I was 26 in the spring of 1977.
I joined Norman Lear’s TV empire, Tandem Productions/TAT Communications, to set up an in-house ad agency. I was hired to buy media, promote their shows, and work on special projects for Lear. Two offices came with my package—a formal office at theCentury City headquarters and a much simpler office at MetroMedia Square in Hollywood. All the action, fun, and drama took place at MetroMedia. The place was literally crawling—night and day—with actors, writers, producers, directors, and all manner of executive, production, and support staff. Lunch was catered every day, dinner could be ordered ahead.
Perks and more perks. Assigned parking at both locations came with the job. S BROCKELMAN was stenciled on my bump curbs. My parking space at MetroMedia was next to Jimmie Walker’s. His curb read J WALKER. He drove a silver Mercedes 450 SL; I drove a burgundy MG Midget. It was just a matter of degrees.
The Tandem/TAT series Sanford & Son, All in the Family, Good Times, The Jeffersons, One Day at a Time, Maude, The Facts of Life, Diff’rent Strokes—and more—were all taped at MetroMedia.
The immediate lay of the land.
There was a small men’s room across the hall from my office. It housed two urinals—no partition between them—and one toilet stall. Sinks and a mirror were on the opposite wall. To the right of the men’s room was a table-reading room where The Jeffersons‘ cast, and sometimes Maude‘s, would meet to read-through weekly scripts. The reading room to the left was typically populated by the cast of The Facts of Life or Sanford & Son.
Barbara Brogliatti, head of worldwide public relations, was one of my immediate supervisors. I’d been on the job just a few days when she gave me the speech, “You’ll be working with stars and famous writers and producers, but you’ll never seem star-struck. Ever. You’re a professional; they’re professionals. Do your job. Let them do theirs. And always, always listen. Carefully.”
The event.
I’d been on the phone with Gary Leiberthal, head of syndication (another of my supervisors) for what had seemed like hours. I was tapping my right foot. I needed to pee. Hanging up the phone, I scurried across the hall, saddled up to one of the urinals and let go. I heard the door behind me open. A large man walked to the urinal next to me and whipped out his “Richard.”
Holy crap, it was Carol O’Connor. I was standing next to Archie Bunker and we were both peeing. I stared ahead at an invisible spot on the wall as my curiosity got the better of me. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw O’Connor was staring at his invisible spot, too. So … taking a deep breath I looked down and glanced over at Archie Bunker’s “Richard.”
To my horror and mortification, O’Connor caught me checking out his package. He lifted his chin as he turned and looked me directly in the eye.
I did something I’ve often done and always regret: I said the first thing that popped in to my head, “Nice ring!” (He was wearing a gold ring on the middle-finger of his “Richard-holding” hand.)
Absolvement.
O’Connor stood at the sink beside me, turned on the faucet, and after a moment looked over at me. He gave a faint smile and said, “It’s a Claddagh Ring. It’s from Ireland, as am I. The clasped hands are for Love, Loyalty, and Friendship.”
He dried his hands, nodded at me, and went on his way.
I stood there in front of the mirror for a time considering how kind O’Connor had been. Heading back across the hall I heard my desk phone ring. I rushed to answer it, ready for a peek at another of the world’s wonders.
