You have ten minutes to live. Who do you call, and what do you say? Others have written about this, suggesting we should use this wireframe as an exercise in self-awareness.
***
Knock at door.
Come in.
Hello.
Who are you?
Lucifer.
Lucifer?
Yes.
As in the angel of death, Lucifer?
Correct.
Bullshit.
Lucifer cups his palm and tosses an underhand fireball onto Paul’s desk.
What the fuck? Paul proceeds to tamp down the fire with his hands and forearms.
I don’t fuck around.
I can see that. BEAT. What do you want?
You have ten minutes to live.
Excuse me?
Ten minutes.
What’s going to happen in ten minutes?
You are going to have a heart attack and die.
Seriously?
Yes.
Paul looks doubtful. Lucifer waves his hand, and suddenly Paul is slumped over at his desk, dead. Then Lucifer waves his hand again, and he is alive.
Jeezus. BEAT. You don’t fuck around.
So…
So what?
Who do you want to call?
Does it have to be a call?
What do you mean?
I mean, can it be a Zoom? And does the person have to be alive?
Of course, the person has to be alive.
Why?
Those are the rules.
Listen: I’m gonna be dead in ten minutes. There are no rules1.
It’s an odd request.
Noted. BEAT. I’d like to call an old girlfriend.
You are going to use your last minutes to call an old girlfriend?
I feel as if we have some unfinished business.
What about your wife? What about your kids?
I was thinking I could do them together, on Zoom. Save some time.
***
Sonny would have been one of my calls.
***
In our industry, people mistake professional relationships for friendship. I have written about this previously. I am not suggesting that you can’t be friends with colleagues – I am suggesting that most of these friends will not meet the applied “ten minutes to live” litmus test. Or really, any of the deeper interpretations of friendship (I am troubled by interpretations of friendship that involve calculation and maneuvering, which is mostly what defines office relationships).
When a colleague is in some kind of professional trouble, for example, friends in the office distance themselves from the offender (a maneuver) and express upset at the offense (a calculation). I have seen this happen.
***
Sonny never distanced himself, or expressed upset with me, when I was in trouble. He was instead mostly annoyed that the company viewed my indiscretions as significant enough to require intervention from him.
***
A few weeks after Sonny died, I got a call from his former assistant, Janet. She was cleaning out his office. She asked me to come by. I walked down the hallway, knocked on Sonny’s door, let myself in, and found Janet sitting at his desk. She looked up at me, and then down at his desk. There was a file folder sitting atop it. She picked it up and handed it to me.
Sonny wanted you to have this.
What is it?
She smiled at the question.
It’s a folder full of letters.
Letters?
Notes and emails you sent Sonny.
What kind of notes?
A lot of the notes are about your resigning from the company.
I lifted the folder and peeked into it.
He saved these?
Yes. Sonny enjoyed reading them. BEAT. When he was having a bad day.
Jeezus.
He found them funny. BEAT. They are funny.
You read them?
I read all of Sonny’s email.
Right.
I was surprised you sent them via email, things being what they are.
I didn’t send them all via email. Paul is remembering some of the things he may have put on paper.
I know. You printed a few and left them on his chair. I read those too.
***
I wrote Sonny eleven letters of resignation over the course of our thirty years together. That may seem like a lot, but I had complicated relationships with work and governance, agents and authors, editors too, and I did not like intrusions from the man, of which there were many.
***
I opened the folder, pulled out one of the letters, and read the first paragraph: “It’s over, chief. I no longer possess the forbearance for this kind of work. Every fucking editor here is demented. They come into my office to ‘talk,’ but their clear intent is to peel away my skin and watch me bleed out at my desk. If I don’t get out, I may wind up killing one of them.”
I stood there thinking, “What’s funny about that?”
***
I remember a magazine editor speaking anonymously about me to a reporter, asking this question:
How does he still have a job2?
