Eric was in the restaurant with Orlando , being unruly. Of course he was. He was always in the restaurant with Orlando , being unruly. When I walked in they were throwing pieces of breadstick at a couple who, a few tables down from them, was tearfully breaking up.

            “Eric,” I announced my presence as I walked up behind them.

            “’Ello, Call-Boy,” Eric replied without turning around.

            Orlando looked up at me with a sneer. “Why don’t you just go away?”

            “Nice to see you too, Orlando ,” I nodded.

            “Relax, Orry,” Eric held up his hand, “I asked him to come.”

            “Why?” Orlando was baffled.

            The woman that was one half of the ex-couple that was being assaulted by the duo’s breadsticks got up, and through bitter tears fled past our table to the door, all the while being bombarded by the pair of laughing scamps that sat before me.

            “Christ, you guys,” I muttered.

            “Alright, Coll’,” Eric finally turned to me, “I have decided I want to work with Brad Pitt.”

            “Umm…okay.” I was hesitant. Eric’s last request had been to work with Ang Lee, the director of “Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon.” And when Eric wants to work with somebody, he wants to work with them now. I had heard Ang Lee had plans for a western called “Brokeback Mountain” and I thought the concept of Lee and Eric teaming up for a balls-to-the-wall cowboy flick sounded promising. But, nothing doing, Eric wanted to work with Ang Lee as soon as he could. Well, “Hulk” had released just earlier that week, and it had been… less than stellar. Of course, by this time the actual plot for “Brokeback Mountain” had been leaked, and come and find out it wasn’t going to be the shoot ‘em up kung fu western I’d expected. But either way, “Hulk” was crap. And I knew that what Brad Pitt was working on next was crap too.

            “The thing is, Eric,” I said, “Brad’s going to be working on this sword and sandal blockbuster flick next.”

            “Alright!” Eric interrupted, “What’s it’s name?”

            “But, Eric,” I hesitated, “You just put out a comic book movie. If you follow it up with another blockbuster, you could become typecast as The Action Guy.”

            “The Australian Action Guy,” Eric grinned.

            “Hugh Jackman’s already got that gig,” I told him.

            Orlando laughed.

            “Alright, point taken,” Eric said, “But either way, it’s a Brad Pitt film. And I wanna work with that guy.”

            “Why?”

            “Oh, don’t be dense, Coll’,” he sneered, “He was in ‘SE7EN,’ he was in ’12 Monkeys,’ he was in ‘Fight Club’ and ‘Snatch.’ The bloke’s amazing! Tell me what he’s working on next.”

            “Okay, okay,” I sighed, “It’s based on Homer’s ‘The Iliad.’ …It’s called ‘ Troy .’”

            “Say, I’m thinking about working on that one,” Orlando chimed in.

            “Groovy, mate, let’s do it!” Eric cheered, “Why, we haven’t worked together since ‘Black Hawk Down!’”

            My mind was scrambling, trying to figure out how to turn Eric away from this project. He was such a celebrated actor in Australia , then when he decided to transition to Hollywood he hired me as his agent. Nearly five years later and the only good roles I’d gotten him were a helicopter pilot in “Black Hawk Down” and the voice of a hammerhead shark in “Finding Nemo.” Hardly a stellar filmography.

            I’d heard rumors of Steven Spielberg wanting to make a movie about the 1972 Munich Olympics. If I could get Eric into that, I could secure his place as a legitimate actor in America . But to do that, I would also need to get him the hell away from the world of sword and sandal blockbusters.

            “So, Call-Boy,” Eric stood, “Get me in that ‘ Troy ’ film, will ya? That’s all I ask of you. Go about your way.”

            “Eric,” I tried to reason with him, “At least read the script first!”

            “I don’t want to,” he rebuttled, “Brad Pitt read it, and Brad Pitt liked it. So there you are.”

            I forgot there was no reasoning with Australians.

            At this point in our conversation, Eric abruptly walked away from the table, leaving me in the company of a hostile Orlando Bloom. I tried to not look him in the eyes. Nothing infuriates a wild Bloom like making eye contact. This thought brought a smile to my face, and I had to stifle a laugh.

            Then, unexpectedly and unwarrantedly, Orlando spoke. “You don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said.

            Utterly befuddled, I had no choice but to turn to him. “Excuse me?”

