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didn’t seem to help. If anything, it made her forgetful and paranoid. The one thing she never forgot, sadly, was that she couldn’t stand me. All I had to do was walk into a room where she was and she’d let out an involuntary “Oh, God.” So, of course, I felt compelled to somehow make myself less repellent in her eyes, which meant I spent more time insinuating myself near her, which just annoyed her more. After nearly a year, I had finally come to the conclusion that I could continue to question why Igot under her skin, but it would be just as productive as wondering if a Komodo dragon was going for my eyes because it had unresolved family issues. Both the lizard and Medusa were best given plenty of room. Still, she had years of experience on me, and I had run out of ideas. My modest hope, as always when I had to talk to Medusa, was “the bare minimum of screaming, please.” On most occasions, the way it went was I’d talk, she’d scream at me, I’d wilt from the fog of her hostility and slink away.
    That was another reason I was a dreadful agent. Any agent worth their Armani suit must be aggressive. Extremely aggressive. All the time. They fight for parts for their clients, they fight to attract new clients and keep old ones, they fight for money. The family crest of the best Hollywood agent would show a fat wallet, an airplane ticket to Park City, and a set of bared teeth. I hate conflict so much I will drive two blocks out of my way to avoid passing a restaurant where I had an uncomfortable conversation. Had I taken that high school test that indicates which career path one should follow, it would have come back as “Hermit.”
    Medusa was talking to her dealer on the phone and motioned for me to leave. I waited and bounced from foot to foot. When I made it clear I wasn’t going, she hung up and glowered at me.
    “What?”
    After that warm welcome, I explained my problem. I produced a piece of paper to show the simple brilliance of the schedule I had gotten two strangers to agree upon. I then finished up with my client’s maddening reply. Medusa looked at me with a weary distaste, which was the best possible reaction I excited in her.
    “Quinn, you can’t want it more than they do.”
    I froze. Her brain might have had the same chemical makeup as the air over a Phish concert, but this was the most insightful thing I had ever heard anyone say. As if entranced, I walked back to my office, called the producer of the real movie, and told him Dick had dates locked in place from a previous commitment. These were either to be worked around or we would have to pass on the part. Somehow, they managed. Dick shot both movies.
    The sock-puppet movie was never seen again. Unfortunately, neither was the real movie. A decade later, I occasionally see Dick in a film doing a wonderful job. I silently toast whatever Ahab caught him.
    The only things I’ve taken away from that period of my life are a pair of seemingly unkillable gray flannel trousers, a lifelong distaste for Bulgaria, and the lesson Medusa taught me that afternoon. I look at everyone dear to me and I am desperate to fix them. Desperate. Someone starts complaining about how their clothes don’t fit, or how their doctor is after them to bring down their cholesterol, or about how useless their boyfriend is, and I leap into the fray. Here’s a diet! Here’s a map of all the hikes in Los Angeles! Here’s a way to start the conversation with the useless boyfriend that will lead to him moving out! I’m lousy at fixing my own problems, but other people’s problems? Let me at ’em.
    Until the other person says, “Yeah…” in the die-away voice, which means, “I like talking about this, but I don’t dislike this situation enough to actually do something about it.”
    Sometimes I will forget Medusa’s lesson. I’ll try to nag and pester the person into a state of improvement that just seems toannoy everyone involved. And then, out of the blue, I will