I had awakened at 8 sharp, ate, showered, and set to begin my Hollywood journey in earnest. The day began with cold call after cold call, dialing every number on every page of my treasured Directory. Predictably, my diligence bore little fruit.

Until three hours in.

The call went something like this:

“Hello, can I help you?”

”Hi. My name is Joel Eisenberg. I’m a writer. Can I speak to Mr. Pierce, please?” (Name changed to protect the guilty, though by the end of this it will be easy to look him up.)

”Hold on.”

(Well, that was a start. No one else transferred me without an inquisition first.)

“This is Pierce, can I help you?”

”Mr. Pierce? Thanks for taking my call. My name is — ”

”I know. I know. We have a busy office here. What do you want, Mr. Eisenberg?”

”Well … sir, I’m a writer, and — ”

”You want to write for me?”

“Yes, sir!”

”Are you a good writer?”

”Absolutely.”

”Are you the best?”

”Well, I don’t know if I’m the best …”

”I’m sorry, I only work with the best.”

(Thing is, he didn’t hang up. It was as if he was waiting for something …)

”I’m the best.”

”Good, then maybe we could work together.”

(Right now, I’m thinking, This is so easy! There’s nothing to this breaking into Hollywood business. Wow, were those warnings overrated.)

”Perfect. I’m ready to work.”

”You ever see The Maltese Falcon?”

”You kidding? Only one of my favorite films ever!”

”Look kid, here it is. I have a dream to remake The Maltese Falcon.”

”Amazing …”

”Do you direct too?”

”No, just a writer.”

”Can you find me a director if I pay you?”

”I’m sure I can,” I bluffed.

“Good. Here’s my idea. We re-do this classic film … with eight gratuitous nude scenes for the foreign markets …” I didn’t hear some of the rest. My stomach dropped. My ears went numb. As sound again slowly coalesced: “I’ll pay $5000 for the film. Produce it too, hire the director, hire the set people, get whatever props and costumes you need … and whatever you have left is your writing fee. Do we have a deal?”

I didn’t know where else to turn. “Is this a porno?” I asked.

“No! We don’t do porn here!” Thank God. “It’s considered soft-core.”

“Shit.”

“Sorry?”

“I didn’t say anything — ”

“Look kid. This is my business. I do this stuff for overseas and make a buck or two. You don’t like it, I guess a return trip to Brooklyn beckons ... We still have a deal?”

”We have a deal,” I responded, doing my level best to show some enthusiasm while convincing myself I was now officially paying my dues. “Just don’t tell my parents, okay?”

He laughed in response. ”Great, kid. Meet me Tuesday, 3:00. I’ll transfer you back to my assistant. She’ll give you the office address.“

”Okay …”

”By the way, before I go. You know why I didn’t hang up on you earlier?”

”Why?”

”I hear the Brooklyn accent. Us New Yorkers have to stick together, you know.”

”You work with a lot of New Yorkers?”

He laughed, and simply said, “Hold on.” I was switched back over to his assistant.