"All of Us Have Been as Wrong as We May Be Right Occasionally."

Wednesday morning, the rest of the known Universe and I woke up to the news of Norman Lear’s passing at age 101. It’s so Norman to have beaten the standard I’m gonna live to 100! goal.

Anyone who worked in film and television in any capacity over the last 50 years probably has at least one Norman Lear story. This is mine.

In the early 1990s, I worked as a freelance video editor in Hollywood. One of my steady gigs was editing corporate videos and commercials at a place called CCI on Santa Monica Boulevard. In those days—before you could edit a film on your laptop— there were lots of little post production houses with “offline” editors—like me—working on tape-to-tape systems in tiny windowless rooms. We’d output an EDL (edit decision list) that was then taken—along with the master tapes—to an “online” bay that looked like the bridge of the Starship Enterprise with a curved console and array of monitors. Here, the final film or video was auto-assembled and color corrected. Online—with its leather seating, dim lighting, and subdued gray tones—was where the big money was spent. This was usually the only room the executives ever saw, which was why online bays were fancy. Online editors made serious bank and got their names in the credits, but offline was where the creative decisions and structure happened.

It was through CCI that I got a job cutting roll-ins for a live award show that Norman Lear was producing. The awards were to be given to companies that were “doing well by doing good.” (This became a lifelong side focus for Norman, who truly believed a rising tide lifts all boats.)

The man whose production company was hired to produce the videos for this event had dingy offices in a high-rise on Wilshire. The walls had not been painted since tobacco use was widespread in the workplace; the base color of light pink had a brown patina of now-known carcinogens all over it. Because offline didn’t require client-pleasing aesthetics, people set up edit bays in all sorts of shitty rooms, including closets. This one was in a storage room: old office furniture and storage boxes had been shoved to one side to make room for the editing system.

I remember everything about the man who’d hired me: his hair, his face, his anxiety-fueled temper, his disgusting habit (which we’ll get to)—everything but his name.

As a freelancer, you never know what kind of landmine-strewn hellscape you’re walking into with each gig. This job sounded pleasant and easy—edit five or six short “packages” that explained how each company made the world a better place while turning a profit. There was a decent turnaround and a good day rate. The two big surprises not revealed in the hiring interview were that my client was a living nightmare and his client was Norman Lear.

Most producers—or at least the good ones—leave you alone to get to know the material and put a roughcut together. Not this guy. He parked his butt in a chair next to mine for every minute of every day. He watched the footage and watched me work with palpable anxiety. He commanded me where to cut by slightly raising himself from his seat, exclaiming “There!” while snapping his fingers in my face. (To this day, I have to very nicely ask people not to do this.)

You know how some people bite their nails when they’re anxious? This man took that habit to a new level: he scraped his thumbnails off laterally with his bottom teeth. He’d start at the base and scrape upwards, over and over until the nail bed bled. He’d stop only long enough to snap at each cut point.

I was shell shocked within a week.

This miserable job turned around completely—with a herald of angles—when Mr. Norman Lear walked in to watch the roughcuts for the first time.

The usual “client day” panic in anticipation of the arrival of the one paying the bills—the fussing over bagels and pastries and coffee—was off the charts in this place, maybe to make up for the grime. But Norman didn’t give a shit about any of these trivial preparations. He breezed right through this low rent office all pressed and impeccable—in one of his signature little hats—on a cloud of love and joy. He headed straight to the editing room and immediately zeroed in on the girl at the keyboard.

“You’ve got a great face!” he said to me. We were instant pals.

For the rest of the project, I took notes from Norman. The guy who’d hired me wasn’t even allowed in the room when Norman was there. He’d been banished with a casual, “We’ll take it from here,” dismissal that only someone of Norman’s stature can pull off without it looking like an insult.

Norman and I spent hours talking while making edits here and there. He wanted to know all about my childhood and told me a lot about his.

“I used to sit on the stairs, listening to my parents fight,” he said. “I kept score in a little notebook, like ‘Oh mom wins that round!’”

He said it’s how he survived. He wanted to know how I’d survived. Like I say, we talked a lot.

Toward the end of the project, he said, “I want to have you in my life and I want you to have a good life.” There was nothing “dirty old man” about this; it was genuine interest in me as a creative person. To have such a titan take a shine to me was touching and meaningful in a way few things had ever been. To use today’s parlance: I felt seen.

