The Palm Restaurant, 1988
The story that best captures Michael Ovitz is not about a deal he closed but about a restaurant he tried to control. Sometime in late 1988, two agents from a fledgling rival agency called InterTalent — refugees from ICM who had teamed up with a handful of defectors from CAA's own competitor pool — walked into The Palm on Santa Monica Boulevard and were seated in one of the four coveted front booths, the ones reserved for the power players who needed to be seen while pretending they didn't care about being seen. Ovitz, then forty-two, the chairman of Creative Artists Agency and by consensus the most powerful man in Hollywood, reportedly strode in and — in a rare public loss of composure — loudly insisted that no InterTalent agent could be seated in a power booth. When a journalist from Premiere magazine cold-called the maître d', Gigi Delmaestro, to confirm the incident, Delmaestro simply allowed that Ovitz had been "upset." A CAA functionary denied it had happened. The denial was a reflex. The demand was the tell.
Here was a man who had engineered the $3.4 billion sale of Columbia Pictures to Sony, who represented Tom Cruise and
Steven Spielberg and
Barbra Streisand and David Letterman, who took three hundred phone calls a day and returned every one — and he was expending psychic capital on the seating chart of a steakhouse. The incident was, as the reporter who broke it noted, "petty yet quintessentially Hollywood." It was also quintessentially Ovitz. He understood, with the conviction of a man who had studied Sun Tzu and practiced aikido and built the most formidable talent agency the entertainment industry had ever seen, that power was perception — and that perception was maintained not through grand gestures alone but through the ceaseless, granular policing of every symbolic detail. A booth was never just a booth. A slight was never just a slight. And the moment you let someone sit where they shouldn't be sitting, you had already begun to lose.
This is the paradox at the center of Ovitz's life: the same obsessive vigilance that made him the most feared operator in Hollywood eventually consumed him. The qualities that built Creative Artists Agency from a $21,000 bank loan into the industry's dominant force — the paranoia, the relentlessness, the absolute intolerance for anything less than total control — were the same qualities that would cost him his friendships, his presidency at Disney, and, for a long dark stretch, his reputation. "Those whom the gods wish to destroy," Ovitz writes in his memoir, "they first give a gift."
By the Numbers
The Ovitz Empire
$21,000Bank loan to start CAA in 1975
5William Morris defectors who co-founded CAA
~300Phone calls Ovitz made or returned per day at his peak
$42MDavid Letterman's unprecedented 3-year CBS deal, negotiated 1993
$6.6BCAA's eventual enterprise valuation
$140M+Severance package from Disney after 14 months
$25MPersonal donation to UCLA Medical Center, 1997
The Son of a Ketchup Salesman
David Ovitz — Michael's father — was the son of Jewish Romanian immigrants. He sold wholesale liquor for Seagram's during the week and patio furniture on weekends, scraping together enough to move the family from Chicago to Encino, in the San Fernando Valley, which his son would later describe as "the most nondescript part of greater Los Angeles." Michael was born on December 14, 1946. The family arrived in Encino in 1951, the same year A Place in the Sun was released, and the boy developed early an itch he could never quite name — a sense, half resentment and half aspiration, that he had been deposited in the wrong nest. "I loved Encino until I knew better," he writes, "and then I hated it. We were on the wrong side of the hill from all the action."
His father wanted him to become a doctor. His grandmother told him he could be anything he wanted. Neither of them was quite right. What David Ovitz gave his son, perhaps without knowing it, was something more useful than career advice: a model for the hustler's temperament. Selling liquor during the week, furniture on weekends, always working, never in charge. Michael absorbed two lessons. First, that a man could work ceaselessly and still have nothing that was his own. Second, that the only corrective was to own the thing itself — the business, the clients, the leverage, the booth.
He attended Birmingham High School in Van Nuys, where Sally Field was a classmate. He was elected student body president. He joined Zeta Beta Tau at UCLA, was elected fraternity president. A pattern was forming: Michael Ovitz would always run whatever room he entered, even before anyone had asked him to.
While studying psychology at UCLA — premed abandoned, over his parents' objections — he took a part-time job as a tour guide at Universal Studios and discovered a talent that would define his career. He didn't just lead tours; he absorbed every fact, every detail, every name on every door, and then performed his accumulated knowledge for captivated tourists with the intensity of a man who had found his calling. He became Universal's top tour guide. He started a tour program at 20th Century Fox. He was outearning his father before he graduated.
