Charlie Kaufman is having trouble getting the waiter's attention. We're at one of those Los Angeles restaurants where good-looking tan people talk earnestly over expensive salads. Kaufman, not Hollywood handsome, not tan, half eating a burger, would like more iced tea, please. But the waiter just doesn't see him. It could be his paleness. It's more likely his ability to disappear, forged from years of trying to avoid getting beaten up in high school. Or it could be that here, as elsewhere in this town, nobody really gives a toss about screenwriters.
Only in this case the waiter would be...
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