Not Me

It was 11 o'clock on a Saturday morning when I heard a knock. I moved out of my bed and groggily opened the door. It was a film crew.

"Tortelli, we're here to make a documentary of your life," a director in ball cap and goatee said.

I pushed a boom mike out of my face and said dismissively: "Call on Zigman Zibanski or Manny Weinberg. I'm going back to bed."

I fell asleep not liking filmmakers anymore than I had before. Later that day I wondered: "Was that Martin Scorcese?"