I'm not bad-looking. Although seventy, I keep in shape. Sure, my hair's receding. I have wrinkles around my eyes. But my family's genes are spectacular. I look ten years younger than I am, especially when I'm tanned, as I was after recent, daily, half-hour laps in my swimming pool.

  My voice has the resonance of Ed McMahon's. "Mort Davidson to see Arthur Lewis. I've got a four o'clock appointment."

  The would-be-actress receptionist scanned a list. "Of course. You're expected. Unfortunately Mr. Lewis has been detained. If you'll please wait over there." She pointed toward a couch and picked up a Judith Krantz novel. Evidently she'd decided that I couldn't promote her career.

  So I waited.

  And waited.

  An hour later, the receptionist gestured for me to come over. Miracle of miracles, Arthur Lewis was ready to see me.

  He wore an Armani linen suit, fashionably wrinkled. No tie. Gucci loafers. No socks. His skin was the color of bronze. His thick, curly, black hair had a calculated, wind-blown look. Photographs of his blonde wife and infant daughter stood on his glass-topped desk. His wife seemed even younger and thinner than he was. Posters of various current hit series hung on the wall. A tennis racket was propped in a corner.

  "It's an honor to meet you. I'm a fan of everything you've done," he lied.

  I made an appropriate humble comment.

  His next remark contradicted what he'd just said. "Did you bring a list of your credits?"

  I gave him a folder and sat on a leather chair across from him while he flipped through the pages. His expression communicated a mixture of boredom and stoic endurance.

  Finally his eyebrows narrowed. "Impressive. I might add, astonishing. Really, it's hard to imagine anyone writing this much."

  "Well, I've been in the business quite a while."

  "Yes. You certainly have."

  I couldn't tell if he referred to my age or my numerous credits. "There used to be a joke," I said.

  "Oh?" His eyes were expressionless.

  '"How can Mort Davidson be so prolific?' This was back in the early sixties. The answer was, 'He uses an electric typewriter.'"

  "Very amusing," he said as if I'd farted.

  "These days, of course, I use a word processor."

  "Of course." He folded his hands on the desk and sat straighter. "So. Your agent said you had an idea that might appeal to us."

  "That's right."

  The phone rang.

  "Excuse me a moment." He picked up the phone. Obviously, if he'd been genuinely interested in my pitch, he'd have instructed his secretary that he didn't want any calls.

  An actor named Sid was important enough for Arthur Lewis to gush with compliments. And by all means, Sid shouldn't worry about the rewrites that would make his character more "with it" in today's generation. The writer in charge of the project was under orders to deliver the changes by Monday morning. If he didn't, that writer would never again work on something called The Goodtime Guys. Sid was a helluva talent, Arthur Lewis assured him. Next week's episode would get a 35 ratings share at least. Arthur chuckled at a joke, set down the phone, and narrowed his eyebrows again. "So your idea that you think we might like." He glanced at his Rolex.

  "It's about an at-risk youth center, a place where troubled kids can go and get away from their screwed-up families, the gangs, and the drug dealers on the streets. There's a center in the Valley that I see as our model - an old Victorian house that has several additions. Each week, we'd deal with a special problem - teenage pregnancy, substance abuse, runaways - but mostly this would be a series about emotions, about people, the kids, but also the staff, a wide range of interesting, committed professionals, an elderly administrator, a female social worker, an Hispanic who used to be in the gangs, a priest, whatever mix works. I call it - "

  The phone rang again.

  "Just a second," Arthur Lewis said.

  Another grin. A producer this time. A series about a college sorority next to a fraternity, Crazy 4 U, had just become this season's new hit. Arthur Lewis was giving its cast and executives a party at Le Dome tomorrow evening. Yes, he guaranteed. Ten cases of Dom Perignon would arrive at the producer's home before the party. And beluga caviar? Enough for an after-party power party? No problem. And yes, Arthur Lewis was having the same frustrations as the producer. It was mighty damned hard to find a pre-school for gifted children.

  He set down the phone. His face turned to stone. "So that's your idea?"

  "Drama, significance, emotion, action, and realism."

  "But what's the hook?"

  I shook my head in astonishment.

  "Why would anyone want to watch it?" Arthur Lewis asked.

  "To feel what it's like to help kids in trouble, to understand those kids."

  "Didn't you have a stroke a while ago?"

  "What?"

  "I believe in honesty, so I'll be direct. You put in your time. You paid your dues. So why don't you back away gracefully?"

  "I didn't have a stroke."

  "Then why did I hear- ?"

  "My wife had cancer. She died..." I caught my breath. "Six months ago."

  "I see. I'm sorry. I mean that sincerely. But television isn't the same as when you created..." He checked my list of credits." The Sidewalks of New York. A definite classic. One of my absolute personal favorites. But times have changed. The industry's a lot more competitive. The pressure's unbelievable. A series creator has to act as one of the producers, to oversee the product, to guarantee consistency. I'm talking thirteen hours a day minimum, and ideally the creator ought to contribute something to every script."

