Because the people at Travelodge want to do whatever they can to make sure you enjoy your stay.” Salzman frowns. “In the unlikely event that there’s something wrong with your room at Travelodge,” says Haven, “tell us, and we’ll make it right. “That’s good,” says Salzman, and Haven moves on to a script for Travelodge. And, who knows, I might even get something for somebody else.” Yep, this year I’m getting all my presents at Famous-Barr. And the best news is, Famous’ll wrap everything for me.
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Or a Braun Espresso/Cappuccino maker, plus a free frothing pitcher, for only $99. An Oster Kitchen Center for only $199.99. At Famous, I get a Tefal Juice Master for just $79. Know what I mean? That’s why, this year, I’m shopping at Famous-Barr. “No matter how good you wrap presents, soap-on-a-rope is still soap-on-a-rope,” he intones, reading from a sheet of fax paper. Chastened, Haven puts on a pair of earphones and proceeds. “That’s Oh-ster, not Ah-ster,” says Stephanie. Stephanie Salzman, a Jefferson assistant, helps Haven rehearse the first bit, a holiday spot for the Famous-Barr Company, a department store chain based in Saint Louis. At an age when many of his peers have established careers and are putting down roots, Haven is downing teriyaki-flavored Hamburger Helper hoping to become the next William Hurt.Īfter meeting with Saucier, Haven walks a few steps to a soundproof room, where he’ll record an audition tape for two radio voice-over roles. Then, too, the on-camera work’s his best shot at becoming a star. He prides himself on the theater company he and some friends have formed, Eclipse, and he doesn’t hold a day job, so commercial and film work is his sole source of income he can’t be too condemning. “You’re not acting, you’re modeling,” he says. This is a competitive business, and you don’t stay in it long unless you have chops, or balls.” “Constantly an actor has to go back to that place that says ‘I trust my talent,’ get filled up, and go on again. “It’s hard being an actor, to get rejected, rejected, and rejected again,” says agent Elizabeth Geddes. In part their prospects depend on people like Saucier, who dish out advice, arrange auditions, tout people’s talents, and try to get them the best possible rates.
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They’re engaged in an endless, crazy hustle to make a living–and perhaps someday land their names on a movie marquee or in the over-the-title credits of a sitcom. There are hundreds of Scott Havens in Chicago, actors who aren’t quite obscure yet are far from famous. Unsnapping his briefcase, Haven writes Saucier a check for the agent’s cut of the fee–the standard 10 percent–and hands it across the desk. He just got paid $3,810 for a Hamburger Helper commercial he filmed three months ago, playing a young dad as he often does, and he’s flying high. “I had a pair once, but they got stuck back behind my eyeballs,” says Haven. “Do you ever wear contacts?” Saucier asks, cocking a critical eye at Haven’s glasses. A strap around the back of his neck is supposed to keep his clunky horn-rimmed glasses in place during lay-ups. He’s wearing a San Francisco Giants hat, sweatpants, a purple muscle shirt, and an off-white starter jacket–an outfit geared to an audition he’s having soon for a part in a commercial as a basketball player. A 31-year-old with a name like some old matinee idol, Haven stands six-foot-two and has a mane of reddish blond hair. “Hey, Chuck,” says a voice, and before Saucier can look up one of his actors, Scott Haven, is sitting in the chair before him. In a few years he expects to ride them–or at least some of them–to financial gain. His white laminate desk is clear of paper and paraphernalia, and the only decorations in the office are photographs: a wall of two dozen publicity stills of actors he represents and a group shot of the clients on Jefferson’s baseball team, Saucier’s horseflesh. Saucier, who resembles the late Raymond Massey and speaks with a faint southern drawl, has his back to the window. Yeah, Daniel Stern the actor, ‘cept he’s directing this one. Tell your friend and mine that he’s got an audition on Monday at 3:30, for Daniel Stern for Rookie of the Year. “It’s Chuck,” he says one afternoon to a woman taking a message for one of his actors. Sitting at his desk at Jefferson & Associates, located in the Newberry Plaza Building, he’s invariably got the receiver cradled on his shoulder and his lips pressed to the mouthpiece. That’s no surprise–he’s a talent agent with a stable of Chicago actors hot for commercial work he’s always on the phone.
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