The Mailroom and the Manila Folders
In 1968, armed with a UCLA degree in theater, film, and television, Ovitz applied to the mailroom of the William Morris Agency — Hollywood's oldest and most prestigious talent brokerage, founded in 1898 by a German immigrant named Zelman Moses who had anglicized his name and built an empire on vaudeville acts and a ten-percent commission. By the late 1960s, William Morris was the establishment: sprawling, complacent, certain that its stellar reputation would forever be sufficient to attract and retain clients.
Ovitz told the head of talent he would learn everything he needed to become an agent in three months — and if he couldn't, he'd pay back every dime. The bravado worked. He started in the mailroom, sorting correspondence, performing the menial labor that every aspiring agent endured. The dropout rate in the training program exceeded fifty percent. Ovitz not only survived; he discovered an asset that no one else had thought to exploit.
Before there were hard drives, William Morris maintained thousands of manila folders — a complete physical archive of the agency's history, its talent, its deals, its decisions. Ovitz read through them. All of them. He came in hours before anyone else and stayed long after. He wasn't just processing the information; he was building a mental model of the entire industry — who had represented whom, what deals had been structured how, which relationships had held and which had fractured and why. His seniors were impressed. His peers were baffled. He became indispensable to a senior executive, performing everything from secretarial duties to finding stock tips, and within a year he was promoted out of the mailroom.
As a junior television agent, he picked up clients who would go on to have significant careers — Barry Levinson, Rob Reiner, Penny Marshall. He represented Merv Griffin and Bob Barker. He developed game shows and secured contracts from two networks. He was good at this — naturally, effortlessly good in the way that deeply neurotic people can sometimes be, because their anxiety keeps them three moves ahead of everyone else's complacency.
But William Morris was a gerontocracy. Advancement was slow. Pay was worse. Nepotism was systemic. And Ovitz, who had read every manila folder in the building, knew two things his superiors didn't: that the agency's model was calcifying, and that the talent it represented was underserved.
Five Agents and a Card Table
In January 1975, five young agents were fired from William Morris. Their crime was planning to leave. Michael Ovitz, twenty-eight. Ron Meyer, his closest friend at the agency — a high school dropout from West Los Angeles who had served in the Marines, worked as a messenger and a waiter, and possessed a warmth and loyalty that made him Ovitz's natural complement, the good cop to what would become a very convincing bad cop. Bill Haber, who would build and run CAA's television department with the organizational rigor of a military logistics officer. Rowland Perkins and Mike Rosenfeld, both capable agents who rounded out the founding quintet.
They borrowed $21,000 from a bank. They obtained a $100,000 line of credit. They rented a small office on Wilshire Boulevard and conducted business on card tables and rented chairs. Their wives took turns as the agency receptionist. They had two cars between them.
The founding principles were Ovitz's, and they were radical by the standards of an industry built on ego and fiefdom:
All founding members get equal equity. Get big fast. Share all clients and serve them as a group — no turf wars, no silos. Tell the truth. Create opportunities instead of waiting for them.
Seeing me hesitate, Ron said, "You have no gamble in you. Sometimes you have to step up and roll the dice." That got me thinking. I was twenty-seven. If we busted in three years, I could land a new job and start over.
CAA was a classic startup in its first three years, posting zero profits. But Ovitz had studied the competition with the meticulousness of an entomologist, and he understood the incumbents' structural weakness: William Morris and ICM (International Creative Management, headed by Jeff Berg) were built around individual agents who hoarded clients as personal property, spent lavishly on parties and socializing, and treated representation as a reactive business — waiting for the phone to ring, then negotiating whatever deal was offered.
CAA would be something else entirely. Businesslike. Strategic. Proactive. They would go find work for their talent rather than wait for offers. They would know everything about their clients — their hobbies, their anxieties, their real estate investments, their children's names — and deploy that knowledge to build relationships so deep that defection would feel like betrayal. They would dress in Armani, avoid the press, and train young agents to work in teams. They would, in Ovitz's phrase, "seem almost square next to the incumbents."
