NEVERMEET*YOURHEROES

2010was the peak of my time at Trigger Street Productions. I had been through the ups and downs of being an assistant in a tough industry but I was a few years in and had found my footing.

My boss, Dana Brunetti, was an up-and-coming film producer, having just completed "21" for Sony Pictures. In 2008, we started working with author Ben Mezrich to develop and produce his latest book Accidental Billionaires, which was the source material for what would become "The Social Network".

By now, I fancied myself as something of a "Dana-whisperer". I knew what he was going to want for lunch before he did. I knew when he would want to make a call before it happened. I knew when he was about to lose his shit. That all took a few years to develop but I'd gotten to a good spot in my role.

When David Fincher signed on to direct The Social Network, my fanboy self kicked into high gear. I found the 10th anniversary DVD edition of Fight Club on Amazon and ordered it to our office. The office was full of amazing memorabilia from the various movies Dana had produced, so this was my way of starting my own collection of cool-things-collected-along-the-way.

But the real reason I ordered that DVD is that I wanted to get it signed. And I wanted Dana to do that for me. But rather than just ask Dana, I set the DVD prominently on my desk, a desk that he walked by every day. My Dana-whisperer plan was that he would eventually notice it, and simply offer to get it signed one day he was on set.

Sure enough, one day, good-mood Dana descends from his third floor office into the main loft area on his way out the door. "What's this?" he asked, picking up the DVD. "Oh I got it when Fincher signed on to direct. Huge fan of his movies, that one especially" I said, giving nothing more than that.

"Cool. Want me to get it signed for you?" he said.

"Haha fuck yeah!" I said in disbelief that my plan was already working.

I had been in Hollywood long enough to hear the stories about Fincher, especially on set. This was not someone you just walked up to and asked for an autograph. But if Dana was up for the challenge, all the better for me. He was on his way to set that day, so I figured I'd be the owner of a freshly signed Fight Club DVD by Monday.

But like George W. Bush in 2003, my "Mission Accomplished" banner was unveiled a bit too early.

Weeks went by. I never asked about the DVD.

Then one day Dana invited me to the set. I was thrilled. I never pushed about visiting set. I had been to a few sets on smaller films and realized that if you visit a movie set and do not have a specific role in what's being done that day, it can be a very awkward place to be.

I believe it was a Jewish holiday that day because all the studios and agencies were closed but production was still up and running. I remember these details because it was the perfect day to visit set. There would be no frantic emails from other assistants to ruin these special few hours.

The other assistant, Matt, and I met Dana at the office to ride to set together. As we neared the door to leave, Dana stopped. "Andy, get a sharpie. You need to get your DVD signed."

My heart stopped. The script had flipped. Panic swelled.

"You didn't get it signed already? Dude, don't worry about it. I don't even care about that!" I stammered.

Blood in the water. The shark smelled fear. "Get the fucking sharpie," he said.

We get into his car, Matt in the front and me in the back. As I sit down, I see my DVD. It's on the floor of the car, halfway under the passenger seat. It has not been touched or thought about for weeks.

I plead my case of indifference the entire car ride but the more I try to wiggle out of getting this DVD signed, the more he doubles down. We park on the lot and I deliberately leave the DVD in the car. Before we enter the studio, he stops. "Where's the DVD?"

JFC. This is now just entertainment for him. He wants to see me melt in real-time. I double back to the car in the pouring rain and get the damn DVD.

Inside, the set is beautifully organized chaos. We're on a sound stage in West Hollywood and the cavernous room is full of props, people and lights.

I have no idea what to do or where to stand. I'm relatively tall but on this day I feel like Manute Bol with nowhere to hide. Rashida Jones smiles at me. I think I smile back but I was so uncomfortable given what I feared to be ahead of me that I can't be sure. Hopefully I smile back.

Suddenly, the seas part and Fincher appears. At least 14 people are vying for his attention. Dana barely registers on his radar, but they exchange a brief word and Dana hurriedly summons Matt and me over to him. "These are my assistants, Matt and Andy" he says. Fincher offers two curt "hellos" with a pair of handshakes that say "I hope we never do this again".

David is back to work before our hands separate.

Sticks clap, sound speeds and action's called. The set is quiet. For a brief moment, I'm completely present, watching an auteur at the peak of his powers. Maybe I'm in the clear? An all-time backfire avoided.

Then Dana leans in. "They cut for lunch in an hour. We get the DVD signed then, and then we're out of here."

The following hour was the longest two days of my life.

Matt and I gravitate towards the darkest part of the sound stage to quell some of the angst of being in the belly of the beast with absolutely nothing to do. In a panic, I ditch the DVD under a pile of prop books. That'll do it, I think. I'll just intentionally lose this thing and hope for the best.

If that was my best plan you know my mental state was in rapid deterioration.

And then, it's time. The set bell rings. Lights come up. Moods are less serious. All moods, that is, except mine. Matt offers no help. "Just get it over with," he says, like a man with absolutely no fragile pride on the line.

I try one more time to escape but Dana calls me down the river and tells me to go get the DVD.

I scramble into the darkness and locate the not-lost DVD. As I'm walking back into the lights, I see a crowd of important people around Fincher, Dana being one of them. He's getting his quick word in. Dana's face turns to find mine, and I swear to god he's smirking at me.

"My assistant wanted you to sign this for him" he says, putting absolutely no sauce on the delivery. Fincher gives me this look. His eyebrows raise at me, head tilted down.

If this scene had subtitles they would read "IS THIS KID FUCKING SERIOUS?"

"What's your name again?" he says, making it crystal clear he does not recall the name I stated an hour earlier.

"Andrew."

I said Andrew. My legal name is Andrew. For the preceding 25 years, I had never once introduced myself as Andrew. Always Andy. I was Andy to my friends. To my co-workers. To my family.

But on this day, to David Fincher, who apparently I thought was a government official, I said Andrew.

He's done signing by the time I realize what I said, and at that point, I'm just thrilled to be leaving.

I take the pen and DVD and walk straight for the parking lot.

We get to the car and I'm ready to talk about anything but what just happened.

"Did he sign it? What did he write?" asks Dana from the front seat.

I look down and read it straight from the cover.

"Andrew - WHY? DF"

Dana laughs. Then hysterically. Matt joins.

I learned two things that day.

1. Never meet your heroes when they are working and ask them for an autograph 2. Dana Brunetti is really hard to out-maneuver.

The start, and nearly the end, of my movie memorabilia collection.