During senior year, Kim and I often hung out at a trendy Long Island club called Xanadu. One weekend, a swimsuit dance contest was scheduled, and everybody urged me to compete. Julie’s older sister had a revealing black, high-cut, backless one-piece that I borrowed. I teased out my blonde hair, and one of my girlfriends put sparkly glitter on me.
I was scheduled to be the last “dancer,” which meant that all the other girls were standing onstage while I performed, which was nerve-racking—as was the presence of representatives from New York modeling agencies in the audience. All the other girls had great songs for dancing, but I had to perform to “Oh Mickey, You’re So Fine,” one of my least favorite songs of the era. The dance club was packed with hundreds of onlookers, and disco lights were flashing. Despite my concerns, I won! Afterward, a sea of people swarmed around me, congratulating me and handing me their cards. It was a huge confidence booster, and it made me feel that there was nothing I couldn’t do. Except, maybe, smoke pot.
I was rarely included in family outings, so the day that Dad and his second wife invited me to a party, I was thrilled. The guests mostly consisted of their middle-aged friends who worked with them at the airport, and, frankly, the party was boring until I struck up a conversation with another teenager. He suggested we go outside, as it was a nice summer night. The host of the party and his friend were outside, too—smoking a joint. The kid I was with asked for a hit. He took a huge drag, and then passed it to me. I’d never gotten high before, but I took a few drags; unlike Bill Clinton, I inhaled.
When I went back inside, I started feeling weird, like everybody was looking at me. I ran into the bathroom and looked into the mirror: the pot was distorting my image. I started having a panic attack, my heart began pounding, my hands felt numb, and I thought I was dying. I ran out to my dad and shrieked that I had to go the hospital.
“What did you take?” he demanded. When I confessed to smoking a joint, his face turned pink, then red, then purple. “Who gave it to you?!” he barked. I pointed across the room to the host of the party. Dad stomped over in a rage and punched him. The host fell to the ground, out cold. No one said a word on the ride home. We never spoke about it again. And I haven’t smoked pot since that day.
After high school, I enrolled at Nassau Community College and started taking fashion-merchandising courses. My sister Lisa worked in fashion, and I’d gone with her on several buying trips to L.A. I soon discovered that I liked buying and wearing clothes more than I liked making them—so the next quarter, I changed my class lineup and focused exclusively on acting.
For the next two years, I performed in production after production—musicals, dramas, and comedies—Jesus Christ Superstar and The Best Little Whorehouse in Texas being two of my favorites. Finally, I was fulfilling my dream of acting. Whenever I performed, Mom was always there in the front row, still yelling out “Yay!” every time I spoke a line, just like she had when I was a kid.
By that point, I was tired of funding my studies by carrying a tray. Seeing an ad that a well-known airline was holding a cattle call for flight attendants, I turned up at the hotel. A line of about a thousand females snaked out the door. Every applicant had to get on a scale and be weighed—many were disqualified by their weight alone.
Luckily, back then I was skinny, so I made the first cut. I also passed the mandatory Myers-Briggs personality test, and little by little worked my way up in the small groups, where we responded to simulated emergencies and practiced how to handle irate customers. As we “acted” out our roles, we were observed by judges to see how we would handle ourselves under pressure. My acting skills came in handy. After each activity, a portion of the group would get voted off the island, so to speak, and be sent home.
With each new round, the remaining competitors were introduced to airline executives of increasing rank. I made it to the final round, and a week later, I received a letter. “Congratulations!” it read. “You have been selected to be part of our team.” I was one of the youngest girls selected, another major boost to my self-esteem.
Just as I thought I was about to begin my career as a flight attendant, I discovered that the reason the airline was hiring so many new employees was that all their flight attendants had gone on strike! If I took the job, I’d be crossing the picket lines and would be a scab. That didn’t feel right to me. It was a job that would have given me the opportunity to travel far and wide, but I followed my conscience and turned down the offer.