When I submitted my invoice at the end of the job, Norman asked specifically to see it.

He doubled the amount.

I bought my very first suit to go to a meeting at Norman Lear’s office, to meet his team. Sitting in the guest center position of the giant conference room table, all eyes were on me in my black linen Banana Republic stunner. They asked me what I wanted to do.

“I just want to work on good projects with good people,” I said.

This, I figured out later, was the wrong answer. They were looking for something like, “Well, I want to direct, of course, and I have three screenplays ready to go into production. Eventually, I’d like to head up my own company which will elevate women and people of color in the entertainment industry.” Specific. Aligned with their core values.

I missed it by a mile.

Despite this, I spent about a year in Norman’s orbit and became friends with a couple of his staffers. There were parties, events, meetings, and a few small projects. When I got the urge to get out of LA—eventually ending up in San Francisco—I fell out of that orbit.

Five years later, when things were not going well for me emotionally, I lined up a meeting with Norman. The excuse was to pitch a screenplay, but—frankly—I wanted to ask for his help. I had just turned 40 and needed to make some changes. I was tired of being a freelance editor doing commercials and video game stuff, which was what was happening in San Francisco at that time. The ”good projects with good people” thing hadn’t materialized. Even though I was making decent money, I felt stuck and unfulfilled.

My friend Matt and I drove down to LA and stayed at the historic Roosevelt Hotel, in my old neighborhood. Matt gave me a pep talk when he dropped me off for the meeting: “You’re gonna do great. You already know he likes you!”

As I sat in the Act Three reception area, waiting nervously for my appointment with Norman, I eavesdropped on the meeting ahead of me. Through the open door, I heard a confident young man exactly hit the “What do you want to do” points with well-rehearsed precision. Learn the ropes, become an executive, start a company. Norman was kind and encouraging and assured him that he’d make the right introductions to get this kid launched.

I was so hopeful. I was certain he would help me in the same way. This was my 30-minute chance to turn things around in my life.

His assistant lead me in and had me sit at one end of the long conference table. Norman was way at the other end.

“Hello,” he said. “What can I do for you?”

He had no idea who I was. I felt my confidence start to shatter. I tried to refresh his memory, recounting how we’d met, things we’d done together.

“Your face is somewhat familiar,” he said. “But I meet thousands of people every year.”

I’d been to his house. I’d played with his kids. Nope. Nada. Completely blank.

Just then his assistant popped her head in. “Larry’s on line one,” she said.

“Oh excuse me,” he said, “I have to take this.”

For the next 35 minutes, I witnessed a master class in how to reprimand one’s head gardener for allowing his gardening underlings to fuck something up. There was no yelling, there were no threats—just a steady recitation of offenses and costs incurred delivered in a tone which reminded the recipient exactly which side of the class divide he stood on.

It was excruciating to listen to.

I started to get up at one point—to give him some privacy—but he gestured for me to sit back down. “Oh good,” I thought. “He must be almost done.” He wasn’t.

As I sat there, my prepared speech vaporized. My ideas: gone. I could no longer remember why I was even there. I started spiraling down down down. When he finally hung up the phone, I burst into tears.

“Hey hey, what’s this all about?” he asked, genuinely concerned.

I don’t remember what I blubbered about but I guess I laid out that I thought we’d had a special bond and I was hoping he could help me and and and…

“When we worked on that Do Good project, you looked me in the eye and said you wanted me in your life and you wanted me to have a good life,” I sobbed.

“Well, that does sound like me,” he said with a laugh.

Soon we were both laughing—well, I was cry-laughing. But it was clear that whatever connection we’d once had was gone. It was awkward and heartbreaking.

I managed to pull it together enough to throw out a few ideas which fell completely flat. Then the assistant came in to let him know that his next meeting was waiting in the reception area. I’m sure that person heard my meeting as well as I’d heard the one before me. Humiliating.

At Norman’s request, I did send him a screenplay. It was a 1970s biker movie send-up called “The Mayor Wore Leather.” To my mind, I was sending it as a writing sample. It was misunderstood as a pitch, which was handed off to a reader. I found his rejection letter in my file cabinet this morning:

“All of us have been as wrong as we may be right occasionally.” The man had a way with words, no doubt about it. His words had the power to make you feel substantial, important. Even if he forgot about ever saying them.

Rest easy, Norman. Your memory will be a blessing.