“I’ll read it all,” I said. “If it’s any good, I’ll represent you. I’ll find you work. I can’t promise Paramount or MGM, or even Empire or Paragon, but I can promise I will work for you, and I’ll take ten percent of everything you make from here to eternity.” Everyone guffawed at that. “We’re all in the same boat, aren’t we? All starting out. We need each other. Bring me your tired, your poor, your huddled masses of words. Tell your friends,” I added, glancing around Schwab’s. “I’m open for business.”

My announcement had its intended effect. Pleased, I walked out of Schwab’s, turned down Sunset, and went to church.

That is, I went to the first movie theater I came to. From Here to Eternity was playing, and the girl in the ticket booth (another simmering beauty) said it had already started. I didn’t care. I had already seen it. Besides, I don’t go to the movies for the film. I go for the religious experience. The Church of Rick and Ilsa, as Julia used to call it.

I bought some popcorn, stepped into the dark, and took an aisle seat, delighted that I hadn’t missed the rolling-on-the-beach scene where for a few brief, ecstatic seconds Burt Lancaster and Deborah Kerr clasp each other in the surf. Oh, I long to meet the man who could do that for a woman! I sighed, nibbled the popcorn, and sank happily into the film.