  "That's what I did on The Sidewalks of New York."

  "Oh?" Arthur Lewis looked blank. "I guess I didn't notice that in your credits." He straightened. "But my point's the same. Television's a pressure cooker. A game for people with energy."

  "Did I need a wheelchair when I came in here?"

  "You've lost me."

  "Energy's not my problem. I'm full to bursting with the need to work. What matters is, what do you think of my idea?"

  "It's..."

  The phone rang.

  Arthur Lewis looked relieved. "Let me get back to you."

  "Of course. I know you're busy. Thanks for your time."

  "Hey, anytime. I'm always here and ready for new ideas." Again he checked his Rolex.

  The phone kept ringing.

  "Take care," he said.

  "You, too."

  I took my list of credits off his desk.

  The last thing I heard when I left was, "No, that old fuck's wrong for the part. He's losing his hair. A rug? Get real. The audience can tell the difference. For God's sake, a hairpiece is death in the ratings."

  Steve had said to phone him when the meeting was over. But I felt so upset I decided to hell with phoning him and drove up the Pacific Coast Highway toward his place in Malibu. Traffic was terrible - rush hour, Friday evening. For once, though, it had an advantage. After an hour, my anger began to abate enough for me to realize that I wouldn't accomplish much by showing up unexpectedly in a fit at Steve's. He'd been loyal. He didn't need my aggravation. As he'd told me, "I've done what I can. Now it's up to you." But there wasn't much I could do if my age and not my talent was how I was judged. Certainly that wasn't Steve's fault.

  So I stopped at something called the Pacific Coast Diner and took the advice of a bumper sticker on a car I'd been stuck behind-CHILL OUT. Maybe a few drinks and a meditative dinner would calm me down. The restaurant had umbrella-topped tables on a balcony that looked toward the ocean. I had to wait a half hour, but a Scotch and soda made the time go quickly, and the crimson reflection of the setting sun on the ocean was spectacular.

  Or would have been if I'd been paying attention. The truth was, I couldn't stop being upset. I had another Scotch and soda, ordered poached salmon, tried to enjoy my meal, and suddenly couldn't swallow, suddenly felt about as lonely as I'd felt since Doris had died. Maybe the network executives are right, I thought. Maybe I am too old. Maybe I don't know how to relate to a young audience. Maybe it's time I packed it in.

  "Mort Davidson," a voice said.

  "Excuse me?" I blinked, distracted from my thoughts.

  My waiter was holding the credit card I'd given him. "Mort Davidson." He looked at the name on the card, then at me. "The screenwriter?"

  I spared him a bitter "used to be" and nodded with what I hoped was a pleasant manner.

  "Wow." He was tall and thin with sandy hair and a glowing tan. His blue eyes glinted. He had the sort of chiseled, handsome face that made me think he was yet another would-be actor. He looked to be about twenty-three. "When I saw your name, I thought, 'No, it couldn't be. Who knows how many Mort Davidsons there are? The odds against this being...' But it is you. The screenwriter."

  "Guilty," I managed to joke.

  "I bet I've seen everything you ever wrote. I must have watched The Dead of Noon twenty-five times. I really learned a lot."

  "Oh?" I was puzzled. What would my screenplay have taught him about acting?

  "About structure. About pace. About not being afraid to let the characters talk. That's what's wrong with movies today. The characters don't have anything important to say."

  At once, it hit me. He wasn't a would-be actor.

  "I'm a writer," he said. "Or trying to be. I mean, I've still got a lot to learn. That I'm working here proves it." The glint went out of his eyes. "I still haven't sold anything." His enthusiasm was forced. "But hey, nothing important is easy. I'll just keep writing until I crack the market. The boss is.. .I'd better not keep chattering at you. He doesn't like it. For sure, you've got better things to do than listen to me. I just wanted to say how much I like your work, Mr. Davidson. I'll bring your credit card right back. It's a pleasure to meet you."

  As he left, it struck me that the speed with which he talked suggested not only energy but insecurity. For all his good looks, he felt like a loser.

  Or maybe I was just transferring my own emotions onto him. This much was definite - getting a compliment was a hell of a lot better than a sharp stick in the eye or the meeting I'd endured.

  When he came back with my credit card, I signed the bill and gave him a generous tip.

  "Thanks, Mr. Davidson."

  "Hang in there. You've got one important thing on your side."

  "What's that?"

  "You're young. You've got plenty of time to make it."

  "Unless..."

  I wondered what he meant.

  "Unless I don't have what it takes."

  "Well, the best advice I can give you is never doubt yourself."

