I withdrew my left hand from behind my head and held it in front of my face, steadily, with fingers splayed - like the bespectacled X-ray glasses geek in the old comic book ad. If it was trying to get my attention, it had succeeded. Like a moisture-free Chinese water torture, I could feel a gentle drumming at the back of my skull. Interlocking the fingers of each hand steeple-style with their opposite number, I lifted them up and over behind my head and pinned them to the pillow. Five or six times in rapid succession I pumped my left hand into a fist, followed by a vigorous shaking out. But now that I noticed it, I was surprised to discover that I couldn't stop it. How long this had been going on I wasn't exactly sure. It was trembling, twitching, auto-animated.

I opened my eyes, keeping my hand suspended an inch or two in front of my face so I could finger-flick the little beastie across the room. A moth's wing - or so I thought - fluttered against my right cheek. Eyes clenched shut, I placed the palm of my left hand across the bridge of my nose in a weak attempt to block the glare.

None of that having transpired, I knew I had at least a few minutes.Įven with the lights off, blinds down, and drapes pulled, an offensive amount of light still filtered into the room. If I had to leave the hotel at 10:00A.M., let's say, she would have called at 9:30, again at 9:40, then at 9:50 she would have taken the elevator from her floor up to mine, let herself into my room, propelled me to the shower, and slipped into the kitchen to brew a pot of coffee. If I was needed on set, there would have been a phone call from my assistant, Brigette. In those first few seconds of consciousness, I didn't know what time it was, but I could be fairly certain that I hadn't overslept. It was a Tuesday morning, so while I couldn't recall the exact details of the previous night's debauchery, it was a pretty safe bet that it had something to do with Monday Night Football.

I'd only been shooting the movie in Florida for a week or so, and the massive, pink-lacquered, four-poster bed surrounded by the pastel hues of the University Center Hotel's Presidential Suite still came as a bit of a shock each morning. It wasn't a fax, telegram, memo, or the usual sort of missive bringing disturbing news. I woke up to find the message in my left hand.

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