I made it to the building and regrouped as I waited for the elevator. A minute or so later, I stepped out to a long corridor of 20 phone banks (I counted) manned by very young adults, 10 banks on each side … and a decibel-shattering level of screaming and yelling from the stocky guy walking up and down among them like a drill sergeant:

“C’mon you cunts and cocksuckers, taking no for an answer will get you a one-way pass to Skid Row!”

Unfortunately, I’m neither kidding nor exaggerating. For the life of me I still don’t understand how those on the other end of the phone calls could have dismissed the invective. What I do, sadly, understand is why those who worked there did not walk off.

Jobs at companies like this in Hollywood are hugely hard to come by, and tend to pay off later. The idea is when you work for the most abusive entities — those who have reputations as being nearly impossible to work with — you develop a thick skin that allows you to conquer anyone and anything once you strike out on your end.

That’s the idea, anyway.

“Let’s go bitches, it’s time to make us some money!”

“Ignorant fucks, get onboard or get the fuck out!”

You get the picture. All this, you see, was delivered with gleeful venom by the same guy, one of the two partners in the company … the guy I was now there to meet, alone.

I had read articles on the company. Photos were included so I knew what he looked like. The greatest insult: His business remains, to date, one of the most successful independent production companies in the industry.

Initial shock and disgust aside, my greatest fear at that moment had more to do with my Brooklyn roots than anything. I have a mouth and use it all-too-well, when necessary. In this particular instance, it required an act of God (and I’m for all intents agnostic) for me to hold back.

“Prissy shits, it’s go time!” was the next in the repertoire, and nearly the end of the road for me.

I was about to turn back and leave, when an embarrassed-looking assistant approached me.

“Mr. Eisenberg?” he politely asked.

“Yes.” He extended his hand and I shook it.

“Follow me.”

I bit my lip and followed him into a room at the end of the corridor. He left the door open, surely by design.

“Can I get you any coffee? Tea?”

“I think I’m good. Thanks.”

“If you need anything, please let me know — ”

“I do have a question,” I said.

“How can I help?”

I had to ask. “I’m not trying to be disrespectful … but is it always like this here?”

I didn’t care if the door was open or not. At that point, I didn’t care about much of anything save for leaving.

“Well,” he said, matter-of-factly, “it’s Tuesday.”

I never received a followup.

What’s the deal with Tuesday? would remain one of life’s eternal questions.