First, came the texts I couldn’t believe.

Then, the email that made it real.

Last, the tears. Of relief. Of gratitude. And hope that next SAG-AFTRA — and the UAW, and IATSE, and every union still standing in this country — will get the deals they deserve.

We have a deal.

Of course, it’s “tentative” right now, because La La Land loves to screw folks with the fine print. So, you do really have to dot those i’s lest you find out you’ve given up residuals when they invent direct-to-brain dream uploads 10 years from now. And it’s truly not over until Fran, the Mother of Labor Dragons, gets a deal that will protect actual human actors. The WGA has started the late-inning rally, but we will leave to them the glory of capping it with a walk-off home run.

But the benefit of being known as the rabid honey badgers of Hollywood labor is that when the WGA’s NegComm says it’s struck a good deal, you go with it. 

Besides, if there’s one thing this town respects, it’s Yom Kippur. On their first day of work here, every assistant learns Hollywood doesn’t fuck around when it comes to Jewish holidays. Even Jack FM seemed to be vibing on the good times, playing “Heaven Is a Place on Earth,” which I blared driving down an empty-Sunday Sunset Boulevard and singing badly in between tears of joy.

Our industry can be heart-breakingly, soul-crushingly, unrelentingly brutal. You pick up no’s like mosquito bites. You watch your and your friends’ dreams break on a daily basis. You see credit hogs climb the ladder while unsung heroes struggle to hold a rent-controlled studio in Glendale. You never feel good enough; you never feel respected enough; and you worry whatever career you’ve somehow managed to eke out can disappear in a heartbeat.

We live on the edge of a desert in so many metaphorical ways, even ChatGPT couldn’t generate them all. Thirst is a way of life.

But then you close the deal. You land the job. You nab the part. You see your work play in a half-empty theater and hear just one person laugh a genuine laugh, shed an honest-to-God tear. And your heart swells. You can’t imagine doing anything else with your life, and you hope the money men never see you melting like a marshmallow because then they know that you would do this for free. Just for that feeling. For that moment of communion with your audience.

Which is why we, of all people, need strong fucking unions. If we had an edge in this fight, it’s that this is fundamentally a collaborative industry. Yeah, there are egos. Yeah, there are tantrums. But when the camera rolls, everyone has to keep their shit together for however long it takes to get the take. Otherwise, there’s no show. That’s fundamentally what makes you a film-and-television professional. That’s not something the executive class in town necessarily gets intuitively. That’s why they mistook our resolve. That’s why it took them 146 days to realize that we would hold it together — as long as it takes.

That’s why young junior writers who’ve maybe had a handful of days on set suddenly found themselves captains, manning gates, directing traffic, drumming and singing. As long as it takes. That’s why Teamsters delivered water and snacks and helped coordinate lot drop-offs, even though they weren’t on strike. That’s why Drew Barrymore (and even Bill Maher) took a second look and decided scabbing wasn’t for them. And that’s what you can only hope the rest of this country takes from this labor block party of a summer: We are stronger together. Always. 

(And given that Silicon Valley’s techno-elite is hellbent on “disrupting” all of life as we know it, livelihoods be damned, we’re probably all going to have to stand together pretty soon.)

But now, as it dawns on me that I might get to do the job I love again, that the desperately hurting residents of Los Angeles finally have relief in sight, so much is rushing through my head. Lots of gratitude for all those hard-working, sunburnt captains. For the support of tourists and traffic cops. Awe at that one actor who came to Paramount dressed up as the Mandalorian in 100-degree heat, proclaiming labor is the way. For all the food trucks and mom-and-pop taco stands and cheap Costco pizza — and especially Dean’s Coffee.  (Jesus, I sound like a short-doc filmmaker rambling at an awards ceremony. Is this what it feels like to win an Oscar?) 

Anyway, the main thought going through my head right now …

We did it. We fucking did it.

Shit, I never got my free cheeseburger from Drew Carey.