A Hollywood role player
DAMU BOBB drives to work along Olympic Boulevard in a perfectly respectable ’97 silver Toyota Celica. It has dual anti-lock brakes and both driver and passenger air bags. In other words, not a sexy vehicle for an agent. He will be the first to admit this.
It’s certainly a far cry from the row of hot-looking sports coupes he sees every morning when driving past the Mercedes-Benz dealership in Beverly Hills. “It’s only a matter of a few years,” he says with confidence. He’s only 27, after all.
He chugs a Red Bull while traffic stalls. “I live on this stuff,” he says with relish. “This morning, I woke up and drank one in the shower.”
If he looks a little bleary-eyed, it’s because he was partying at the Playboy Mansion until 3 that morning. He casually tosses this information out in a way that would make your average Joe want to either punch him or be him. However, he’s been to the mansion before, and last night was for a client’s sake.
“Of course, it would be nice to go home after work and watch TV.” He delivers this at a shout since moments before, he decided to turn up the stereo to crazy loud. “But it’s not about me.”
“The Final Song” from Jay-Z’s “Black Album” thumps out of the stereo. Bobb raps cleanly along. He refers to it as his “fight song.” It seems like he replays it a dozen more times before pulling into I.D. Talent Agency’s parking garage.
I.D. is one of the many boutique agencies in Greater Los Angeles. Its address isn’t a fancy one. The neighborhood is adorned by a Jack in the Box, a gas station and a strip mall. Bobb rides up to the second floor in an elevator that is a little worrisome in appearance. He reaches the agency’s suite. The decor and the furniture appear to have seen better days in the ‘80s. It makes an odd contrast with the expensive-looking computers. Bobb hurries through reception, even though the clock reads just before 8:30. Three other employee are already in. There are eight total. He calls out “Good mornings” as he trots back toward the end of the hallway.
Bobb’s office is the last one. It has no window, so even though it is decent in size, it seems suffocating. He shares the space with two others -- Erik DeSando, the head of the agency, and another agent in Bobb’s department. For now, he has it to himself. His desk is sandwiched between the others. He sits and listens to voicemails and at the same time reads and deletes e-mails. Bobb prints out the morning’s breakdowns, which he explains are a paid service used by agents and managers that provide an easy-to-read synopsis of roles being cast for film and TV projects. They list the name of the casting director attached to each project and, in most cases, the producer, writer and director.
He looks for any roles that he can send his clients in on as well as the names of casting directors or producers that he knows and can call up easily. Meanwhile, the phones have started to ring in the other offices throughout the suite, and most of the other employees have arrived, including Erik and his other office mate. He briefly exchanges pleasantries with the two and then picks up the phone and spends a good deal of time pitching his clients to casting directors. During one call, he refers to his client as “the next Ryan Seacrest.” He uses the “the next so-and-so” catchphrase often.
Judging by the head shots resting along the shelves, many of his female clients are beautiful, although none of them have yet “popped,” or broken though the wall of anonymity. Among them is a Latina actress who has appeared in movies such as “Boat Trip” and “Rush Hour 2.” On the male side, Bobb recently signed daytime TV actor Peter Rekell, better known as Bo Brady from “Days of Our Lives.”
Some of his clients are former reality-show contestants from series such as “Joe Millionaire,” “Big Brother,” “The Bachelorette” and “The Real World.” The most notable contestant being Sarah Kozer, a contestant on the first “Joe Millionaire” who went on into infamy after a past participation in a foot-fetish video was revealed. When asked why he would represent reality-show contestants, who are still considered a passing novelty, Bobb demurs, “Why not?” He stresses on about how he doesn’t want clients from just one type of background and one type of ethnicity. The word “diversity” is mentioned often, and his clients -- which include Asians, Latinos, African Americans and Caucasians -- reflect a wide mix.
It’s past 11 a.m. Bobb pops a tape into the VCR and sits down. “This is a reel sent in by a local newswoman.” He studies it. “She’s pretty but stiff.” He pops the tape back out and places it with other tapes that he says are to be considered. They aren’t shoo-ins but might become contenders should the person do the necessary adjustments, ranging from fixing teeth to taking hosting or acting classes. In the newswoman’s case, he figures that some hosting classes might loosen her up. He points to a table where there are stacks of to-be-played submissions, waiting to be assessed.
After viewing, the submissions fall into one of three categories: considers, call-ins (which he calls in to take a face-to-face meeting) and the rejects. The latter cassettes go into a plastic mail bin actually labeled “reject,” from which they are sent back if originally submitted with a self-addressed stamped envelope. Bobb admits that he doesn’t like this part. “At heart, I’m a people pleaser. I like seeing people happy,” he acknowledges. Nonetheless, the reject bin is full.
Another one signed
He motors through reel after reel until the receptionist buzzes. A client-to-be has come to see him. Bobb tells the receptionist to send him back, and moments later, a handsome, black 20-something male strides into the room. Bobb pounds him on the back and inquires about his recent trip. While the client-to-be talks, Bobb retrieves a contract from the top of his desk and gives it to him to sign. The client-to-be signs it, no questions asked. Officially, he is Bobb’s newest client. Promptly, Bobb invites his client to a birthday party of an NBA player that evening, and then walks him out.
