One month had already been ripped from the calendar. We needed to make a battle plan, devise a strategy for the road ahead. We wanted books by people who had actually made movies, not academic works on moviemaking, but practical experience from frontline soldiers. We walked over to the entertainment section and plunged in.

Two hours later:

"We need to buy these," Logan said, holding a stack of books.
"You're out of your mind," Noah said, adding up the sticker prices in his head. "We came here to read, not buy. If it's important, write it down."

"What do you want me to do, write down the whole damn book?"

"I don't know. Figure it out. You're a smart guy. We ain't buying anything."

"We're buying them."

"You got money?!" Noah yelled. "`Cause 1 ain't got any money! Unless you got a stash 1 don't know about."

Noah has a flair for loud candor. He yells in public. He's the asshole who has the argument in the crowded elevator. It's not as if he's deliberately rude, because as soon as you point out he's yelling and disturbing others, he whispers. Yelling is just his habit of communication. He's what a therapist might call "passionate."

"I guarantee that whatever we spend on these books we'll make back a hundredfold," Logan said, pounding his fist into the cover of the Guerrilla Filmmaker's Handbook. He turned over the book and read the tagline to Noah. "The Guerilla Filmmaker's Handbook is the definitive guide. Buy it and save yourself thousands of dollars . . ."

The sales pitch hung in the air. Noah grabbed the book and flipped through it. We barely had enough money for rent. The business of death had drained our savings.

Fifteen minutes later Noah looked up from the book, a religious transformation in his eyes.