I ended up working at the airport after all. After I graduated, Dad told me about an opening with Wells Fargo, a security-guard company, where he worked as a consultant selling guard services, as well as in the office helping with payroll. I aced the interview, and was hired as a consultant to help with payroll, too. Initially, Dad’s good friend was managing the office, but shortly after I started, he suddenly left, and no one knew why. His replacement, we later discovered, was operating a con game. Years later, after I’d moved to California, Dad called to tell me that Wells Fargo was under investigation for overcharging the airlines.
The new manager had put his mother in charge of payroll, and they had scammed the company for years—to the tune of many millions of dollars. Since the airlines are federally regulated, the case went before the grand jury; I had to fly back to testify in New York during a particularly freezing February, reminding me why I so loved California. My dad was also under investigation, since when I worked in payroll, I signed time sheets with the initials D.M., which could have stood for either Dianne Minerva or my dad, Dominick Minerva. It was a major brouhaha, and all for a summer job! I’d had no idea about the scam, and the truth came out in the end; both Dad and I were cleared.
That summer I worked two jobs, the second being at American Transair. For an airport job, you have to be on the ball, dealing with many anxious, sleep-deprived people. I traveled a lot, and had fun checking people in and making announcements at the gate. With international flights, I verified the manifest and went into the cockpit. The pilots often flirted me up, and they invited me to ride with them in the cockpit whenever the plane changed gates, which I found thrilling, at least for the first three or four rides.
In the fall, I enrolled at Herbert Bergoff Studios in Greenwich Village, alma mater for such big-name performers as Faye Dunaway, Al Pacino, Matthew Broderick, Sigourney Weaver, Billy Crystal, and dozens more. I took acting classes four nights a week until 11 P.M., and also dabbled in jazz, tap, and ballet; I felt confident in my abilities, except don’t ask me to sing. I was spending more and more time in the city: before class, I went to other students’ apartments in Manhattan to run through lines for our plays. Even though their places were often small, windowless, and/or dilapidated, they struck me as arty and bohemian, and more than ever I wanted to jet out of Long Island. I took on another job as a receptionist at a racquetball club, hoping to save money to make the move. Instead it led me into car sales.
While working at the gym, I met Stewart, who hired me away to work at his business-management office. The pay was far better, but the work was a snore. Thankfully, two weeks into it, a client walked in and asked, “What’s a beautiful girl like you doing in a boring office like this?”
The next day I was working at his Lincoln dealership, selling warranties for cars in the F&I (finance and insurance) department. I later moved on to Wantagh Mitsubishi and Smithtown Mitsubishi, continuing a successful sales streak. Frequently winning “Salesperson of the Month” awards—handsome plaques—I was living comfortably and independently for the first time in my life. I had the car I wanted, the clothes I wanted, and a nice apartment in upscale Woodbury. While my material needs were met, selling car warranties on Long Island was a dead end for somebody with dreams of being an actress.
Oddly enough, my vehicle to the glamorous avenue of entertainment was a pudgy, balding man named Don, who didn’t suffer from a shortage of pluck. One night when I was leaving a fellow actor’s apartment, Don, a total stranger, walked right up to me on Broadwa
y, claiming that he was developing a TV travel show and needed a hostess. “Are you a model?” he asked, overlooking the fact that at 5'2", I wasn’t exactly the long-legged runway sort. “Or do you just look like one?”
I told Don I had a boyfriend—by then I was living with Jake, a manager at a TGI Fridays on Long Island—and wasn’t interested in him in “that way,” but I was indeed interested in hearing more about his show. It turned out he was actually well connected in the entertainment business.
Don and I began pitching the travel show all over town, and even took a trip to Florida to meet his wealthy friends, with the goal of raising seed money to produce a pilot episode. One night he took me to Benihana, the popular Japanese steakhouse. Don was pals with the restaurant’s founder, Rocky Aoki, a round-faced, middle-aged man who had us howling with laughter at his tales. He wasn’t interested in backing Don’s travel show, but from then on we were Benihana VIPs, sipping Mai Tais and Blue Tsunami Punch Bowls at Rocky’s table throughout the night. He invited us to a party at his sprawling mansion in Englewood, New Jersey, next to Eddie Murphy’s $30 million house, and asked me to stay the night and ride in his hot-air balloon the next morning. I politely declined, but admired his bravado.
