I was no more than 10 when I first laid eyes on the City of Angels. My father was there on business and we stayed with an uncle who lived in the hills above Hollywood. On our third night, after everyone was asleep, I made my way outside with the intention of exploring the dense woods that surrounded the house.
I remember the ground was covered with fog so thick I could barely see my feet. It did not take long for me to lose my way. And that was when I heard it, a deep growl just a few paces to my right. There was a figure there, dressed in a suit, and his eyes were wild, like an animal. Worst of all, he was feeding on the broken body of a beautiful young woman.
Our eyes met and as he rose to his full height, I feared that night would be my last. But the man merely took a swipe at me before disappearing into the dark. Sadly, that swipe was more than enough to seal my fate. His nails had broken skin.
And that, gentle readers, is how I became infected with the curse.
I would later learn the man in the suit was one of the biggest agents in town and the poor woman he devoured was a client at a rival company. She died that night. And I was born.
As I grew into manhood, I was overcome with the desire to earn 10 percent of other people’s income. So I went to business school, received my degree, and moved back to the city that claimed to have angels but did not. A few interviews later, I found myself in the training program at one of the largest agencies in town. The rest is history.
Some say my curse resembles that of the werewolf, a doomed soul who changes into a beast when the moon is full. But we are different. A werewolf transforms every lunar cycle. An agent only turns into a bloodthirsty monster once a year.
You see, the encounter my 10-year-old self had in those hills took place during January, the month that marks the start of pilot season. It also signals the beginning of my horrible change, a change that lasts three months, right up to the time when the final pilot is cast.
Yes, agents have the predatory instincts of a shark every day of the year, but the pressures of pilot season make us worse than you can possibly imagine. We will do anything to gain an edge. And if blood must be spilled, so be it.
Pilot season brings out the worst in us. We know every single audition might lead to the birth of a career, and with that birth comes great rewards. If pilot season had a scent, it would smell like money.
The holiday season is close. There will be parties and drinking and cheer. But those good feelings will fade a few days after Christmas. And when I return to work in January, my skin will begin to itch. The vein in my neck will throb. Pilot season will arrive.
And I will turn.
Again.
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