It worked because the incumbents were complacent and the talent was hungry. Within a few years, CAA was signing the young actors and directors who would define the next two decades of American cinema. The agency used the strength of the larger firms against them — a judo principle Ovitz had absorbed from his study of aikido under Steven Seagal, whom he would later discover and turn into a movie star, one of those strange recursive loops that defined Ovitz's career.
The Package
The innovation that made CAA not just successful but transformatively powerful was the package deal — and to understand it, you have to understand the leverage structure it replaced.
In the old Hollywood model, a studio developed a script, hired a director, and then went shopping for actors. The talent agency's role was transactional: negotiate the best price for your client, collect your ten percent, move on. The studio held the power because it controlled the project. The agent was a middleman.
Ovitz inverted this. Because CAA represented writers, directors, and actors simultaneously — and increasingly, the best ones in each category — it could assemble a complete creative package before a studio ever saw it. A script by a CAA writer, attached to a CAA director, starring a CAA actor. The studio didn't get to pick and choose. You wanted Spielberg? You took the CAA package. You wanted Cruise? Same deal. The package was the product, and CAA was the manufacturer.
This was not entirely Ovitz's invention — Lew Wasserman, the legendary head of MCA, had pioneered elements of it decades earlier, and Ovitz studied Wasserman's methods with the devotion of a disciple. Wasserman, the imposing, ascetic-looking patriarch of Hollywood — who had been doing deals for fifty-nine years and had a much-demonstrated capacity for walking away from them — had five rules that Ovitz committed to memory: tend to the client, dress appropriately, never divulge information about the firm, do your homework, never leave the office without returning every single phone call. Ovitz absorbed all five and then added a sixth that Wasserman would never have articulated: own every piece of the value chain, and rake in fees on all of it.
The result was a fundamental shift in the industry's power dynamics, from studios to talent. CAA's packaging meant that the agency had better information than anyone else in any negotiation, because it represented multiple parties to the same transaction. It knew what the writer wanted, what the director needed, what the actor's real price was, and what the studio could afford. This asymmetric information advantage — the kind that would make a hedge fund manager salivate — was Ovitz's real product. Not representation.
Intelligence.
I viewed what we did as positioning, molding, manipulating: taking fact sets, and making them work for the result we wanted. That mind-set underpinned every single conversation we had with the buyers, and they had with us, all day long. They were never lies to me. They were tools I needed to use to get shit done.
By the mid-1980s, CAA represented most of the top stars and directors in motion pictures. Tom Cruise, Robert Redford, Barbra Streisand, Kevin Costner, Dustin Hoffman, Bill Murray, Sylvester Stallone, Madonna, Michael Jackson, Robin Williams, Sean Connery, Meryl Streep. Directors: Spielberg, Scorsese, Sydney Pollack, Barry Levinson. The roster was so deep that the Wall Street Journal designated Ovitz "the most powerful individual in Hollywood." The agency's agents were called "Moonies" by rivals and the press — because of the way they seemed to march in lockstep, in Armani uniforms, with a cultish devotion to the agency and its chairman that bordered on the religious.
The Art of the Invisible
Ovitz's management of his own image was perhaps his most sophisticated creation. In an industry built on publicity, he chose mystique. "I thought that if I avoided publicity, it would create more of a mystique around my business," he explained later. "Mystique is a hundred times better than publicity." He spoke softly — so softly that studio executives had to lean into their speakerphones to hear him, a power move disguised as a personality trait. He rarely gave interviews. He never leaked. He cultivated an aura of omniscience that left even seasoned executives feeling that Ovitz knew something they didn't — which, thanks to CAA's information network, he usually did.
The persona came at a cost Ovitz would only recognize decades later. "I was a Terminator," he writes. "The fear my opponents felt derived from sheer hopelessness. How could they beat someone so tireless, so relentless? So inhuman? That was the image I took great care to project, anyway. It was an image I grew to hate. Who wants to scare the living shit out of people?"
The answer, of course, was that Ovitz did — or at least the part of him that was winning did. The part of him that was losing was harder to locate. CAA had four commandments: never lie to your clients or colleagues; return every call by the end of the day; follow up and don't leave people guessing; never badmouth the competition. These were good rules. They were also, in some cases, honored more in their invocation than their observance. Screenwriter Joe Eszterhas, defecting to another agency in 1989, claimed that Ovitz told him: "You're not going anywhere. You're not leaving this agency. If you do, my foot soldiers who go up and down Wilshire Boulevard each day will blow your brains out." Ovitz denied making threats. But the fact that the accusation was credible — that everyone in Hollywood could imagine him saying it — tells you something about the distance between the four commandments and the operating reality.
