Nick Nolte was feelin’ down…way down. He sat on his front steps and hung his head like a bad dog. Instinctively, he reached for his smokes (in his shirt’s front pocket), but then decided he had smoked enough already. His throat felt raw, as if long strings of skin were hanging down his esophagus…as if a chicken had taken its claws and had a regular damn field day down in there. Smoking is for the young, thought Nick, and, grimacing, shaking his head, slipped the smokes back in place. Smoking is for the young….

In the surrounding yards, all the neighborhood kids were playing. Some were running through a sprinkler, some were building a cardboard clubhouse, and some were playing a good solid game of "Kick the Can" (except instead of a can, they were using the head of a squirrel). To Nick, all this looked like fun. Nick thought back to when he himself had been a child. Ah, but that was a long time ago. Longer than he cared to remember. A lot of water under the bridge since then, thought Nick…a lot of water under the bridge.

The memories of those past days came rushing back in a flood. Yes, he had once been a child. Not only that, but he had been an exceptional child. A smart child. A child that all the teachers had loved. And what had happened to that child? Had it just…gone away? Nick Nolte felt his forearm and thought: this is the same forearm I had as a child. The exact same forearm. The only thing is, now that forearm has grown up. It is now a man’s forearm. My forearm. And I am Nick Nolte.

Once again, Nick grimaced. He had come a long way since those days. Back then he had been nothing but a snot-nosed kid, a kid just like any other. The only difference was, he had had a dream. You see, when all the other kids had been content just goofing off, doing all the normal things that kids do, Nick had kept that dream close to him…close to his heart. (Next to your heart is where dreams, if you want to keep them, can be kept warm.)

And what was Nick’s dream? Well, ever since he was a child, he had always wanted to be an actor. And not just a regular actor either, not just another run-of-the-mill everyday-type actor…no, Nick wanted to be an actor with chutzpah. An actor who knew what the hell he was doing, dammit…an actor who really knew how to act.

For example: let’s say the director wants to shoot a scene…a tough scene. And he needs an actor to say the lines…to cry maybe, or perhaps even to laugh. Who does he call? Nick was proud enough at this point, somewhere in the back of his mind, to stand up and say: "Me. The director would call me." And Nick could afford to say this too, because he had made all his dreams into reality. He had formed them in the way that a pottery-guy forms stuff out of clay, or in the way that a mechanic fixes a flat: he had formed them out of nothing.

So, anyway: Nick, still sitting there on his front steps, again shook his head. Again he reached for his smokes, and again caught himself. For the thousandth time this afternoon, then, he craned his head in order to search down the street. He squinted his eyes. When, he thought, would the mailman arrive? It seemed like a million years since the mailman (Larry) had last walked down the street, a smile on his face, a bounce in his step…but in fact it had really only been since yesterday. And yesterday, sadly, Larry had had no mail for Nick. (Well, to be honest, there had been a few items, but mostly just junk mail. And Nick, like the rest of us, had no use for junk mail.)

See, what Nick was really waiting for was a screenplay. A big screenplay. And supposedly, Nick was going to be offered a part in the movie that would soon be made from this screenplay. And not just any part, either; it was to be a mighty important part…perhaps the role of a lifetime.

So why was Nick so "down in the dumps"? It’s hard to say, really. Could be any number of reasons, but probably the most likely was that Nick had a very severe drinking problem. In other words, he was an alcoholic…a drunk. And even though he hadn’t had a drink in about five or six hours (since breakfast), it still was making him pretty damn depressed. Of course, he was certainly "jonesing" for a drink — perhaps a shot of whiskey, or even a beer — but that morning he had decided to go ahead and stop drinking for good. "Cold Turkey," as John Lennon had written many years ago. (In fact, of all the songs that John Lennon had written in his lifetime — before he had been gunned-down in cold blood by an unbalanced fan on the front steps of his apartment building The Dakota -- Nick believed that "Cold Turkey" was probably one of the best. Or maybe it was just the one with which Nick could most identify.)

But that wasn’t important right then. What was important was that the mailman arrive, and arrive more or less very soon. Nick wanted to read that damn script! He wanted to know about the role that he was being asked to play, in order to prepare himself…in order to make himself ready. Because when that director — whoever it was, Spielberg, Lucas, whoever — snapped his fingers, Nick wanted to be ready to jump, and to jump as high as was necessary. If the director wanted him to do push-ups, Nick would do push-ups. If the director wanted him to climb a rope all the way to the top, touch the ceiling, and then climb all the way back down again, well then…Nick would be willing to do that too. Basically, whatever the director wanted, Nick was the man.

Which was why the mailman had to get here soon, and pronto.

