How Getting Fired Over O.J. Simpson Taught Me Everything About Directing Under Pressure

It was 1994, and I was making $325 a week as an assistant at one of Hollywood's major talent agencies. Lots of making my boss lunch reservations at Chasen’s or The Grill, rolling call lists two hundred names deep... and sometimes watching the random stapler being hurled to get an assistant’s attention. I still get PTSD when I pass that old building on Wilshire Boulevard.

If you've never worked at a talent agency, think The Devil Wears Prada meets Succession vibes. The agency I worked for represented A-list movie stars, big TV clients, giant directors and writers. My boss had also been O.J. Simpson's agent for years.

Then June 17th happened. The White Bronco chase. The arrest. And I was about to learn the most valuable directing lesson of my career – though I didn't know it yet.

THE BOOKS THAT CHANGED EVERYTHING

When O.J. got arrested, he asked my boss for help getting books to read while incarcerated. Simple request, right? Wrong. Turns out, the L.A. County jail only accepted books in sealed boxes directly from publishers. No Amazon Prime in 1994.

My boss was heading overseas to shepherd  another actor client's directorial debut. Before leaving, he put me in charge of Operation: Get O.J. Books. "Go talk to the Lit department," he said. "They'll know what to do."

The literary agent's assistant – a friend of mine – came back looking like he'd been asked to handle plutonium. "We're not touching this," he said. But he slipped me a draft letter template they'd use if they were to send it.  “If we were going to send it, we’d say something like this. But we’re not sending it.” It referenced several agency clients with current bestsellers, big authors including Cormac McCarthy's "All the Pretty Horses." 

Then came the phone calls from overseas. Remember, this was 1994. International cell connections were like trying to communicate through two tin cans and a very long string. My boss kept calling: "What's going on with the books for O.J., Jeffrey?"

I explained the situation. The lit department wanted nothing to do with it. We had the draft of the letter but no one willing to send it.

"You send it," he said. "Just sign it as my assistant and fax it off."

I knew better. This agency made deals that could make or break careers. I'd never signed my boss's name to anything. But we were out of options, and my boss was giving me a direct order from halfway around the world.

So, I signed it: "Jeff Fisher, Assistant to [Boss's Name]" and faxed it to the publisher.

Then the stuff hit the fan.

S-T-O-O-P-I-D

A few days later, my boss was back in the office. I was rolling calls like any other morning when I saw the name of the Big Cheese at the agency’s name flashed on my phone display. The head of the entire agency was calling. 

His assistant – another friend – said these bone-chilling words: "I have [Big Cheese] calling for Jeff Fisher."  He was calling…for me?

My throat went dry. "Um. This is Jeff."

"Is this Jeff Fisher?" The Big Cheese's voice bellowed.

"Yes, sir."

"Can I ask you a question? Is it your personal mission to embarrass me and this agency?"

"Um. No, sir. It's not."

"Did you fax a letter to [Publisher] asking for books to be sent to O.J. Simpson in prison?"

"Um, yes sir."

"Do you know the definition of the word stupid? Because that's what you are: S-T-O-O-P-I-D. Stoopid! Now pack up your desk and get out."

Click.

THE LONGEST THREE HOURS OF MY LIFE

I was fired. How would I pay my $400 rent? Would I have to move back to Florida? (I really didn't want to move back to Florida.)

I walked into my boss's office where he was rolling calls with the other assistant. Let’s call her Alicia--after the lovable character in Clueless. I was convinced she was going to be President of the United States one day.

"Um, (Big Cheese) just called—and fired me," I told my boss.  Alicia gasped.

My boss stood up. "Stay where you are, Jeffrey."

For the next hour, while my boss talked to another one of the senior partners behind closed doors, I kept answering phones. Shelley Winters called, needed a hotel room at the Las Vegas Hilton. (My boss had lots of juice in Vegas).  I tried to sound normal, but I’m pretty sure I sounded like Peter Brady in that episode where his voice changes.

Word had spread among the assistants. I could barely focus on my Wang Word Processor as Alicia and I whispered worst-case scenarios back and forth over the cubicle.  Footnote: Alicia is killing it at life today, and still awesome.

My boss emerged with the other senior partner. "Stay right there, Jeffrey." They headed down the hall to the Big Cheese's office.

Another hour passed.  I was sure I was going to be kicked out of the Entertainment Industry. How would I pay off the credit cards I used to make my short film with no job? Florida loomed.

The phone rang again. It was my friend --The Big Cheese’s assistant.   He was calling for me. Again.

I croaked out "This is Jeff," this time, sounding more Kermit the Frog having an anxiety attack.

"(My boss) explained what happened," the Big Cheese said. "I'm sorry. We all make mistakes."

Wait. What? The Big Cheese just... apologized? To me?  No f*cking way.

I think I unclenched my sphincter muscle for the first time in three hours.

THE PLOT TWIST

Here's the detail I haven't mentioned yet: NEWSWEEK had gotten hold of that letter. The publisher had leaked it. They ran it – thumbnail-sized but visible – with a story implying the agency was helping O.J. get books about violent crimes. The McCarthy reference, meant only to establish our client relationships, had been completely misconstrued.

No wonder the Big Cheese was upset. I hadn't just made an internal mistake; I'd created a PR nightmare during the most watched criminal case in American history.

Later that year, when I left my boss’s desk so I could shoot my second short film, I ended up temping back at the agency. I actually temped for the Big Cheese.  I don’t know if he knew who I was, but he was very nice to me.

By the way:   O.J. did get his books.

WHAT THIS TAUGHT ME ABOUT DIRECTING

Film school teaches you about lenses and lighting. That day at the agency taught me some important lessons I really needed to know as a director.

When you're shooting a Christmas movie in July and the snow machine breaks down, when the producer tells you the budget just got cut by a third two weeks before production, when your lead actress is snowed in at O’Hare and she’s in every scene on the schedule– you breathe, realize there's always a solution, and you pivot. 

The entertainment industry's most insane moments become your most valuable lessons. That day taught me that in Hollywood, disaster is temporary, solutions exist even in impossible situations, and sometimes the people spelling out "S-T-O-O-P-I-D" make great stories decades later.

Most importantly, it taught me that when everything goes sideways, the key is not to panic.  Just get Shelley Winters the best suite the Las Vegas Hilton has available.

Have your own Hollywood survival story? I'd love to hear it. And if you're looking for guidance navigating this beautiful, chaotic industry, let's talk at ReelTalkWithJeff.com.

Jeff Fisher is a director and writer whose credits include Paramount Pictures’ “The Stranger in My Home” and “The Image of You,” Hallmark’s highest-rated film of the year “My Christmas Love,” and reality hits spanning from “The Simple Life” to “Keeping Up With The Kardashians.”  Visit www.reeltalkwithjeff.com for more industry insights.