Beyond the Agency
By the early 1990s, Ovitz had grown restless with the core business of talent representation. He was bored, and he was expanding. He helped broker the $7 billion sale of MCA to Matsushita Electric in 1990, an extraordinary transaction in which a Hollywood talent agent essentially choreographed the courtship between a Japanese electronics giant and an American entertainment conglomerate. The deal had been years in the making, with Ovitz serving as the sole intermediary — trusted by both sides, controlled by neither, profiting from both.
He advised Sony on its $3.4 billion acquisition of Columbia Pictures. He arranged the financial rescue of MGM/United Artists, advising Crédit Lyonnais on its troubled $3.1 billion entertainment portfolio. He shook up the advertising industry by winning Coca-Cola's global advertising account in 1991, pulling it away from McCann-Erickson and giving it to CAA's newly formed advertising division — a move that provoked apoplexy on Madison Avenue and raised immediate questions about conflict of interest. How could a talent agency that represented actors also create advertising that those actors might appear in?
"Hollywood is a small, familial place," Ovitz said, deflecting the criticism. "Everyone does business with everybody else." The statement was both true and beside the point. The real answer was that Ovitz had stopped thinking of CAA as a talent agency. He was thinking of it as a platform — a nexus of relationships and information that could be monetized across any industry that involved creative talent, intellectual property, or corporate strategy. He was, in this sense, twenty years ahead of the venture capital firms that would later build similar models in Silicon Valley.
But the expansion created its own problems. The more time Ovitz spent on corporate deals — Sony, Matsushita, Crédit Lyonnais, Coca-Cola — the less connectivity he had with his most important clients. The younger agents he had trained and overpaid were now having more contact with CAA's stars than Ovitz himself. "I saw a bunch of young guys who I was overpaying who thought I wasn't paying them enough," he recalled, "and the more time I spent with these corporate deals, the less connectivity I had with my important clients."
The Young Turks — five agents in their thirties who handled much of CAA's day-to-day client work — began pressing for a succession plan. Ovitz's long-time partner Ron Meyer, the hands-on agent who handled the daily business while Ovitz did the big deals, was growing restless too. And Ovitz himself was experiencing something he had never felt in two decades of relentless motion: the first tremors of disenchantment.
The Two Michaels
At four P.M. on Friday, July 28, 1995,
Walt Disney CEO Michael Eisner called Michael Ovitz on the telephone. Eisner and Ovitz had been close friends for twenty-five years. Their wives, Jane Eisner and Judy Ovitz, were best friends. They spent holidays together — Thanksgiving, Christmas, vacations in Aspen. Ovitz had been among the first non-family members to visit Eisner in the hospital after his quadruple-bypass surgery the previous summer. He had rarely left his bedside.
Eisner, fifty-three, had transformed Disney from a moribund company with a $2 billion market valuation into a $30-to-$40 billion entertainment behemoth. But Frank Wells, his brilliant chief operating officer, had died in a helicopter crash in 1994. Jeffrey Katzenberg, the studio chairman, had left after a bitter falling-out. Eisner had undergone heart surgery. His wife Jane was urging him to hire someone to share the burden. Two weeks after engineering Disney's $19 billion acquisition of Capital Cities/ABC — the deal that created the largest entertainment-and-information corporation the world had ever seen — Eisner wanted Ovitz to help him run it.
The offer was irresistible, and Ovitz knew it was dangerous. Just weeks earlier, the press had been galvanized by his protracted negotiations with Edgar Bronfman Jr. to run MCA/Universal — talks that had gone public, gone slowly, and gone badly. Ovitz had reportedly turned down an offer worth more than $250 million, and the press suggested he had overplayed his hand. His agency was changing. Meyer took the MCA job Ovitz had turned down. The Young Turks were agitating. Late-night phone calls from distraught clients, which Meyer had once fielded, were landing on Ovitz's desk again.
In August 1995, Eisner announced that Ovitz would become president of the Walt Disney Company. The press called it a management coup. The Los Angeles Times declared that Ovitz was "the kind of powerful, globally connected executive needed to run the biggest of the new breed of giant entertainment and media complexes." The entertainment industry reacted with considerable surprise — Ovitz had always insisted he would never work for someone else.