Speak of the devil. All of a sudden, from down the street a little ways, Nick could hear the familiar clip-clop, clip-clop of the mailman’s boots. Nick watched, too, as all at once the neighborhood kids stopped with their games and — with a great hurrah! — came rushing to greet the approaching mailman. Laughing and calling out, the kids formed a circle around the good-natured postal worker, who at once began dispensing treats. He pulled Snickers bars and Reese’s Cups from his mailbag and tossed them up into the air, and the candy rained down upon the kids like pennies from heaven.

When this daily ritual had thankfully come to a finish, Larry the mailman hitched up his pants and made a beeline right towards Nick. Nick stood up and smiled.

"How ya doin’, Larry," he said, reaching out to shake the mailman’s hand.

"I’m doin’ all right," said the mailman. "How you doin’, Nick?"

[Incidentally, Larry’s comment here is prompted by the fact that, on the previous day, Nick had informed the mailman of his intention to soon go "cold turkey" with the alcohol. Upon hearing Nick’s statement, the mailman had then claimed that he himself had once gone "cold turkey", also with alcohol. Nick had squinted at the man suspiciously. The fresh-faced postal worker certainly didn’t look like a man who had once been a drinker…but these days, who really knew.

"I wish you all the luck in the world, Nick," the mailman had said, patting Nick on the shoulder. "I know what you’re going through."

And then he had handed Nick the junk mail and walked slowly away.]

"Doin’ just fine, Larry," Nick lied. But his face told a different story. Larry, the mailman, recognized this and put on a sympathetic expression. They were both in this together, the expression said.

"I’m here for you, Nick," Larry said out loud. "You know that."

Nick nodded. "I know that," he said, fighting back the tears. "I know that, Larry…"

A moment passed between the two men. At last, Nick shuffled his feet uncomfortably, wishing the mailman would just do his job and then go away. Larry got the hint, and — with a click of his heels — at last handed over the mail.

"I’m rootin’ for ya, Nick," he said over his shoulder as he walked back down Nick’s path. "Remember that." He thrust a fist of solidarity into the air as he rounded the corner.

Nick was left standing there on his front steps with tears in his eyes and a pile of mail in his hands. Slowly, very slowly, he shook his head. That Larry was a fine mailman, he thought to himself. A very fine mailman indeed.

And with this thought, he began searching through his mail for the long-awaited screenplay. It would probably come in a big yellow envelope, so that’s what Nick was looking for. Hmmm. Junk mail, junk mail, bills, and more junk mail. Unfortunately, no big yellow envelope. Nick grimaced. Damn.

At that moment, toodle-ooing around the corner and through Nick’s front gate was none other than Midge Springstep, Nick’s beautiful next-door neighbor. Midge was wearing her usual flower dress and Easter hat and in her left hand she was carrying a picnic basket. In her other hand she gripped a big yellow envelope.

"Nick!" she cried out, waving the envelope. "Looks like Larry screwed up again! See? I got your mail!"

Nick burst into a big grin. He should have known. That Larry.

"Thank you very much," said Nick, taking the envelope from the gorgeous young woman. Immediately he tore it open (tossing the scraps onto the lawn), and pulled out a thick booklet. Yep. It was the screenplay all right.

"Looks like you were expecting that, Nick," said Midge.

"Remember how I told you," said Nick, "how I was looking forward to my next big movie project? Well, this," he waved the screenplay, "is it! This is the big one! This is the one that’s gonna take me all the way!"

He burst into crazy laughter, and did a shimmying sort of dance, spreading his fingers and wiggling his hips. Midge seemed amused.

"I’m glad for you, Nick," she said. "Speaking of which, how ‘bout a little celebration? A picnic? I made some sandwiches…"

Nick stopped dancing and eyed her suspiciously. "What kind of sandwiches?" he said at last.

Midge paused for a long time. Her gaze was fixed on her shoes, which were purple with yellow polka dots. From somewhere far away came the familiar ding-ding-ding of the Ice Cream Man. Across the street some children squealed with glee.

"Ham," Midge mumbled finally, not tearing her gaze from her shoes. "And one or two tuna fish…"

The dinging was slowly coming closer. Neighborhood kids ran back and forth across lawns, driveways, sidewalks and streets, crying out for their parents. They were frenzied, ecstatic.

Slowly, a smile spread across Nick’s craggy face. "Tuna fish," he said, "sounds great."

Midge heaved a big sigh of relief. She wiped her hand across her brow and rolled her eyes. A plane flew overhead. The Ice Cream Man was approaching now; he seemed just a block or two away. Kids appeared at streetside, clutching fists of money, hopping from one foot to the next. One little girl ran in circles in the middle of the street, waving an American flag. Nick patted his breast pocket instinctively. Yes, he still had his smokes.

"Well, what are we waiting for?" he said. "Let’s go!"