It being nearly 2 p.m., Bobb has to be reminded to eat. He along with Alex break for pizza at a hole-in-the-wall at the nearby strip mall. The grease-covered slices arrive at their table, and the two go to work at patting them down with napkins. Suddenly, Bobb seems starving. He wolfs the slice down in three bites and, still chewing, looks at his watch. “We’ve got to head back,” he announces to Alex. They leave. Lunch has lasted all of 15 minutes.
Bobb runs into his 2 o’clock waiting in the reception area, a striking brunet actress he wants to sign and her manager. He apologizes and ushers them back into his office. The appointment is mainly just a “meet and greet.” Bobb lets the manager know how much he’s been looking forward to meeting her, and she returns the sentiment. Their exchange seems trite and everyday, until they speak of their mutual object of interest, the actress, which they both speak of in glowing terms -- it’s as if she’s not in the room. The actress, though, doesn’t appear to mind. She beams when she hears Bobb calling her beautiful. Eventually, Bobb will sign her, just not on this day. Instead, that day Bobb is treated to a glimpse of the actress’ Chinese character tattoo on the small of her back that means “inspiration.”
After they’ve left, Bobb stations himself by the water cooler and consumes an alarming amount. “The thing you’ve got to watch about Red Bull is that you’re thirsty all the time and you’re always going to the bathroom,” he says. Then he grabs the key and goes to the bathroom.
At 3 p.m. he heads into a meeting with a writing-producing duo for reality television. They’re two guys in their late 20s, both preppy and mild in appearance. Bobb socks one of them in the arm. “How are you, man?” Bobb just saw the guy the other night at a premiere after party. He listens to the duo pitch two new series.
Later, Bobb runs into Michelle, an agent’s assistant, on his way back to his office. She appears anxious and wants to know if Bobb called the producer that he said he would. He hasn’t. Now, he’s about to go into another meeting. She asks him, nicely but with obvious stress, to get the producer on the phone before he goes into that meeting.
On the phone, he looks at his watch. “I’ve got another meeting in five minutes.” For the first time, he is starting to sound worn. The good news is that the producer answers the phone. Fifteen minutes later, Bobb has a fax in his hands from the producer, which he hands off to Michelle, who smiles prettily and thanks him. “Any time, sweetie,” he responds.
He goes into his office to inform Alex, who has been waiting impatiently, that their meeting can start. Alex seems annoyed and buzzes the receptionist. Soon, two producers in their late 40s dressed like golf caddies enter the room. Bobb and Alex rise to greet them. Erik strides into the room, all gangbusters, presumably to spearhead the meeting. Bobb sits in on this one quietly.
It’s almost 7 p.m. and it’s bluish black outside the windows of the other offices. Half the people have left. Erik has gone out for drinks and schmoozing. Alex is still in the room, dabbling at his computer. The phones have silenced but for a few calls. Bobb appears subdued but not beaten. He arranges his desk just so, turns on his voicemail, and gathers his jacket and car keys.
As he heads for the parking garage, he announces, “If I drink one more Red Bull, my heart will explode.” On his way to the birthday party, he makes a pit stop at the 7-Eleven and buys two more cans.
Several months later, the I.D. Talent Agency has moved to a new address in West Hollywood. It’s a “trial marriage” of sorts with another boutique agency. The new facilities are not posh but definitely an upgrade. Everything looks newer, like some money has been spent. Bobb works alongside twice as many people as he did before. They fall in a younger age demographic, the sort who might know which bands are playing at the Wiltern or El Rey on any given night.
His own space
Bobb’s new office is small, but it has a window. In fact, a large window with a view of Ryan Seacrest’s giant mug gracing a billboard on Hollywood Boulevard. And he no longer has to share a space with his boss, who has a corner office to himself and has developed an affinity for ties and dress shirts. The agent with whom he used to share an office is gone. Here one day, fired the next.
“I’ve signed over 12 new clients.” He ticks their names off, showing their head shots like a proud father. He opens a drawer, exposing his private stash of Red Bull, and drinks one. A chrome CD player rests on a shelf behind him. He hits its “play” button. Jay-Z’s “The Final Song” reverberates explosively. Clearly, he can’t get enough, but he quickly lowers the volume and rewinds to replay the introduction, which contains a sample of the late Biggie Smalls:
“I’m just trying to stay above water, stay busy, stay working ... the key to staying on top of things, is to treat everything like it’s your first project, like it’s your first day ... and just stay humble.”
Bobb repeats it perfectly.
“That’s what I feel like,” he explains, then abruptly buries himself in a spread of print shots taken of a film actress he’s been trying to sign.
“Isn’t she hot?” He points to her picture and brings the Red Bull toward his mouth. For a second, he looks as if he’s making a toast. He’s probably not, but one can imagine it would be something like this:
Attention, everyone, please raise your Red Bull. Here’s to staying above water.