He wouldn’t have to physically defend himself against a crazed maniac after all. Quite the contrary. His assailant was powerless and disabled, old and sickly to boot. The geezer had to be in his eighties, guessed the producer. The old man’s strong grip came from years of supporting himself on a crutch. He had been frightened by a lame, emaciated bum, frail and misshapen.

The cripple had a face full of liver spots. He hadn’t shaved in days. His sparse beard was filthy. Crumbs of food were embedded in it. His lips were chapped, split in some places, with several sores on them. The old cripple’s entire right side was tilted down toward the street. His right arm hung limply by his side. His right leg appeared to be almost useless. It was obvious he’d suffered a stroke. The cripple wore a seedy, weather-beaten fedora and a torn and stained overcoat worn more for protection than looks, like a turtle’s carapace. The coat was held together by one button and several large safety pins. Portions of dirty socks protruded through the sides of his old, cracked shoes.

The producer’s relief turned immediately to violent machismo. He pulled away from the filthy clutching fingers with a violent jerk. When he did, the old cripple stumbled backward one or two steps. Several passersby scowled at the man for being so arrogant and physical with someone so old and less fortunate than himself.

The cripple seemed unperturbed.

The producer was furious. Goddamn it, he thought, why do I always attract the lunatic fringe? Why does every panhandler follow me down the entire length of the street asking for money, waving his filthy paper cup in my face? How come every hobo carrying a billboard on his back shoves his flyers into my stomach and every pedestrian with the flu coughs and sneezes in my direction when he walks by? And why does every nitwit in Manhattan stop me to give me his god-awful television ideas? As sure as I’m standing here, this derelict has the best television show ever created by man.

“What do you think you’re doing?” hissed the producer.

“Aren’t you…aren’t you the guy who—?”

“I’m not anyone you should be the least bit concerned about.”

“But you are, aren’t you? You’re the famous—”

The cripple slurred his words when he talked. Yellowish spittle gathered in the corners of his mouth and saliva drippings covered his chin. Nothing about the poor soul was the least bit appealing.

“I’m not famous.”

“Yes, you are.”

“Just go away, you son of a bitch, and leave me alone.”