When I first met Peter Meyer, I was in the wilderness. I had spent a decade as an independent filmmaker, cobbling together a living and saddled with a healthy scorecard of “near misses” and “almosts.” My career earnings at that point as a writer and director could easily fit in a modest-sized piggy bank. I had not directed an episode of television and it was unclear whether that would ever happen or if it should. I was pretty certain that no respectable manager would be interested in righting this particular ship.
That was because I didn’t know that someone like Peter was out there.
For the last nine years, Peter was, by title, my manager. But reducing his role in my life to that title is far beyond a disservice. Peter was my confidant, my trusted guide, the first person I would call with a story idea or a question or for advice. He fought for me with the fierceness of a parent would for a child, relentlessly determined and ferociously dedicated to the child’s flourishing. If he felt I had been wronged by a show or a producer or by circumstance, Peter bristled and would hold on to a fierce grudge – until I calmed him down and tell him it was okay. (Though, truthfully, I thoroughly enjoyed having him as my anger translator.)
And with Peter, I indeed flourished. He helped usher me into the world of episodic television, navigating my way from one show to the next and the next until now, more than forty episodes later. Whenever I booked a new show, a leather script cover with the show’s name on it would appear at my doorstep. The night before I would start production, I’d talk to Peter as a way to recap how prep went, the challenges of the episode, and how I was feeling.
There has been hardly a week gone by when I didn’t speak with him on the phone at least once and our topics swerved from story ideas to TV shows to child-rearing to his long career as a William Morris agent to Valarie‘s work to life in all its grandeur and all its minutia. It was easy for me to see that he loved me in his very bones. As I did him. We were more uncle-nephew than manager-client in a time when I most needed it.
Four years ago or so, Peter engaged in a heroic fight against a particularly ruthless and unforgiving cancer that steadily took pieces of him. And every so often, his condition would spike or he had to go to the ER or developed something related do this condition – but he always battled back when it seemed like he wouldn’t. And he’d return to himself (or some version of himself) after a gap that I acutely felt even though it was Peter who was the one suffering. We’d return to our calls and if I didn’t deliberately ask him how he was doing, he’d only focus on me and my welfare as if he wasn’t in some circle of hell bravely grappling with ways to climb out.
So for years I had been preparing myself mentally for his death. Even though I knew the day would come, Peter’s death is still very sudden and of course heartbreaking. I’ve already felt the void of not having someone to call on my morning drives to school or when a story idea pops in my head.
He was one of a kind – thoughtful, compassionate, honest and loyal. I’m going to miss him in ways that will become even more apparent as the weeks pass and my frequent calls to him fade into more distant memories of a former routine.
I learned volumes from Peter, but I think his lasting lesson for me is that there are truly good, honest and loyal people in this industry. There may not be a ton of them, but they are out there. And when you find those people, you hold on to them for dear life and never let them go.
I held on to Peter for dear life and he held on to me, too. I’m grateful for our years together. I’m grateful that a call would only conclude after I expressed deep gratitude for him in my life. I’m grateful that there was a Peter Meyer out there at the edge of the wilderness, holding a flashlight for me when I needed it.
I’m going to miss him.
Sharat Raju 