That stung. I still think about it. I thought about calling the person who said it – and yeah, I poked around to find out who it was, ever curious – but then I realized she was right to ask the question (“You sit on a throne of lies.”)
***
I have evolved since then3.
***
It’s hard to believe I sent some of these emails. Invariably, when I did, I would get a call from Janet saying Sonny wanted me to come for a visit.
***
Bogie, have a seat. BEAT. Cigarette? C’mon, have a smoke. You’ll feel better.
I took a cigarette. He lit it for me. We sat and smoked in silence.
Do you feel better? BEAT. Having gotten things off your chest?
I’m struggling, man.
I can see that.
I hate my job.
You have a miserable job. BEAT. But you’re good at it.
I appreciate your saying that, Sonny.
He smiles.
I can’t stand editors either, Bogie. They’re all a fucking pain in my ass.
***
I read an ARC recently where a writer Knopf had published was interviewed by the author. The writer recounted a conversation they had with Sonny in the library at his home. The writer said that while he was in Sonny’s library, Sonny received a call from another writer. After Sonny hung up, he told the writer in the library what the writer on the phone had said. I know three of the principals here: the writer, the writer on the phone, and Sonny (I do not know the author). A few things to note: Sonny was discreet. He was not one to share a private conversation. And I don’t believe that the writer on the phone would have said what the writer being interviewed claims they said. Why do people tell stories like this? And why do authors publish work that lacks reportorial rigor and discipline. It all smacks of desperation.
***
Then again, these are desperate times.
***
I told Sonny all my secrets. The only other person I can say that about is my father. Both men are gone now. And so, these secrets remain intrusions on my psyche. Maybe I should call Dani, pitch myself as a guest on her podcast4. I would have A LOT to talk about.
***
Sonny and I did not have a lot in common. He was well-read and worldly in a way that I am not. He was quiet; I was loud (preposterously so). His soft power was silence; my soft power was the management of talent (ridiculous, I know, but I could get people to bend). He came from another continent; I came from Long Island. Sonny once asked me, “Billy Joel. He’s from Long Island?” I just looked at him, unable to answer. “What?” he said.
***
The question was hard for me to process. I mean, this fucking guy – his brain packed with Calasso and Deraniyagala and Ish and Marquez and Ondaatje – slipstreaming me a question about Billy Joel?
***
But Sonny and I did have one thing in common: we both struggled to fit in. I’m not sure he ever felt comfortable sitting where he sat5; I know I never felt comfortable sitting where I did. Sonny’s position was secure – he had the faith of his troops and the backing of leadership - until he was nearing the end (then, leadership, not so much).
***
What do we do?
About what?
The Sun King.
We wait.
The numbers aren’t good.
But they were very good for a long time. BEAT. He made us a lot of money.
Don’t get sentimental about the past.
Just stating a fact. BEAT. And, you know, he has not been well.
I am empathetic to his failing health. But the numbers are what they are. And we need to make a change.
***
This happens with some frequency in publishing. The numbers aren’t good conversations. The we need to make a change conversations. More than we would like.
***
My position was mostly safe, not because I had the troops or leadership, but because I had Sonny.
***
I remember getting a call from Reagan about a year into her tenure.
Paul, she said.
Hello Reagan.
Is this a good time?
It’s a great time. I’m on the ferry.
I gather it’s better than New Jersey Transit.
Much. What’s up?
The meeting yesterday.
What meeting?
About the Senator’s book.
What about it?
You can’t tell our outside counsel to fuck off.
I wasn’t telling counsel to fuck off. I was telling everyone in the room to fuck off.
The circumstances here are complicated.
They’re not complicated for me. She’s the Chairman of the Senate Antitrust committee. I’m not going to give her talking points. What fucking moron came up with that idea? If the company has a problem with my position, they can go fuck themselves.
I’m not Sonny.
I’m not asking you to be Sonny.
I can’t protect you the way he did.
I don’t need your protection.
I just think you should be careful.
I appreciate that.
