West of Beverly Boulevard stood a towering fortress of glass and steel.
This was the headquarters of Creative Artists Agency—the most ruthless talent shop in Hollywood.
Rivals just called it the Death Star.
Aaron reported for duty.
They assigned him to the desk of Paula Wagner.
At forty-two, Paula was the most lethal female agent in the business.
Her trump card was the biggest movie star on the planet: Tom Cruise.
She discovered him in the early eighties, strapped herself to the rocket of Top Gun, and steered his career with absolute, unstoppable momentum.
“Nineteen, and you survived six months in the mailroom without crying.” Paula kept her eyes on the trade papers spread across her desk.
“Congratulations, Anderson.
You’re an assistant.
Sign a client, and you become a real agent.”
CAA projected the illusion of a flat corporate structure, but the invisible hierarchy was ironclad.
Aaron technically held an agent’s license.
He knew the difference between holding a title and wielding actual power.
Without a roster of his own, he was an agent in name only.
The mailroom had been purgatory.
He pushed carts and sorted envelopes.
Now that he had survived the hazing, he was officially cleared to hunt.
Paula tossed a thick file into her outbox.
“Don’t knock the hustle.
Ovitz and Meyer?
They started in the William Morris mailroom.
Geffen, Diller, Katzenberg—they all started out sorting envelopes.”
“I know the playbook, Paula.” Aaron held her gaze.
William Morris had run the board for fifty years, but CAA was the new muscle.
When Michael Ovitz and Ron Meyer walked out in the seventies, they built the agency on the “package.” They bundled a writer, director, and star, then forced the studios to pay a premium for the whole group.
The industry called it a revolution.
To a former underground operator like Aaron, it was just a beautifully legalized extortion racket.
Paula checked her watch.
“Good.
Since you know your history, run down to the commissary and get me two cappuccinos.”
So much for the glamour of the desk.
He didn’t review scripts.
He didn’t negotiate points.
He fetched coffee.
Aaron gave a curt nod.
He pivoted and walked out.
Moments later, Tom Cruise breezed into the CAA bullpen.
He flashed a million-dollar smile at the receptionists and slipped into Paula’s office.
Aaron returned with the coffee.
He stepped quietly into the room just as they got down to business.
Paula leaned back in her chair.
“The trades are eating up Rain Man.”
The film had been in theaters for barely two weeks and was already crushing the twenty-million-dollar mark.
“You and Dustin are locked for the awards circuit.” She paused and checked a notepad.
“Any hiccups on Born on the Fourth?”
Tom shook his head.
“Smooth sailing.
Oliver’s got us wrapping soon.”
“Good.
Now, on to Tony Scott’s Days of Thunder.” Paula pivoted to the next revenue stream.
“Simpson and Bruckheimer are eyeing a summer start.
Paramount just gave us the greenlight.
Sixty million.”
Sixty million was astronomical.
It sat just shy of Stallone’s Rambo III, the most expensive picture ever shot.
Paula tapped her pen against the desk.
“Rain Man and Born on the Fourth give you the prestige you want.
But we need commercial hits like Thunder.
The town runs on box office receipts, Tom.”
“I know the game, Paula.”
Cruise didn’t mind blockbusters.
But ever since Top Gun, he hunted for a trophy.
He wanted an Oscar.
Aaron set the cappuccinos on the desk.
He stole a brief glance at Cruise and backed out of the room.
He walked down the hall.
The kid had raw, weaponized charisma.
Even a peak Leonardo DiCaprio wouldn’t have been able to hold a candle to him in a room.
Aaron ducked into the bullpen next door.
He found Jack Wells, another newly minted assistant, buried under a towering stack of manila envelopes.
Aaron leaned against the doorframe.
“Are these all scripts?”
Jack rubbed his tired eyes.
“Hundreds of them a month.
CAA isn’t an agency anymore, man.
It’s a factory.”
Aaron picked up a script.
He flipped through the title page.
“It’s the package deal.
Writers, directors, stars.
We own the whole assembly line.”
He tossed the script back onto the desk.
CAA wasn’t just fielding offers anymore.
They manufactured the movie before a studio head even saw it.
They monopolized the talent and dictated the terms.
They turned the studios into nothing more than a bank.
Aaron traced the edge of the script.
“But everything starts with this.”
Rain Man had been the ultimate proof of concept.
CAA hadn’t just staffed that picture; they engineered it from the ground up.
By bundling the talent in one airtight deal, the agency bled millions out of the budget before the cameras even rolled.
Jack groaned.
He let his head drop onto his desk.
“We need to hit the streets—comedy clubs, college theaters, anywhere.
If we don’t find fresh talent to sign, we’re going to be fetching coffee until we’re thirty.”
Aaron dropped the script back onto the pile.
“Let’s sort through the slush pile first.”
Unlike Jack, he didn’t mind the grunt work.
Not when he had a head full of future box office hits.
He hadn’t been handed a second life just to be a glorified barista.
He knew exactly what was going to hit big over the next decade.
He just had to find the right lottery ticket in this pile of paper and cash it in.
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Thank you so much for reading!
Peace out,
Lucent