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to find his reservation. We live in a world of banal miracles.
    “Here for business or pleasure, Mr. Wheeler?”
    “Redemption,” Shane says.
    “Insurance?”
    Coverage declined, upgrade shaken off, pricey GPS and refueling options rejected, Shane heads off with a rental agreement, a set of keys, and a map that looks like it was drawn by a ten-year-old on meth. Ensconced in a rented red Kia, Shane slides the driver’s seat into the same zip code as the steering wheel, takes a breath, starts the car, and rehearses the first words of his first-ever pitch: So there’s this guy . . .
    An hour later, he’s somehow farther from his appointment. Shane’s Kia is gridlocked and, he thinks, might even be pointed in the wrong direction (the GPS now seeming like a screaming deal). Shane tosses aside the worthless rental-car map and tries Gene Pergo’s cell: voice mail. He tries the agent who set up the meeting, but the agent’s assistant says, “Sorry, I don’t have Andrew,” whatever that means. He begrudgingly tries his mom’s cell, then his dad’s, and finally, the home number: Shit , where are they? The next number that pops into his head is his ex-wife’s. Saundra is the last person he wants to call right now—but that’s just how desperate he feels.
    His name must pop up on her phone still, because her first words are: “Tell me you’re calling because you have the rest of the money you owe me.”
    This is what he hoped to avoid—the whole who-ruined-whose-credit and who-stole-whose-car business that has colored their every conversation for a year. He sighs. “As a matter of fact, I’m in the process of getting your money right now, Saundra.”
    “You’re not giving plasma again?”
    “No. I’m in LA, pitching a movie.”
    She laughs and then realizes he’s serious. “Wait. You’re writing a movie now?”
    “No. I’m pitching a movie. First you pitch it, then you write it.”
    “No wonder movies suck,” she says. This is classic Saundra: a waitress with a poet’s pretensions. They met in Tucson, where she worked at Cup of Heaven, the coffee shop where Shane went to write every morning. He fell for, in order: her legs, her laugh, and the way she idealized writers and was willing to support his work.
    For her part—she said at the end—she fell mostly for his bullshit.
    “Look,” Shane says, “could you just hold the cultural criticism and MapQuest Universal City for me?”
    “You seriously have a meeting in Hollywood?”
    “Yes,” Shane says. “With a big producer on a studio lot.”
    “What are you wearing?”
    He sighs and tells her what Gene Pergo told him, that it doesn’t matter what one wears to a pitch meeting ( Unless you own a bullshit-proof suit ).
    “I’ll bet I know what you’re wearing,” Saundra says, and proceeds to describe his outfit down to the socks.
    Shane is regretting this call. “Just help me figure out where I’m going.”
    “What’s your movie called?”
    Shane sighs. He has to remember they’re no longer married; her bitter-cool ironic streak has no power over him anymore. “Donner!”
    Saundra is quiet a moment. But she knows his interests, his reading table obsessions. “You’re writing a movie about cannibals?”
    “I told you, I’m pitching a movie, and it’s not about cannibals.”
    Clearly, the Donner Party could be a tough subject for a film. But pitches are all in the take , as Michael Deane wrote in the oft-copied chapter fourteen of his memoir/self-help classic, The Deane’s Way :
Ideas are sphincters. Every asshole has one. Your take is what counts. I could walk into Fox today and sell a movie about a restaurant that serves baked monkey balls if I had the right take.
     
    And Shane has the perfect “take.” Donner! will concern itself not with the classic Donner Party story—all those people stuck at the awful camp, freezing and starving to death and finally eating one another—but with the story of a cabinetmaker in the party,