One June night, Don took me to the industry premiere of The Untouchables, followed by Paramount Pictures’ 75th Anniversary Party in an old movie studio. We spent the evening schmoozing and hobnobbing, introducing ourselves to celebs—Robert De Niro, Sean Penn, Kevin Costner, and Tom Cruise, among them. Finally, I’d found my social milieu; alas, it was only for one night. Nevertheless, that evening affirmed that if I got myself into the right place at the right time and met the right people, big things could happen.
Don helped me define a dream—being part of a traveling TV show—and he taught me that sheer audacity could get you in the door. Unfortunately, my boyfriend, Jake, couldn’t cope with my business friendship with Don, and demanded that I cut off contact. Looking back at it, I should have cut it off with Jake. Everyone knew that we were mismatched. Whenever Jake called me at the Lincoln Mercury dealership, the old-timers delighted in paging me over the intercom: “Dianne, ‘ball and chain’ on line three …”
In April 1989, my friend Donna called with a lead that ultimately allowed me to bridge the gap between my dreams and what I’d been doing. Donna grew up around the corner, on Candy Lane, but she’d moved to California, where she worked in the Hollywood office of Faces International, an agency that published a slick monthly magazine that “marketed” actors to the entertainment industry. Hearing of a talent-consultant position in the Manhattan office of Faces, Donna thought of me.
After setting up my interview, I phoned Mom to tell her the news. She was elated, and insisted on accompanying me. We’d make a day of it in the city. I assembled a portfolio highlighting my background in acting and dancing, and promoting my solid track record in sales. Before dropping off to sleep that night, I wrote in my journal.
April 9, 1989
Out of the blue, I’ve been offered a chance, a big chance, for a position that could jettison me onto a better career path and into exciting new worlds. Manhattan, entertainment, sales … I’m perfect for this job! The brass ring is there for the taking, and I’m grabbing it! I’m crossing my fingers that tomorrow I will be able to write “Hello, Faces! Goodbye, car sales!”
For the interview, I dressed in a stylish suit—black, form-fitting, and with suede lapels. Mom and I sat in the waiting room, flipping through copies of a magazine called Faces; inside were pages and pages of actors and models.
“Good luck!” whispered Mom as I was escorted out of the waiting room and into a corner office to meet with Ellen, the director of talent.
She was a warm, lovely woman in her 50s who had a slight edge. I liked her the minute we met. I must have impressed Ellen, too, because at the end of the half-hour interview, she put down her pen, and looked me directly in the eyes. “So Dianne, when can you start?”
I was ecstatic; my mother was more so. To celebrate, I took her to dinner at La Côte Basque, an elegant French restaurant on the Upper East Side. As we clinked our glasses of champagne, Mom looked at me, beaming.
“Here’s to your new job,” she said. “This is definitely a foot in the entertainment door!” She had that same wistful look in her eyes she used to get whenever she told me about Joe Valentine, the cousin who almost helped launch her career before dying.
“Dianne, you’ve got such talent. And I’m so happy you’re doing something with it.” She squeezed my hand. “Honey, I have a feeling this is going to lead to something incredible!”
Mom was right. My new position at Faces proved to be the first step on a journey that took me to the edges of the world. And it had everything to do with the company vice president, Mark Burnett.
Chapter Four
AN ENGLISHMAN IN NEW YORK
Absence lessens half-hearted passions, and increases great ones,
as the wind puts out candles and yet stirs up the fire.
—Duc de La Rochefoucauld
I STEPPED INTO THE elevator, zipped up 15 floors to the penthouse, and pushed through the glass doors with the name Faces International etched across them. It was two months into my new job—my first in Manhattan—and I loved the position, which combined entertainment, sales, marketing, and publishing.