  As I left the restaurant and passed beneath hissing arc lamps toward my car, I couldn't ignore the irony. The waiter had youth but doubted his ability. I had confidence in my ability but was penalized because of my age. Despite the roar of traffic on the Pacific Coast Highway, I heard waves on the beach.

  And that's when the notion came to me. A practical joke of sorts, like stories you hear about frustrated writers submitting Oscar-winning screenplays, Casablanca, for example, but the frustrated writers change the title and the characters' names. The notes they get back from producers as much as say that the screenplays are the lousiest junk the producers ever read. So then the frustrated writers tell the trade papers what they've done, the point being that the writers are trying to prove it doesn't matter how good a writer you are if you don't have connections.

  Why not? I thought. It would be worth seeing the look on those bastards' faces.

  "What's your name?"

  "Ric Potter."

  "Short for Richard?"

  "No. For Eric."

  I nodded. Breaking-the-ice conversation. "The reason I came back is I have something I want to discuss with you, a way that might help your career."

  His eyes brightened.

  At once, they darkened, as if he thought I might be trying to pick him up.

  "Strictly business," I said. "Here's my card. If you want to talk about writing and how to make some money, give me a call."

  His suspicion persisted, but his curiosity was stronger. "What time?"

  "Eleven tomorrow?"

  "Fine. That's before my shift starts."

  "Come over. Bring some of your scripts."

  That was important. I had to find out if he could write or if he was fooling himself. My scheme wouldn't work unless he had a basic feel for the business. So the next morning, when he arrived exactly on time at my home in the hills above West Hollywood, we swapped: I let him see a script I'd just finished while I sat by the pool and read one of his. I finished around one o'clock. "Hungry?"

  "Starved. Your script is wonderful," Ric said. "I can't get over the pace. The sense of reality. It didn't feel like a story."

  "Thanks." I took some tuna salad and Perrier from the refrigerator. "Whole-wheat bread and kosher dills okay? Or maybe you'd rather go to a restaurant."

  "After working in one every night?" Ric laughed.

  But I could tell that he was marking time, that he was frustrated and anxious to know what I thought of his script. I remembered how I had felt at his age, the insecurity when someone important was reading my work. I got to the point.

  "I like your story," I said.

  He exhaled.

  "But I don't think it's executed properly."

  His cheek muscles tensed.

  "Given what they're paying A-list actors these days, you have to get the main character on screen as quickly as possible. Your main character doesn't show up until page fifteen."

  He sounded embarrassed. "I couldn't figure out a way to.

  "And the romantic element is so familiar it's tiresome. A shower scene comes from a washed-up imagination."

  That was tough, I knew, but I waited to see how he'd take it. If he turned out to be the sensitive type, I wasn't going to get anywhere.

  "Yeah. Okay. Maybe I did rely on a lot of other movies I'd seen."

  His response encouraged me. "The humorous elements don't work. I don't think comedy is your thing."

  He squinted.

  "The ending has no focus," I continued. "Was your main character right or not? Simply leaving the dilemma up in the air is going to piss off your audience."

  He studied me. "You said you liked the story."

  "Right. I did."

  "Then why do I feel like I'm on the Titanic ?"

  "Because you've got a lot of craft to learn, and it's going to take you quite a while to master it. If you ever do. There aren't any guarantees. The average Guild member earns less than six thousand dollars a year. Writing screenplays is one of the most competitive enterprises in the world. But I think I can help you."

  "...Why?"

  "Excuse me?"

  "We met just last night. I was your waiter, for God's sake. Now suddenly I'm in your house, having lunch with you, and you're saying you want to help me. It can't be because of the force of my personality. You want something."

  "Yes, but not what you're thinking. I told you last night -this is strictly business. Sit down and eat while I tell you how we can both make some money."

  "This is Ric Potter," I said. We were at a reception in one of those mansions in the hills near the Hollywood Bowl. Sunset. A string quartet. Champagne. Plenty of movers and shakers." Fox is very hot on one of his scripts. I think it'll go for a million."

  The man to whom I'd introduced Ric was an executive at Warners. He couldn't have been over thirty. "Oh?"

  "Yeah, it's got a youth angle."

  "Oh?" The executive looked Ric up and down, confused, never having heard of him, at the same time worried because he didn't want to be out of the loop, fearing he ought to have heard of him.

  "If I sound a little proud," I said, "it's because I discovered him. I found him last May when I was giving a talk to a young screenwriters' workshop at the American Film Institute. Ric convinced me to look at some things and.. .I'm glad I did. My agent's glad I did." I chuckled.

  The executive tried to look amused, although he hated like hell to pay writers significant money. For his part, Ric tried to look modest but unbelievably talented, young, young, young, and hot, hot, hot.

  "Well, don't let Fox tie you up," the executive told Ric. "Have your agent send me something."

  "I'll do that, Mr. Ballard. Thanks," Ric said.

  "Do I look old enough to be a 'mister?' Call me 'Ed.'"