While on set, I must have checked my beeper every five minutes. I made Amy call it several times a day to make sure it worked. Psoriasis had come and gone most of my life, but now with the stress of waiting, it flared all over my body worse than ever. Richard Dreyfuss, who for some reason never liked me, would slap the scalp flakes off my shoulders and say, “That’s disgusting, man.” He was by then sober, and I was always tempted to remind him of the night he snorted coke off a Bob’s Big Boy statuette at Carrie Fisher’s after his shitty review in Othello.
