Some years ago, I got the idea of putting together a book of my collected works. A publisher is needed to embark upon such an adventure, and in order to get a publisher you need a literary agent.

After a few timid excursions on the stormy Sea of Literacy, I came into contact with Mitch, a literary agent from New York. Mitch seemed like a nice guy and appeared to be knowledgeable regarding all things literary.

Mitch explained that as a first-time author I was trapped in a Catch-22: an author generally can’t get published unless they have already been published. After languishing in the latitudes of first-time authorship for some while, Mitch crowed that a wondrous idea had appeared on his horizon.

If I could just come to the city for a few days, he said, the chances of sighting the blessed shores of Book Deal Land would increase exponentially. Most New Yorkers believe that the world drops off sharp west of the Hudson River. If I could personally meet some key players, it could make all the difference.

And so, I sailed upon the turbulent waters of commercial airline travel to that undiscovered land known as the Big Apple.

Mitch met me at the airport and immediately suggested that we go to its bar and wet our whistles. As he slurped his vodka gimlet, Mitch said that he had found an economical hotel for me in Tarrytown. I took this as a good omen as Mark Twain once lived in Tarrytown.

But there’s a fine line between “economical” and “fleabag.” I discovered that my hotel fell well on the wrong side of that line. Uffda.

On the morning of our scheduled appointments, Mitch met me at the Tarrytown train station. Arriving at Grand Central Terminal, Mitch insisted that we visit the Grand Central Oyster Bar where, he said, they serve the world’s best Bloody Marys.

I asked if it was wise to imbibe right before a business meeting. Mitch patiently explained that having a snort prior to a meeting is standard operating procedure in the Big City. Uffda.

I nursed my Bloody Mary while Mitch downed two, which he chased with a vodka on the rocks. Thus fortified, we sailed off to our Big Meeting.

The meeting went fine, but my internal compass whispered that it would lead nowhere. Mitch seemed on top of his game despite (because of?) his pre-meeting tippling.

As we strode out of the skyscraper and into Manhattan’s windswept concrete canyons, Mitch revealed that the other two appointments that he’d made had been cancelled. I couldn’t help but wonder whether they had ever existed in the first place. Uffda!

Saying that he didn’t need to be home for some time, Mitch suggested that we drop into a nearby bar. We did, and Mitch “networked” — his term for yakking with other patrons – while doing his best to secure robust profits for the vodka industry. Uffda.

Mitch was wobbling like a drunken penguin by the time we caught the last train to Tarrytown. It was quite late when we exited the train and walked onto the dim and deserted platform.

Mitch slumped onto a bench, leaving me to ponder what to do next. No buses were running, and it didn’t seem likely that a cab would appear at that late hour. Without a word, Mitch got up, staggered over to the track side of the platform, and began to relieve himself into the yawning abyss. Uffda!

As he stood there swaying, I got an idea. Nah. It was only 10 feet to the ground. He would likely survive the fall, although there was a chance that he would get zapped if he somehow connected with the third rail.

We eventually opted to hoof it into Tarrytown. At one point, Mitch decided that he needed a cigarette. The act of lighting his cigarette caused him to lose his balance and he tumbled onto the grass beside the sidewalk. The cigarette when flying, but Mitch quickly recovered it. He then put its lit end into his mouth.

My only thought was, “Good Lord! Here I am, 1,500 miles from home in a city of eight million and the only person I know is lying on the ground with the lit end of his cigarette in his mouth!”

Uffda mega!

I eventually managed to flag down a cab. I stuffed Mitch into its backseat and threw a twenty-dollar bill at the cabbie.

How did that whole mess turn out?

No book deal came of it, and I doubt that I’ll ever see that twenty again.

It was a good lesson, but still: Uffda!

— Jerry’s book, “Dear County Agent Guy” can be found at www.workman.com and in bookstores nationwide.