Let me tell you, it was no fun getting fired from my limo job. “Pursuing own plans” is how I put it on the applications I filled out with the other limo companies. I tried to see unemployment as an opportunity for creative re-evaluation and personal growth. But, man, I couldn’t even pay for my cable TV.

One night my friend Neal was buying the beers. My agent had just returned my latest script, and my biggest hope. I called it “Days of Thunder.” Basically, the president and the Russian top dog do a summit and they get taken hostage by terrorists. Tell me you don’t want to know what happens. Anyway, we looked like a “go,” and my agent said the White House was interested. But, hey, deal wise, she said, no way would I get a shot at the second draft. I told her the president could kiss my butt.

I was sitting with Neal and trying to remember the last time I had been to a party. He said, “Kid-do, you don’t scare up a job soon, come on back and do some stunt work for me.”

“Nah, I’m out of shape,” I said.

“All the better,” he said, pointing at my belt buckle, which was about half hidden. “Ain’t more than ten good fat stunt doubles in this whole town. Put on fifteen pounds, you could be king of the fatties.”

Well, I thought about it. And then I realized I was thinking about it and I wanted to punch the wall. Not a breakaway wall, a real wall. Hey, no disrespect, but I’d rob a nursing home before I’d have FAT STUNTMAN put on my tombstone.

“If I can’t get a job at Oscar time, ’ ’ I finally said, “I’ll throw in the towel.” There’s not a limo driver in the free world who isn’t working then.

Next morning I got a call from a driver pal named Lefty. Even Lefty was booked solid—and, hey, I love Lefty, but he has only one arm.

“Boss asked if I know any drivers,” he said. “We’re in a real pinch on a rush call. Wanna prove yourself?”

I tore the cellophane off my black suit.

An hour later I was pulling up to a house off Rexford in Beverly Hills. Waiting in the driveway was a multitalented actor, real Hollywood royalty. I got goose bumps opening the door for him.

“Not me,” he said. “Over here.”

He led me to a pile of maybe twenty big sacks. We started hefting them into the backseat of the limo. The actor laughed to himself as we huffed and puffed, slinging the sacks into the car. It wasn’t my place to ask who they were for, but the sacks smelled kind of funny.

“What’s in these?” I asked.

“Dung,” the actor said. “Crap. It’s a present.” He stopped, and maybe I looked surprised. He smiled. “Don’t worry, my producer and I have a friendly rivalry. The man is a genius, fabulous insight.”

He closed the door on the last of the sacks. Then he handed me a slip of paper with an address on it.

“Here,” he said. “Get going. When you get there, you open the sacks and dump the crap inside his Mercedes. He’ll know who it’s from. We’re like brothers.”

Well, I know it wasn’t the classiest call I ever had. But at least I was back in the biz. It got kind of strong-smelling in the car as I climbed up toward Mulholland. I headed west past Beverly Glen. It was night. The lights of the valley shone below.

I rolled down the window and took a deep breath. I felt at home, driving again, my suit on, a tie knotted at my throat, my cap tugged on right.

Hey, there’s no place more forgiving to people who’ve been fired than Hollywood. Stretch