What followed was a fourteen-month catastrophe. Eisner had promised Ovitz that he would step back from day-to-day operations, confining himself to ceremonial functions. He didn't. Within sixty days, by Ovitz's account, the relationship began to deteriorate. Eisner's direct reports, loyal to their chairman, froze out the new president. Ovitz, who had spent twenty years as the undisputed ruler of his own domain, found himself in a role with no clear authority, no defined responsibilities, and a boss who was simultaneously his best friend and his most effective saboteur.
"I was best friends with this guy and his family," Ovitz testified later, in a Delaware courtroom, his voice wavering. "I loved this guy like a brother. We spent holidays together. I was at the funeral of one of his parents, he was at the birth of my first son... What to this day, and until the day I die, I will never be able to understand... how I spend twenty-five years with a man and his family, and within sixty days of taking this position he decides that I'm a number of things that he had twenty-five years to figure out if I was or I wasn't."
In a memo introduced into evidence, Eisner described Ovitz as a "psychopath" who "cannot tell the truth." Ovitz was fired in December 1996 — or, in the Orwellian language of corporate departures, he "resigned" — with a severance package valued at more than $140 million: $38 million in cash and approximately $100 million in stock options. Disney shareholders later sued, contending that the board had rubber-stamped Eisner's wishes with scant scrutiny. The case, In re Walt Disney Co. Derivative Litigation, went all the way to the Delaware Supreme Court and became one of the most closely watched corporate governance cases in decades. Ovitz kept the money. But he lost almost everything else.
I'm not the smartest guy in the world, and I'm not the dumbest guy in the world. And I'm a fantastic loyal friend, and I am a horrible enemy. But I was this guy's friend... It all went downhill, and I don't understand how. And I never will understand how.
The Wilderness
Eisner predicted, on the day he fired Ovitz, that their personal and professional relationships would continue. He was spectacularly wrong. What followed for Ovitz was seven or eight of what he called "the worst years I've ever had in business, or personally, or anything else."
He tried to come back. In 1998, he bought a fledgling theater company, Livent Inc. Within six months, it had filed for bankruptcy. In 1999, he founded Artists Management Group, luring high-profile managers and talent to his new venture — Martin Scorsese, Leonardo DiCaprio, Robin Williams, Cameron Diaz, all poached from CAA, an act of aggression against his own creation that delighted his enemies and horrified his former protégés. AMG was supposed to be the next evolution: a management-and-production company with seven symbiotic departments, Internet ventures, television production, sports, music — an octopus, Ovitz called it, with tentacles in every corner of entertainment.
The plan failed. The Internet bubble burst. AMG's television production company hemorrhaged money — reportedly $100 million of Ovitz's own fortune. Only two of AMG's nine divisions ever became real businesses. In 2002, he sold his interest to Jeff Kwatinetz for a reported $12 million. "He doesn't have the new-world order he envisioned," said Sydney Pollack, the director and longtime Ovitz client, with the gentleness of a friend delivering a diagnosis.
Then came the worst of it. In a 2002 interview with Bryan Burrough of
Vanity Fair, Ovitz — his reputation tattered, his dream company gone — claimed that his downfall had been engineered by a "gay mafia" that included entertainment executive
David Geffen and
New York Times reporter Bernard Weinraub. The comments were, in his own later assessment, "as stupid as they were offensive." He apologized. But the damage was done. The man who had built his career on controlling perception had lost control of the one perception that mattered most: his own.
The Education of a Dealmaker
The years after AMG were quiet. Ovitz retreated from Hollywood — or, more precisely, Hollywood retreated from him. "I don't have much to say to anybody about anything," he told a reporter in 1997. "Twenty-five years of building CAA — it's as if I was never there. One year at Disney, and the rest of it, I guess, was an accident." The self-pity was real, but so was the bewilderment. He had spent his adult life mastering the mechanics of human motivation — what made people tick, what made them sign, what made them stay — and yet the three relationships that mattered most to him (Eisner, Meyer, and the young agents he had mentored at CAA) had all ended in what he experienced as betrayal.
"I felt you could never be too paranoid," he had told his agents. "Make your clients think that they're your friends, but remember that they're not." The irony was biblical: it was his clients who stayed loyal and his friends who betrayed him.
