On Meeting With a Talent Agent
"Narrowing her eyes, she says, 'So, who are you? I have no clue. I know nothing about you. Who are you?'"
October 9, 2018
New York, New York
I was 24 years old
And while the memory’s fresh: my meeting with Erin Grant*. Her agency’s office was in Chelsea. I think. Was gonna wear my big Eddie Bauer pants, the predictably dumpy-looking pair I got at the Belmont Goodwill but made a very last minute decision to wear my spiffy H&M blue pants instead. A wise choice, I’d say. It was an 11 a.m. meeting, so not at all early but still—early. Had to take the 1 train for the first time since being here, if not the first time in my life. Felt confident leaving the apartment, perhaps even to the point of calmness. But who’s to know, perhaps nerves are exactly what one needs in this kind of scenario. Meant to say a mantra of sorts in the mirror but it slipped my mind. During the commute however, I did listen to a whole assortment of songs that screamed, “Watch out, world! I’m HUGE! Look at me! I’m somebody you just haven’t MET yet!”
Trying to remember where it all began. Said my name to the concierge who pointed me in the direction of the elevators and up I went. It was a pretty nice office, not the most streamlined I’ve ever been to but still. It was a visibly legit institution, which was a relief in and of itself. An almost friendly red-headed 20something took my name and said Erin would be right with me. I was 10 minutes early but she didn’t come to fetch me until several minutes after 11:00. Which left me with more than enough time to get sufficiently nerve-wracked.
“Are you…Brian?” asks a curly-haired woman within seconds of spotting me in the waiting area. I’d already done some minor Facebook creeping so I knew who to expect. But she wound up looking a little less ordinary—and a little less New Jersey. Which was good! Obviously I’d want to be chatting with someone sufficiently metropolitan. She’s pretty. Early 40s, maybe. Commutes in from The Oranges everyday. Her father was Scott’s guidance counselor in high school but her family somehow already knew Scott and Nancy for years and years before that. And Erin, of course, sees the dentist that Nancy has always worked for. So after some initial gushing about how much we love Nancy, how grateful I was that Nancy connected us, Erin narrows her eyes a little and says, “So, who are you? I have no clue. I know nothing about you. Who are you?”
As per fucking usual, I didn’t realize I hadn’t prepared for an interview until I was in the middle of it. I had such a difficult time sharing what I know to be true: my interest in film and television, my willingness to do it in any form, the improv and acting classes I’ve already taken. Blah blah blah. Instead, I just kind of flailed in the face of all those questions. She had that ability to just keep talking, moving the conversation to her long-preordained destinations. She asked me what I was watching lately and I said Forever—which she hadn’t seen. But when I said Fred Armisen and Maya Rudolph’s names, she was like, “Oh! So THAT’S why they were on together at The Emmys” to which I said, “Yes, so funny,” to which she said, “No, that bombed.”
She asked if I had any questions for her. In a failed attempt to show off, I dropped some names she wound up not even knowing and made a declaration about myself that surely rendered me less attractive than ever. Saying how much I love the specificity of performers like John Early and Cole Escola but, as a fellow fag, “Should I anticipate that getting in the way of me finding work?” She said “versatility is crucial.”
All in all, we probably had a 20 minute long chat. And I’d already told myself that the only way I could walk away disappointed from this genuinely bonkers opportunity—meeting with a talent agent during my first week living in New York City without so much as a scene of acting to my name—would be if she sat me down for some tried-and-true platitudes before promptly showing me the door with a “Good luck, kid!” And that, generously, was not the case. Telling me, “I need to figure you OUT,” Erin said her assistant would email some sides for me to read, that I should tape myself doing it, and get back to her. Amazing.
I was able to leave that office and walk out onto the streets of New York having not been told “No.” Walking downtown feeling not quite three-times-my-size but still: very happy. Satisfied with what I brought to an environment, a situation, a personality, an industry that I have so little context for, so little experience with. And that’s impressive. We’ve come a long, long way together, through the hard times and the good. I have to celebrate you, baby, I have to praise you like I should.
