Fuck ’Em
FUCK ’EM
It’s like changing deck chairs on the Titanic .
—SHEILA DAY, UPON GETTING AN OFFER TO WORK AT SYLVAN LIGHT
1985
It had been Jamie Garland who’d first suggested that Sheila come out of retirement. Jamie wanted Sheila badly, not only because she revered her, but also because Jamie had put all her eggs in the Sylvan Light basket, and now that Sam Lesser was under attack, she felt vulnerable. It was a selfish decision on her part so that she wouldn’t go down with the sinking ship. Sylvan Light was under attack from CAA, Morris, and Alliance, and they needed something, or, more specifically, someone, to change the narrative.
Jamie, believing that someone was Sheila Day, convinced the board that Sheila’s reemergence would be a game changer, a kind of proclamation to the industry and a checkmate to the Alliance Group.
Persuading Sylvan Light to hire Sheila had not been difficult.
Persuading Sheila to take the job was.
Sheila had been devastated after Alana left, and now she went back and forth as to whether she wanted to jump back in the pool—or, as she called it, the cesspool. Jamie Garland and Gil Amati had enlisted Sam Lesser in a campaign to convince her that this would be the cherry on top of her career.
“Everyone needs to reinvent,” Sam told her, convincing her that she’d been away enough time to create a sensation in her return.
“I promise you, Sheila,” Jamie had said, “this will be a second act like no one has ever seen.”
“More like a second coming,” Sheila said, as she took a deep breath and finally agreed. Stating that her terms were non-negotiable, she asked for an unprecedented five million dollars for five years, with a mutual option for five additional years at one million two hundred and fifty thousand dollars per year, increasing each year by an additional fifty-thousand-dollar bump, making the entire deal worth more than twelve million dollars. Additionally, she wanted the A stock, a car of her choosing, unlimited first-class travel, and the brass ring, a seat on the Sylvan Light board of directors.
The board was stupefied by the request; Jamie Garland, astounded.
“No one gets a seat on the board,” she told Sheila. “Not even Samuel Lesser, and the fact that a woman is asking, it’s too much.”
“Grow a pair,” Sheila told her. “They scare you into thinking you deserve less. And I’m not scared.”
There was only one thing that Sheila was afraid of, and that was failure. Once Alana had left, she knew it was only a matter of time before she would be the food in a feeding frenzy, pulled apart, while all her “friends” watched. The thought was paralyzing, which was why she’d retired. So, for her to go back into the ring, they had to offer enough security that she’d be set for life. She knew the score. Sylvan Light had become a dinosaur; a relic of the past with little old men standing on their pedestals holding the purse strings.
They wanted her, sure. They needed her, absolutely. But to get her, they were going to have to pay. The truth was, she’d retired before she’d made real money, the kind of crazy money that top agents were being paid now. So, this offer, while well timed, needed to be greased. And the Light board, who were in a bind, needed to dip their hands deep in the Crisco. They gave her the money she asked for, plus an optional five years with the bumps, and the autonomy to hire or fire any agent east or west. But they shot her down on the board seat.
So, she passed.
It was a standoff.
For months they considered other possibilities. Meanwhile, they were losing clients at an alarming rate and felt backed into a corner.
“Honeeeey,” Sheila said when Harvey Khan called her to plead his case. “I’m looking for a lifetime appointment,” she said. “Like the Supreme Court with dollar signs, and chicer robes.” But the board at the Light Agency, much like the board at William Morris, was a closed book. There were seven seats and they all belonged to men. No negotiation. “If Mr. Light were alive he’d die,” said Stu Lonshien, absolutely frustrated by the stalemate.
But Sheila Day wouldn’t give.
Finally, after months of waiting, the board had no choice but to grant her a seat with the caveat that it would not be effective until the beginning of the tenth year of her tenure. They reasoned that by that time, January 1995, she would have either proven herself or be long gone.
It was a tremendous victory on every level. A woman had broken through the glass ceiling and would be sitting next to the men on the Sylvan Light board of directors, making crucial decisions and loads of money, and while Sheila didn’t give a fuck about being a feminist, she did give a fuck about the money and the power that equality afforded.
Sheila Day was back in action.
Fuck ’em if they resented her ask. She would finally have a seat at the table.