Judy & Liza & Robert & Freddie & David & Sue & Me... Read Free Page A

only then did you have a skill worth selling, one that put you on a collision course with a low glass ceiling. Of course if you graduated from Vassar, Smith, Holyoke, or any of the other Seven Sister schools, and you had good social connections, you might acquire an entry-level position as an editorial assistant at a top publishing house or classy magazine like Harper’s Bazaar —that is, until you married and moved to a start-up mansion in Greenwich. Inasmuch as I wasn’t one of those Muffy, Buffy, Duffy, or Libby socialites about to enjoy my coming-out, I went straight to the Kelly Girl secretarial school for my continuing education, recognizing that my bachelor of arts degree in literature might occasionally help me in cocktail conversation.
    From the moment I started working, I knew it was the right choice for me. Not all the shit jobs were, but then I was 100 percent prepared to pay my dues. My mom was wrong about working. I didn’t find it hard at all; of course, unlike her, I was not standing on a retail sales floor twelve hours a day. I was sitting in bright airy spaces, reading most of the time, and best of all, at the end of the week I had a paycheck in my hand that gave me the first real power I thought I’d ever had: buying power. But it wasn’t only about the money. Working reinforced my thinking that I could have it all: fame, money, and power. And there was at least a tiny bit of genuine altruism. I also wanted to make a contribution to society. I thought from the beginning that entertaining people was a great way to do that.
    With my skill set in place, such as it was (no hundred-words-a-minute me), I launched my attack on “the industry” by going to a temp employment agency, where I asked to be sent out for entertainment work. There were lots of jobs available, and I was regularly employed at a network (both CBS and NBC) or at advertising desks (McCann Erickson stands out because some jerk hit on me until I finally quit), where I read through whatever files were available to me, an eager participant in my own little master plan to figure out how people functioned in the industry. I thought I could learn by reading contracts and memos.
    I was placed in some jobs for a few days, some for more. Sometimes I would just up and quit after I’d sucked out of a particular office as much worthwhile background as I could. And I had plenty of time to do it. My boss of the moment, always a man, made up his mind before I got there that there was no point in my doing anything other than answering the phone until his regular girl got back. When asked why I was reading a file (and that wasn’t often) I simply said I needed something to read. The boss smiled. I was a girl, after all. How could I know what I was reading? But I thought I had a good plan because I was actually interested in everything I read. I might have forgotten my Shakespeare, but I could indeed remember contractual terms and conditions. I could remember who got paid what for every show on the air. I counted on the fact that this was not useless information, that one day I could get to a place where I could actually use the info I was stockpiling.
    Not all the early jobs were terrible. I stayed at ABC Television for a few months and had a wonderful time, though certainly not at the start in the typing pool, which was a drag and hard, boring work, typing columns of numbers that, without context, made no sense.
    Luckily I was rescued from the pool after only a week and a half, told I would now be a “production assistant,” and sent to the stage floor of a little game show called Who Do You Trust? , starring Johnny Carson. Though happy to be plucked out of the pool, I’m sorry to say I believe the only reason I was chosen over the other more efficient women who had longer tenure was my appearance. I was tall and slim; I had a good figure, and, although no great beauty, I was nice looking. I knew I attracted