Peter Alan Nelsen was standing on top of a marble-slab desk, waving his arms and screaming so hard that his face was red. He was maybe six foot two, but skinny, with more butt than shoulders and the kind of soft, gawky frame that probably meant he had been a stiff-legged, awkward child. He had a rectangular Fred MacMurray face to go with the body, and he wore black leather pants with a silver concho belt and a blue denim work shirt with the cuffs rolled over his forearms. The forearms were thin. It was a style and a look that had faded away in the midseventies, but if you were the King of Adventure, I guess you could dress any way you wanted. The King yelled, “Stop the tape! I don’t want to see this crap! Jesus H. Christ, are you people out of your minds?!”

Peter Alan Nelsen was yelling at a neatly dressed woman and a man with a face like a rabbit’s who were standing near a 30-inch Mitsubishi television. The man was scrabbling at a videotape machine, trying to eject a cassette, but his fingers weren’t doing a good job and the woman had to help him.

Donnie ran forward, rubbing at his hair. “Peter, Peter, what’s going on? Hey, there’s a problem here, that’s what I’m for!”

The woman at the big Mitsubishi said, “We showed him a tape of work by the new production designer. He liked it fine until I told him that the designer had worked in television.”

Peter made a loud, moaning sound, then jumped off the desk, raced forward, grabbed the tape from the rabbit-faced man, and threw it out the window. When Peter rushed toward them, the man jerked back but the woman didn’t. Peter yelled, “His quality is all wrong! Don’t you people understand texture? Don’t you understand image density? Tee-vee is small. Movies are large. I make movies, not television!”

Donnie spread his hands, like how could they do this. “Jesus, Peter, I’m sorry. I can’t believe they’d waste your time with a TV guy. What can I do to make it right?” I think he was trying to show me how to make Peter happy.

Peter screamed, “You can kiss my ass on Hollywood Boulevard, you wanna make it right!” Peter didn’t look any happier to me, but Donnie was the expert.

The neatly dressed woman said, “You’re out of your fucking mind.” Then she turned and stalked out, dragging the rabbit-faced man with her. When they passed, I hummed a little bit of “There’s No Business Like Show Business.” Pat Kyle gave me an elbow.