The Mailroom: Hollywood History from the Bottom Up by David Rensin Page A

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.

     
HEROES AND VILLAINS
     
    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.

     
SERVICE WITH A SMILE, BABY
     
    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