The group strolls raggedly along a wide pathway of white-gray concrete with inlaid patterns made with red mudbrick. Animated voices in conversation and snippets of laughter float in the breeze. We're a bit subdued, though. The battle is nearly over, and we're bracing for the final stabs of the workshop knife later this evening. The wind picked up Carla's hair. She has a seven month old daughter here with her--her husband came expressly to keep her and give Carla the time to do this workshop, and in many ways, little Aurora is an island of sane reality for the group.

     Walking down the Paramount studio sidewalk, I feel tension seeping away.

     The studio folks are cautious, I guess. We're told that it would be a good idea to put away our cameras. No pictures allowed.

     There are office buildings to the left, a grassy area to the right. Just moments ago, we had seen a video of the studio's history. It was a wonderful film with a series of images and memories that had filled my heart and made me consider things that are important and things that are not.

     We walk past a bench that's different than the others. It's wooden, not concrete, thick slats tied with iron rods. A bronze plate is affixed to it telling us that this is one of three benches used in filming Forrest Gump. We all look at it as we pass, fighting the supreme urge to sit and pass time.

     I'm now thinking about people who have walked this sidewalk before.

     So, here, walking amid the silvered ghosts of Bogart and Hope and Crosby and so many countless others, I gaze around me, taking in the group of people I had spent the last week with.

     They are a different bunch. No, I correct myself. I don't think it's them that are different--but me instead. I'm looking at them differently. I've watched them struggle, and I've now read their stories. I see Brian's flare for elegance in the way his long hair cascades down his back. Chris smiles and flitters from person to person, weaving a network of connection. Everyone has their own little space. It's comfortable, and I think for the first time we're real.

     The Bridge photographer lines us up for a group shot. He's been hanging around for a couple days, documenting the event and taking publicity photos. A fountain crashes wetly behind us. When it's done I look at the water.

     Then there is a click.

     I don't know who it was. But there was definitely a click. Then another. I promise, officer, I have no idea who it was. The Bridge guy took some more posed shots, including one of me and my evil twin Chris that I really hope I can get hold of later.

     Suddenly the barriers break and the clicks are all out in the open. People with cameras are milling through the crowd, shooting away. We smile. We put our arms around each other's shoulders. Film captures the moment in the hollow way of photographs, but I now think our hearts will do a better job in later years.

     There is something missing, though. Something calling through the murk like a distant echo. That's it, of course. That's it.

     Carla and I are first. We walk directly to it and sit down, me on the left, her on the right, the bronze plaque between us so it will show up in the pictures. A good bench. The wind smells suddenly fresh.

     Carla looks at me and says, "Makes you feel like having a box of chocolates, doesn't it?"