Eighteen
The last time I sat in Bud Gorman’s office, he offered me the chance to redeem myself by producing the pilot episode of Try It On. The time before that, he’d been threatening to fire me for the disastrous end of One Straight Guy at a Time.
Honestly, I had no idea which time this visit would more resemble.
But as I sat on the uncomfortable chair facing his desk, my hands shook and I knew I was sweating through my layers of deodorant. I only hoped Bud couldn’t tell from the safe distance across his desk.
“I don’t give a rat’s grass if she is Marilyn Monroe reincarnated,” he barked into his phone, “she is not getting a private jet to fly her in from Queens.”
He didn’t wait for a response from the poor PA at the other end of the line.
I’d been in that position more times than I
