This Way to the Rabbit Hole

Abstract

This Way to the Rabbit Hole Paul Wayne (bio) “Eat, eat,” said Mickey. “Don’t play with your food. What are you gazing at?” “I forget which side of the mushroom makes me taller.” I had been having weekly lunches with my friend and former employer, Mickey Ross, for about five years when he asked an innocent question about how I got started writing comedy in Hollywood. “Same as you, I suppose.” “No, no,” said Mickey. “My route evolved much more indigenously. Born of Jewish parents in New York City, worked the Catskills, built an act with a partner with which we toured the country, wrote a spec script—you could print up copies and leave a blank for a writer’s name, it would apply to anybody in town.” He shook his head. “You started in Canada. Who ever heard of Canada?” Mickey Ross was the renowned third of the team Nicholl, Ross, and West, who started out as producers of All in the Family, which spun into The Jeffersons. I met him when I first wrote episodes for All in the Family. He chose me and my partner, George Burditt, to adapt from a British series (Man About the House) the future long-running Three’s Company. In no little time he became the talk of the town for his idiosyncrasy of trying to be completely forthright, and most of the time succeeding. This business, where honesty and forthrightness often corresponded with quaint, rewarded Mickey with guarded admiration. When his wife Irene died in 1999, we decided to meet for lunch every Friday, and we did so with almost perfect regularity. At the end he’d suffered four or five strokes—we’d lost count. He was confined to his chair—a special one that was form-fitting and could bend itself [End Page 62] to accommodate various positions without requiring a body to exert itself. From here he would watch “The Classic Arts Showcase”—a valentine to viewers of PBS—and he’d bathe in the sonorities of Bach or Brahms or Monteverdi. “I remember trudging up Sunset Boulevard with an attaché case of original scripts written for Canadian Television,” I told him, “which in 1964 was amazingly different from its American cousin. General Motors, Canada, sponsored a series that resulted in a massive catalogue of mini-plays. “I had a vague notion what I was looking for; I’d heard, contrary to how things worked north of the border, that in order to sell a Hollywood script, one needed an agent. So I looked at each building on the boulevard for some sort of sign. On a cornerstone I spotted a small brass plaque that read, ‘The Jaffe Agency.’ So I mounted the stairs and went in. “A petite brown-haired young woman greeted me and asked my business. Did I have an appointment? No, but I’d be happy to make one. With whom? I hesitated, then mentioned the name emblazoned on the plaque. She explained that Mr. Jaffe was not signing new clients, if that was my purpose. Then, observing that I was a little out of breath, she asked would I like some water? I assured her that it was only because I’d walked and that my condition was temporary. Walked? Yes. I was staying at the Chateau Marmont, only half a block away. She said she knew the place. Still . . . walked? I asked about other agencies in the neighborhood. She mentioned a few, then graciously suggested that this particular firm engaged what were called ‘Junior Agents.’ I responded to the first name she mentioned: Peter Thomas. I’d see him. When? Well, I wasn’t doing anything at the moment. Right now would be okay. She said I didn’t understand. It would depend on whether Mr. Thomas was free. I asked, how would we know? She replied that she’d have to look at his schedule. She accomplished this by turning over large leafs in a ruled book with hard covers. At last she looked up brightly and announced that at the [End Page 63] moment Peter Thomas had no engagements. I remarked that this was fortuitous; I was also...