            “‘Troy ’s’ gonna be awesome,” Orlando informed me.

            I didn’t take Will Turner’s opinion too seriously.

            Finally Eric returned, carrying more baskets of breadsticks. “You’re still here?” he asked me, dropping them on the table.

            I shook my head. “Nope,” I said, “I’m out.” And I quickly left as Eric and Orlando continued to terrorize the restaurant patrons.

            A couple months later, my cell phone rang.

            I groaned awake to the tingy, metallic sounds of AC/DC’s “Back in Black” playing through the darkness. I paused, deciding whether or not to answer it. Next to me, my girlfriend Linda stirred.

            “Are you gonna get that?” she mumbled.

            “I guess so,” I said and fumbled around the bedstand for the phone. I turned it over, and a bright picture of Eric’s face shined up to greet me. I shielded my eyes and flipped it open. “Eric?” I murmured.

            “That’s my name, aye,” he barked through the phone, “What kind of crap did you sign me up for Collin?!”

            I instantly stood. I could always tell when Eric was being serious, and that’s when he called me by my real name, not some nickname like “Coll’”, “Call-Boy”, or “Colliflower.” “What’s wrong Eric?” I demanded, trying to stay calm.

            “THIS MOVIE’S WRONG!” he cried, “The script was written by a monkey, the director’s a brain damaged Neanderthal, the cinematographer doesn’t have any idea what he’s doing, and Brad Pitt’s a real meanie face!”

            “Well…Eric…” I looked at the clock and sighed, “Eric, it’s too late to back out. I’m sorry, but you’re already committed. And do you know that it’s three in the morning?”

            There was a pause. “No…” he said slowly, “It’s almost noon, actually.”

            “Well,” I had to stifle a laugh, “You’re in Malta . Remember?”

            “Aye,” he said, “And do you-“

            “And I’m in L.A. ” I reminded him.

            There was a heavy sigh on his end. “Please don’t interrupt me, Collin,” he spoke bitterly, “Now,” he continued, “I am in Malta . And do you know what I’m doing in Malta ?”

            “You’re filming ‘ Troy .’”

            Another heavy sigh. “No,” he informed me.

            “Oh really? You’re not filming ‘ Troy ?’”

            “Please don’t pull an attitude with me, Collin,” he said, “I am filming the worst movie ever made.”

            “Worse than ‘Hulk?’” I asked, “I doubt that.”

            “Oh, sure, kick me while I’m down.”

            I sighed and reminded him that Oliver Stone was currently working on an Alexander the Great biopic starring that one Irish actor that has the same first name as me. And I reminded him how improbable it was that “ Troy ” would be worse than that flick. Then I told him about Steven Spielberg’s Munich project, at which point he instantly brightened up. Seriously, his attitude pulled a total 180. It was weird, but it was something I’d come to grips with ever since I started working with Eric.

            “Yeah, yeah,” there was hope in his voice, “That sounds real groovy, mate. Only this time send me the script.” There was a pause. “I just winked,” he said.

            I laughed. “Alright, Eric,” I said, “Just keep your chin up, my friend. We’ll get you an Oscar yet!”

            “Absolutely right!” I could tell that he was smiling. “But, listen Coll’… I’m gonna have to call ya back, mate,” he told me, “We’re in the middle of a scene right now.”

            “You called me in the middle of a scene?” I couldn’t believe it.

            There was a very long silence. Then he abruptly hung up.

            Somewhere between a laugh and a sob, I sat back down on the bed, and buried my face in my palms.

            “Relax, babe,” Linda hugged me from behind, “It’s just an actor. You know how they are.”

            “It’s not just an actor,” I told her, “It’s the

actor. Eric muthafudgin’ Bana!” Linda didn’t appreciate profanity, so I’d found my ways around it.

            “Eric Bana’s not the actor,” she said, “That would be… I don’t know, Antonio Banderas or Denzel Washington or someone.”

            I didn’t respond.

            “Maybe Corey Feldman?” she offered, and then we both laughed.” Don’t stress,” she told me, “You wouldn’t look good with grey hair.”

            “Thanks,” I grinned.

            “This is Hollywood , babe,” she reminded me, “Everyone’s a little bit crazy.”

            “But Eric’s Australian.”

            “Especially the Australians.”