” Brankton said as he walked off the grass and onto the street. Even among Texas Jews it was considered poor form to throw messianic epithets into the ether so casually. Mo and Nels Yauch raised eyebrows to each other, sharing an awkward and conjoined moment of father-son disapproval.

Jackie started the Mini Cooper, “Sit your ass down, Nels.”

“What are we doing?”

Jackie waived at the Rabbi and said, “Gotta go, c’mon!” then gave Nelson the universal and impatient sign for wrap it up.

“Dad, probably see you later tonight,” Nelson said with Doppler effect as Jackie roared down the street.

A sheepish Brankton looked up at the Rabbi, watching the rear of the dark-green British import flee the scene.

“Uh, sorry about that,” he said.

“Work?”

“Yeah.” Every sinew in his dialing thumb wanted to call the office, but Brankton’s home-brewed sui generis Sabbath conditions forbad his using any modern conveniences unilaterally. However, if work were to call him, he could respond because to his way of thinking that meant it was an emergency and was therefore granted a special dispensation. And like clockwork, his phone rang.

“Yeah!?” he said again this time recognizing the number as being NBC L.A. “What did you guys do to me with this Jack Mann project?”

“We’ve got bigger fish to fry, boss,” said his admin. “Marcus Spilka’s assistant just called looking for you.”

“Spilka can go eff himself!”

“Yes, well maybe he can and maybe he can’t, but supposedly his office just asked security to come over to our building to escort us off the campus,” said Friday also on the line, whose real name was Rosalind. Brankton came up with the nickname "Friday" for her after Rosalind Russell, although he knew it was bit ham-fisted. She liked it and the name stuck. Besides, he liked to imagine himself as playing Cary Grant the leading man in the classic His Gal Friday, with loyal support staff, and himself rocking nice suits, affecting a smooth, winning way with all who came into contact with his office, handing out cool nicknames as he went along.

“What?!”

“Yeah, apparently he’s convinced facilities that he has the power to tell us to leave the premises,” said Friday. “I know they’re short-staffed on the weekend, so maybe it won’t be for a bit, but what should we do?”

Get Earl Buntz right now at his house and conference me in,” said Brankton. The Rabbi offered his courtyard as a base of operations with a wave of his hand. Brankton gave a non-verbal assent as he followed him up the driveway.

In Hancock Park -- an exclusive enclave of five to ten million-dollar homes in the heart of Los Angeles with old-growth trees and old-money families -- a private office line to Earl Buntz’s home was ringing before Brankton could finish verbalizing his request. The Spanish villa styled manse of Earl and Marjorie Buntz sitting on two shady acres was originally built in 1902, but subsequently gutted and refurbished according to Hollywood executive standards in 1999. Earl’s office overlooked the tennis court, pool, putting green and pergola with the wisteria climbing throughout. It was his sanctuary. Churchill had his Chartwell. Superman his Fortress of Solitude. And, Earl Buntz had his Hancock Park home-office to keep wives of 45-years, grand kids, directors from the NBC Universal Board, and pesky 30-something parvenu execs from Cast.com, the most recent company to buy Universal, all at bay. Even if only for a brief respite.

NBC Universal had several Presidents. Earl Buntz was the least sexy but hardest working. The company had changed hands no less than a half-dozen times since he began there some thirty years before, but he remained. He was the overseer of all things production. He worked out budgets like a big-five certified public accountant, and kept all the moving parts and players saluting his standard that he flew proudly over the NBC Universal campus: the unions, the consultants with their outsourced business processes, the C-Suite of execs dealing with heavy-handed Sarbanes-Oxley compliance issues and the HR staff dealing with employee demands that could sink every publically traded company. Earl became a fan of Brankton’s after a few drinks together at several company retreats, which was fine. However, more important for the problem at hand, Earl hated Marcus Spilka. Spilka was an Ivy League graduate who would tell you within two minutes of meeting you that when he “was in Cambridge recently, meeting with Obama at a private function,” blah, blah, blah. He also had family connections to the industry and a major sense of entitlement. Brankton was counting on Earl’s hatred of Spilka.

“Earl Buntz,” said the squat-heavy man sitting behind his desk.

“Mr. Buntz, I have Brankton from NBC Current Comedy on the line for you,” said Friday. Brankton in his own short time in the business had become a one-name sort of executive, with absolutely zero power or clout. Name recognition, yes.

“Brankton! How are you?”

Brankton said, “Sorry to bother you at home, Earl. Do you have a quick second?”

“Well, I have about 30 kids and their parents down stairs for my grandson’s birthday party,” said Earl. “Can’t you hear the music playing and the kids peeing in my pool?” Earl Buntz muted the company-owned MSNBC cable channel playing on three TVs in his office.

“Listen, Marcus Spilka is asking security to escort my staff from the lot. I have no idea what’s going on, but I’m assuming he thinks he can fire me and my people, which as you know I have no solid or dotted-line relationship to his office.”

“That little prick,” said Earl, music to Brankton’s ears.

“Since I’m on business in Austin, I’m not there to deal with this in-person. Not that it’d do any good, Earl. Do you know anything about this?”

A worried Friday cut into the conversation, “Excuse me, gentlemen, but we have security trying to unlock our door as we speak.”

Click here to continue reading part 8.




6 comments:

Julia Christie said...

This is such a different world from my own. I am enjoying this peak into the inner workings of hollywood very much! I really like your writing style ~ Great place to stop this ch. too as now I can't wait for the next one to see what happens.

Smiles

christian soldier said...

This continues to intrigue!!

LA is a nice place to visit (p6) but-some of us continue to actually live here-huh-Scribe :-)
Have a great week-end-my friend---
C-CS

Sashindoubutsu said...

Another good read. I'm knowing the characters little by little.^^

I can't wait what happens next. Your last statement made it the more intriguing and interesting.

Julie@beingRUBY said...

Hi there Jg
Well I'm just catching up on the last two chapters... and starting to like your man Brankton.. I like his insecure bumbling way.. trying to be smooth and falling off the car!! ha. great human touch.. but now intrigue.. must wait to see what happens in the next chapter...

Have a great week .. Julie

Barbara said...

Ahhhh. Some intrigue.

Dumbwit Tellher said...

needing more..more of Jg & his skillful and intriguing stories. Hope you are well my friend; you and the boys. Have a safe & fun 4th of July weekend x