(Martin Forrest was a successful agent who booked travel films, mainly in New England— when the writer carried a filmmaker’s camera.)

Going back to the days of Martin Forrest, I have an interesting—or should I say  terrifying— story.

Martin would not book me into any of his New England shows until I personally penetrated his market—and then the call came: “Ralph, would you please come over to Boston. I would like to talk to you about doing some New England shows.”

It was late afternoon when I arrived at his home. (Looking back, Martin’s face now kind of reminds me of James Gandolfini—you know, the Soprano’s Tony.

‘Tony’ greeted me with a big smile.  “Hi, Ralph come on in, the dog won’t bother you.” (I don’t know about you, but I hate it when an owner says, his/her dog wont bother you.)

There in his living room was your typical junk-yard dog. Not a pretty sight. His lower lip was quivering and dripping saliva. The hair on the back of my neck came to attention.

Martin said, “Sit down while I go get some paperwork,” and turning to Junk-yard he added, “Now be good.” I cried silently to myself, “Don’t leave me alone.”

There are certain times in your life you will never forget: where you were and what you were doing: December 7th, 1941. The death of President Roosevelt. The assassination of John Kennedy. 9-11.

I know exactly where I was on that late afternoon in Martin’s home. I was seated in an old armchair in this dark room. The dog was lying on the carpet about seven feet away, staring at me, lip still quivering.

At every move I made he would tense up and bare his teeth—seemingly ready pounce at any time.   I probably would not have felt so helpless had I not experienced a similar event when I was a kid. And now history was repeating itself.

No. The dog did not jump, nor even bother me, but it was the longest 10 minutes of my life.

Martin invited me back several times, but somehow I was always busy. And I never returned. Junk-yard’s  picture will never leave me.

I eventually did a lot shows over the years for Martin’s agency, even after his death.                                                                                                          Oh, yes. His commission for me was only 25%