Something shifted in the wilderness years. Ovitz, now in his late fifties, began to do what he had always been preternaturally good at — reading, absorbing, connecting dots across industries — but this time without the pressure of three hundred daily phone calls. He turned to Silicon Valley. He had started dialogues with
Andy Grove of Intel in the mid-1990s, recognizing before almost anyone in Hollywood that technology and entertainment were destined to converge. Now he went deeper. He became an adviser to
Marc Andreessen and
Ben Horowitz, helping them think through the creation of what would become Andreessen Horowitz, one of the most influential venture capital firms in the world.
"Talking to him is like taking a test," Ovitz says of Andreessen. "It's like being in high school and taking an exam or a final in college in every conversation. He's got the most extraordinary ability to analyze, to recall information, to organize it as he's thinking and speaking." For a man who had spent decades being the smartest person in every room, the experience of being genuinely humbled by someone else's intellect was, by his own admission, both terrifying and regenerative.
He co-founded Broad Beach Ventures, investing in companies like Palantir, GoodRx, and Medium. He sat on the board of Opsware (an Andreessen Horowitz company). He joined the board of the Museum of Modern Art and the Council on Foreign Relations. He invested in Ramp, in Human Capital — a startup that applied his old CAA model to engineering talent in Silicon Valley. Most recently, he partnered with Ali Hamed as chairman of Treville Capital Group, bringing to venture capital the same relentless relationship-building and information-network methodology he had used to dominate Hollywood.
The Closed Smile
David Thomson, the film critic, observed that in thirty-seven photographs of Michael Ovitz in his memoir, there are nineteen in which his mouth stays shut while he's smiling. "That closed smile was a lever with which to open a bottle, or a career," Thomson wrote. "It stayed in place whether he was springing the deal of the century, or a cute trick on a Thursday afternoon."
Ovitz collected art the way he collected clients — obsessively, strategically, with an eye that his dealers and peers described as genuinely exceptional. His collection included Picasso, de Kooning, Ellsworth Kelly, Jasper Johns, Mark Rothko. He lived with
Tamara Mellon, the co-founder of Jimmy Choo, in a thirty-thousand-square-foot home in Beverly Hills. The art and the house were both evidence and armor — proof of taste, markers of status, a curated environment in which the son of a liquor salesman from Encino could finally feel that he had crossed to the right side of the hill.
In 2018, at seventy-one, he published
Who Is Michael Ovitz?, a memoir whose title contained its own admission: the most powerful man in Hollywood had become, in the public imagination, a question mark. The book was dishy and self-aware and occasionally devastatingly honest. "I would have had a much happier life if I didn't develop the persona of being all-knowing and irreverent," he writes. "It invited attacks and people looking to celebrate my downfall." And: "I could have worked ten percent less, and it wouldn't have made a difference in my professional success. But I would have been a lot happier."
The candor is real, but it coexists with something harder to name — not quite self-deception, not quite self-pity, but a persistent inability to fully absorb the role he played in his own undoing. Ovitz frames every catastrophe as a betrayal visited upon him, and while some of those betrayals were genuine, the pattern itself is the evidence. When everyone betrays you — your partner, your protégés, your best friend of twenty-five years — at some point the common denominator is not them.
Bill Murray, the actor and longtime CAA client, offered perhaps the most affectionate and revealing portrait of his former agent: "Once a year — and it was sort of towards the holidays — Michael would let his hair down, look out his window from one studio to another, and just go off on those guys running them. It was really, really funny, much funnier than any pissed-off actor could be because he really knew these people, and he had them by the throat. I would laugh so hard. We'd stay on the phone maybe forty-five minutes, or even an hour, and I felt so good for him that he got to let go like that."
The image is indelible: Ovitz at his window, surveying his kingdom, performing his fury for an audience of one. The funniest man in the room who wasn't supposed to be funny. The most powerful man in Hollywood who wasn't supposed to need release. A man who controlled everything except the thing that mattered most — what happened when the phone hung up and the window went dark and he was alone with the question his own book would later pose.
In a marble lobby somewhere in Beverly Hills, there is a wall with nine company names etched on it — the divisions of Artists Management Group, Ovitz's failed empire, his octopus with seven dead tentacles. The names are still there. The businesses are gone. The man is still working.