“Dianne Minerva, Talent Consultant” had a great ring to it. Certainly a leap up the showbiz ladder from “Dianne Minerva, Mitsubishi Warranty Salesperson of the Month.”
“Good morning, Dianne,” greeted the receptionist in her singsong voice. “By the way, the vice president is coming in today.”
Off to the right was the waiting area, where large photos of actors hung on the walls, and only one magazine was fanned across the tables: Faces. The glossy magazine—that month featuring Jodie Foster on the cover—lived up to its name: page after page showed faces of hopeful actors and actresses, some displayed in head shots slightly bigger than a stamp, others splashed across full-page color spreads showcasing the talent in several poses, artfully arranged around their bios. The most prestigious spot in Faces was the “Publisher’s Page,” with several actors hand-picked by George Goldberg, founder, publisher and president, who worked out of the Hollywood office.
My job was to “discover” the talent—and then help market them by selling ads in the monthly magazine, which landed on the desks of thousands of casting directors, advertising firms, and talent agents. Faces International bridged the gap between hope and career. Dozens of staff members worked the phones, trying to connect clients with casting agencies. There were never guarantees in this business, but the magazine gave “hopefuls” exposure and a publicity tool.
That day, I darted into the snack room to grab a cup of tea, nearly colliding with my colleague Wendy as she swung around the corner, chatting with another talent consultant about the vice president. The phone was ringing as I walked into my office. My boss, Ellen, was on the line.
“Have time for a chat?” she asked.
She was talking on the phone when I got to her expansive corner office, so she gestured for me to sit in one of the leather chairs in front of her desk. Looking down over Fifth Avenue, with the taxis below looking like a thickly-coiled yellow snake, I recalled the first time I’d sat in this chair for my interview. I’d come to like Ellen even more since that day; she had eyes you could trust, and an ability to size people up quickly.
“I wanted to give you a heads up,” she said, clicking off and swinging her chair toward me. “The vice president is flying in from L.A.”
“So I heard.” I’d also heard the vice president was George Goldberg’s son-in-law—married to his stepdaughter, Kym, who also worked in the Hollywood office.
Ellen sighed. “Mark is a former paratrooper. A macho man. Aggressive in his tactics is putting it mildly.” She intimated that he was manipulative and dramatic, and nearly bludgeoned clients into sales.
I knew the type. They’d have potential buyers
’ heads spinning so fast that they’d sign on the dotted line just to make the salesperson shut up. “Putting them under ether” is what they called it when I worked in car sales.
Ellen warned that he might want to oversee some meetings. “What do you have scheduled for today?”
I reminded her that one of my clients, Scott, was coming in that evening. I’d shown her his portfolio; like me, she thought he had star quality.
“Want me to sit in on that meeting, Dianne?”
“Sure.” Ellen was a pro—and we shared the philosophy that people should be happy with the investment they made in Faces.
Just as I was leaving for lunch that afternoon, the vice president stepped out of Wendy’s office. Clad in a designer suit, he was tall and dark-haired, and he had a nice smile. A Cartier watch was wrapped around his wrist; his shoes were polished to a high gleam. He was good-looking, but not overly so. I introduced myself, shook his hand, and we exchanged pleasantries, before I proceeded to lunch. That was the vice president who everybody was obsessing about? Whatever. But, I had to admit, his British accent sure was cute.
Throughout the afternoon, I met with prospective clients, interviewing them about their experience and goals, reviewing their portfolios, taking headshots, and auditioning them as they read lines for a commercial or performed a monologue. Many didn’t make the cut. But if they had potential, I offered them a spot in the magazine. I took the job seriously, and strived to be the best at what I did. Often, I was able to encourage clients to go from the placement of a small ad and headshot to a full-page spread, which gave them better exposure, and gave me a better commission. Helped to put their best foot forward, they left my office feeling great about themselves. It was a win-win situation for everyone.
The Road to Reality Page 6