On the west side of Beverly Boulevard in Beverly Hills rose a structure that gleamed like a monument to ambition. A ten-story building whose façade and atrium were wrapped entirely in glass. Sunlight spilled across its surface during the day, while at night it glowed like a lantern over Los Angeles. This was the headquarters of the Creative Artists Agency, better known across Hollywood simply as CAA.
Within the industry, insiders called it The Death Star. The nickname was not meant lightly: like the legendary fortress in Star Wars, the agency seemed untouchable, swallowing rivals with a mix of ruthlessness, brilliance, and sheer dominance. For actors, directors, and producers, walking into that glass tower felt like entering the command center of the entertainment universe.
It was here that Adrian Knight, nineteen years old and fresh from the CAA mailroom, reported for his first day as an Assistant Agent.
Adrian had lasted six punishing months in the mailroom, long enough to prove he wasn't another wide-eyed dreamer destined to burn out. The mailroom was brutal: endless deliveries, sorting piles of unsolicited scripts, carrying packages across town, memorizing every face in the business. But it was also the most legendary training ground in Hollywood.
Now, he was being promoted. Not to power, not yet, but to proximity. He had been assigned to Paula Wagner, one of CAA's star agents. She was forty-three, sharp-eyed, and sharper-tongued, with a reputation for transforming careers into empires. Among her clients was Tom Cruise himself, a living golden ticket in human form.
Adrian had heard countless stories about Wagner, how she had spotted Tom Cruise in the early 1980s, how she had shepherded his rise from fresh-faced newcomer to the national heartthrob of Top Gun. By the late eighties, Cruise wasn't just an actor; he was a phenomenon.
Paula welcomed Adrian with the kind of smile that mixed encouragement with warning.
"Adrian Knight, nineteen years old," she said, tapping a file in her hand. "You've survived half a year in the mailroom. That's no small thing. Now you're stepping into the role of Assistant Agent. Remember this: if you find clients, real clients, you become an Agent in truth. Until then, you're still proving yourself."
Adrian nodded. He knew the hierarchy here was invisible but absolute. On paper, an Assistant Agent already held the necessary license to represent talent. In practice, without clients, they were little more than glorified runners.
Paula placed a hand on his shoulder, her voice steady and deliberate.
"Don't forget our bosses, Michael Ovitz and Ronald Meyer, both started in the mailroom at William Morris. That place has produced titans. Barry Diller at Fox, Michael Eisner at Disney, Jeffrey Katzenberg at Disney Pictures, they all came through the same grind."
Adrian couldn't help adding, "And David Geffen of Geffen Records, too. WMA's mailroom seems to be the cradle of an empire."
Paula gave him a measured look, impressed that he had done his homework. Of course, he had six months in CAA's mailroom drilling these names into your bones.
She finally glanced at her watch. "That's enough philosophy for now. Go downstairs to Starbucks. Two cappuccinos, quick as you can. If you want to be an agent, you'll first need to prove you can run faster than anyone else."
Adrian stifled a sigh. So this was what being promoted meant? Still fetching coffee, running errands. But he reminded himself: everyone started like this. And if Michael Ovitz could climb from messenger to kingmaker, then so could Adrian Knight.
He grabbed his coat and left the office.
As Adrian dashed downstairs, another figure entered the building, instantly shifting the energy around him. Tom Cruise walked through CAA's gleaming lobby, his trademark smile flashing at every assistant and staffer who greeted him. Unlike most stars, he acknowledged everyone. It wasn't politeness alone; Cruise radiated charisma so naturally that it was like breathing.
He made his way to Paula Wagner's office, slipping inside with the ease of family.
Paula rose slightly from her chair, waving him in. "Tom, Rain Man is flying. The critics adore it, the box office is strong, and the award buzz is building. This could be your defining performance."
She wasn't exaggerating. The film, co-starring Dustin Hoffman, had been in theaters for just ten days and had already passed twenty million at the box office. But more than numbers, it carried prestige. Critics were calling it a masterpiece.
"Everything with Born on the Fourth of July is on track?" she asked.
Cruise nodded. "Oliver's nearly done. We're wrapping soon."
The mention of Oliver Stone carried weight. Born on the Fourth of July was the second film in Stone's Vietnam War trilogy. The first, Platoon, had won the Academy Award for Best Picture and Best Director. If this one struck the same chord, it could elevate Cruise into serious Oscar contention.
Paula leaned forward, shifting gears. "And Tony Scott's Days of Thunder, Simpson, and Bruckheimer want to start shooting next summer. Paramount has approved sixty million for the budget."
Cruise chuckled, shaking his head in disbelief. "Sixty. That's wild."
It was indeed monumental; few films crossed that threshold in the late eighties. Rambo III, the most expensive movie of the year, had cost sixty-three million dollars. Days of Thunder was a gamble, but with Cruise headlining, the studio was willing to bet.
"Tom," Paula said seriously, "art films like Rain Man and Born on the Fourth of July prove your depth. But Hollywood is built on box office. Balance both, and you'll have the career no one else can touch."
Cruise's expression softened. "I know. I want the Oscars, Paula. But I'm not afraid of popcorn films. I just want to show the world I'm more than a smile."
By the time Adrian returned, coffees in hand, the conversation inside Wagner's office had quieted. He knocked, entered quickly, and placed the cappuccinos on her desk. His eyes flicked briefly toward Cruise; he couldn't help it. Up close, the man was devastatingly handsome, the kind of charisma that cameras couldn't fully capture.
Adrian slipped out silently, muttering to himself once he was in the hallway: "If not for Titanic, even Leonardo DiCaprio wouldn't be able to match that presence."
He rounded the corner and nearly collided with Jack Wells, another new Assistant Agent. Jack was buried in a stack of manuscripts, papers spilling across his desk.
"Scripts?" Adrian asked, picking one up.
Jack gave a weary laugh. "Hundreds arrive every month. CAA is drowning in them. We're basically Hollywood's script factory."
Adrian leafed through the pages. His time in the mailroom had taught him that most submissions were terrible, but buried in the piles were gems, stories that could define careers.
"The package deal changed everything," Adrian remarked. "Writers, directors, producers, and actors all represented by CAA, it starts here, with scripts."
He wasn't wrong. Rain Man itself was a pure CAA production, from the writer to the director to its stars. Even the marketing strategy for MGM/United Artists had been mapped out by the agency.
Jack shoved another stack toward him. "If we don't find our own clients soon, we'll be stuck doing the same errands forever. Coffee runs, paperwork, script sorting. That's not why we came here."
Adrian smiled faintly, setting the papers down. "I'll help with these first. A good movie begins with words on a page. Besides," he tapped his temple, "I've got an advantage. I already know which stories are going to matter."
He didn't say more. How could he explain that he carried memories of films not yet made, of future classics hidden inside these piles of paper?
No, he hadn't come here to fetch cappuccinos forever. He had come to shape the very industry itself.