*Names have been (kind of) changed to protect the innocent.
July 27, 2022
Brooklyn, New York
I am 28 years old
I’m not a good interview. And in the event I’m being mistaken for humble: a prime example. Years before this sit-down with Erin, while I was still living in Boston, I had an interview with a non-profit that offered after-school writing workshops to kids in Roxbury. It was an internship, I think. Unpaid, I’m sure. An obviously important job but, at that point in my life, the extent of my experience with children was watching Miranda on the final three seasons of Sex and the City. It was a disaster. Sweating through whatever $18.99 button-up I’d inevitably return to H&M by week’s end, I botched most every question that was actually relevant to the position, with the true kicker yet to come. The guy interviewing me, equally desperate for this torture to end, asked what I do for fun. My truth of “no such thing” aside, I said cooking and he asked what kind. And it was then that I looked into this young man’s eyes, actively assessing my ability to work in a systematically underserved community, and said, “Well, I love The Barefoot Contessa so, you know, really classic, Hamptons-y type stuff.”
I didn’t get the job. And though this might come as something of a shock, Erin didn’t sign me as a client either. From the jump, I didn’t let myself have too many expectations. Now, did I harbor hopes my spark would prove bright enough, singular enough, marketable enough for Erin to promptly shill me out for some sassy barista cameo in a Hulu original? Well. Because despite the (three) improv and (one) acting classes I’d taken, it can’t be stressed enough that I had never really acted before. Do I possess a performative streak, of course. I’m a homosexual. Dogs bark, popes are Catholic. But around this time, I was so increasingly certain the universe was whispering to me. Hearing “You’ve never performed before?” too many times from my shocked classmates, not to mention my instructors, to avoid indulging in the possibility that I had something special, that I was something special. But shortly after recording that self-tape and emailing it along, Erin got back to me and said, “I’d like to suggest some on-camera classes. It is a bit theatrical and over the top for television. Thanks for taping!”
Need I repeat, this all happened during my very first month living in New York City. I couldn’t be too devastated, I knew that. Mostly because I hardly had the time. It was a whirlwind, those initial couple weeks, with most every person I already knew here taking me out for a celebratory drink. Different plans every day with different people who, for the most part, I’d never see again. Though maybe that had something to do with a certain boy in Bushwick who was quickly becoming my easiest best friend. Surviving off my ever depleting savings account, a job hunt—let alone an actual job—wasn’t getting in the way of dropping my finger on the proverbial map and wandering around some corner of a city that felt so unknown but so warmly expected. And just in case it was all too much too soon, plans were already in place to take me away. A weekend in Philly for a friend’s wedding and, what else, a trip back to Boston for some background work in Greta Gerwig’s Little Women. Something I mentioned to Erin during our meeting, albeit with rolled eyes, making it very clear I didn’t think there was anything impressive about being an extra. She agreed. But I don’t know. I’d never stepped foot on a movie set before and here I was getting thoughtfully placed somewhere in the middle of this $40 million production that’d go on to make five times that much at the box office and rack up six Oscar nominations and result in I can’t remember how many acquaintances asking me, “Wait—did I see you in Little Women?”
All this didn’t come completely out of nowhere, my decision that I might as well be an actor emerging during a period when I, dramatically enough, “no longer identified as a writer.” Embarrassed by how few people were reading the blog posts that took me weeks to write and emboldened by how many people enjoyed the front-facing videos that took me 15 seconds to record, I felt I had no choice but to honor these universal whispers. That if I just waited it out long enough, with patience and purpose, I could finally get started on all the hard work of my sweetest dreams. But an unbilled star turn in a major motion picture and a non-starter general meeting was evidently all it took for me to change my mind. Identifying all over again as the writer who could tell his own story, who’d know exactly where he’s going and exactly how he’d reach those long-preordained destinations of his own. Assigning myself the same role, over and over again, as the clown, the perennial fool who just might upend the whole story for wanting something greater. And if breaking this typecast will take more effort than I’m used to, I hope I’m no better than being over the top.
Another great piece. Tongue-in-cheek suits you so well LOL