***
Reagan’s heart was in the right place – she was looking out for me. But with Sonny gone, I was beyond needing anyone to look out for me.
***
And, you know, who was looking out for Reagan in the end?
***
I think Sonny saw a lot of colleagues the way I did: as Benedict Arnolds.
***
Another thing we had in common: neither of us followed the path our fathers envisioned for us. Sonny’s old man wanted him to be a diplomat; my old man wanted me to work on the street. The things they wanted were not the things we wanted:
***
Television!
***
I loved that Sonny used the term “old man.”
How’s your old man, he would say. Is he still upset about the President?
He is.
Hmmm, he would say, and light another cigarette.
***
Sonny was quick to anger, and not particularly patient. This was most evident in his dealings with agents. He thought a few were dishonest in the way they went about their work. Also, some were just “fuckers” to him. He would do business with agents he disliked – but his feelings were clear. Agents knew. They still know. And maybe they should think about why he felt the way he did about them.
***
Of course, some agents felt the same way about Sonny. But they all came to his memorial.
***
There were, of course, agents he liked, agents for whom he never had a bad word, agents whom he thought of as gentlemen6. And more than a few agents were smitten with Sonny because he was a flirt.
***
I loved that about him. He wasn’t obvious about it in the way that most men are. He never had an opening line, for example, unless you consider silence an opening. His opening was a look. I mean, a real look. A kind of staring into your soul and considering all your past sins look. Not that past sins were an issue for him. He loved hearing about my own. The felony I committed when I was sixteen, my accomplishments as a watch thief, my years as a dope dealer - those stories fascinated him.
***
Why?
Why what?
Why steal a mail lorry?
I don’t know.
What did your old man say?
Never told him.
What do you think he would’ve said?
I don’t know.
It’s an interesting gambit.
I suppose.
The watches and dope make sense. BEAT. Not the lorry.
***
I had an agent approach me recently. They wanted to know if I might be interested in working with one of their clients.
Aren’t they working with —? I said.
They are.
Then why are you talking to me?
They might be interested in making a change.
I’ve known — for two decades. — runs a good shop. I’m not going to entertain a potential relationship with a client who is working with another agency.
I respect that, they said.
***
There are other shops in the PR space who have no compunction about coming between an agency and their client. I’m not suggesting one way is right and the other is wrong; I’m just pointing out it’s not how I do business.
***
“The arc of the moral universe is long, but it bends towards justice.”
***
Do you feel this is true in our line of work, friends? That question.
***
Until next time,
Kill Your Darlings
***
PS: A reader writes, “Incisive, but definitely not uplifting.” > I’m just trying to present an honest view of the industry and my experience in it (I recognize it may not be your experience. And, you know, if I’m way off the mark, let me know). Another reader writes, “Can you do fun instead of brooding?” > Sonny and I had that in common – we were both brooders. So, I don’t know. Another reader: “Do you think Sonny would want to be written about?” > Short answer: I think Sonny would be OK with what I’m doing here. > This begs the question: what are you doing here? I don’t know. But I do know I appreciate hearing from readers.
Group of 8 reference.
Somewhat.
https://danishapiro.com/family-secrets/
He wanted to go back to India, mostly. He spoke about this during our interview.
Michael Carlisle, for example.
A Sonny Story: I met the legend himself because I used to smoke and it was during one of those BEA dinners, years ago now. I had stepped outside in the freezing cold and there he was. He offered me a Native Spirit which he then lit (silently) and gave me one of those looks. I thought I had died and gone to heaven.
I remember one time in the old building on E 50th Street, Sonny was standing in the doorway of his office. GF needed money for a cab or something, so Sonny reached into his pocket, pulled out a roll of bills, and handed him a 20. To be funny, I guess, I got in line behind GF, and when he moved aside, I stepped up to Sonny and held out my hand. "Fuck off," he said in that ultra-dry way he had. It’s a fond memory, one of many from those years.