Speaking of writing, but not affairs, I wrote a song about a man I met some years ago. Neither the man nor our meeting was of the usual, everyday variety, which makes it all the more interesting and memorable.
His name is Morgan Mason, gifted progeny of late actor, James Mason, one of my favorite actors while growing up. In the late 1980’s, Morgan was a film producer and board member of Musifilm, Ltd., a film company affiliated with MCA/Universal Studios; I was assistant to the president and chief operating officer of the same company. That is how we eventually met.
My first significant encounter with Morgan happened before we came face-to-face. I knew of him and of his pending presence at Musifilm before he ever made his first appearance. There was the usual talk when someone of notoriety was about to grace the scene; there was, also, an unusual situation brewing, involving him, which raised the bar on the run-of-the-mill office twitter. Sparing you the details and me the concern over necessary sensitivity to others involved, I will just say it was personal, though not salacious or any act of wrong doing. In fact, it was a matter of the heart and the need for someone to respond to the heart involved; that person was Morgan. He wasn’t aware of the need of him and could not be blamed for the inaction of one not privy to the cry for movement.
Like crows cawing back and forth, in a language whose deeper meaning they can only decipher, the staff members, not bred to silence by their positions, were tsk-tsking at a furious rate. ‘How can he…?” “Why doesn’t he…?” ” Someone should tell him!” It was that last emphatic statement, that gave me both pause and a plan for simple action: “I’ll tell him.” All heads turned, like dishes rotating on a Lazy Susan, not quickly, but slowly, measuring my audacity with well feigned incredulity. “You are going to call Morgan Mason?” “Well, someone needs to. It’s clear that he doesn’t know and thinking that somehow he should is not going to make it so. This a matter of life and death; it wouldn’t be right not to tell him.”
And so, I did. What I remember of our conversation can’t be put in quotes; the time has long passed and accuracy cannot be a certainty. A brief introduction. He may have known of me, I wasn’t sure. I’m calling about Her. You know, she’s deeply in love with you and she’s dying. He is taken aback by all of it, from the sound of my voice to the words gently, but firmly assaulting his senses. She’s not dying, he countered. It was true, she had gotten better; but she had a relapse. What he didn’t know, as I knew in my bones, was that she was not going to recover. She was going to die. I repeated it. He thought I was being carelessly pessimistic. The last time I saw her, she looked great. I didn’t waver. She’s dying and she needs to see you; you have to go to her. She can’t die without seeing you. You must do this, you know. My heart beat quicker than I could breathe and the tears ran hot streams down my cheeks. Do this, Morgan, please. My heart screamed a woman’s plea to this man: forgo the brilliant mind, this one time, and let your feelings guide the movement of your feet. Silence. Okay, okay, I will. I’ll go see her today. Unspeakable relief. Thank you so much for this. We hang up, me to weep and him to go and fulfill the last wish of a dying woman’s dream.
Morgan and I were never close in the usual sense; we never shared the intimacy of friendship. We did, however, have an understanding. Mostly unspoken. We shared warm smiles, easy laughter and gestures of kindness. He was a beautiful man with breathtaking looks and a magical presence. Gratefully, because of that memorable day before we met, I had touched his heart and knew more of him than those who could only feast with their eyes. He was a man’s man, the kind who can intimidate without saying a word. Add to that, a very healthy ego and noble heritage, and you have a man who definitely stood out and apart from the rest. He was arrogant, but with good reason. He had a sensitive heart in need of the protection and distancing that arrogance provides.
In the end, Morgan became my ally and, at times, my protector, sheltering my naivete and keeping me from harms way. I called him big brother and wrote him a song. When I gave it to him, he blushed. I’ll always remember him as one of the few men whose hearts I cried for.
In A Storybook Life II / The Song, you’ll find the song and a video of Morgan and his wife, Belinda Carlisle.
) very soon!
