Him

I got an answer to my letter within the week. His producers were putting up his new show and I wanted in. If I couldn't sing in it, this was at least a chance to get a foot in the door. A day or two, he would see how talented I was and everything would fall into place. Very Eve Harrington.

"I'd really love to work for you," I wrote.

"I never use assistants," he responded, "but if you'd like to meet for a drink sometime, we could do that."

The note was typed, which I found unusual and sweetly old-fashioned. How nice, how personal, that someone as busy and famous as he, would take the time to -- wait a minute. Did he? I soon found out that his secretary typed his correspondence, which dropped me into a literary three-way with someone I didn't want to know my business. Our business. Well, this toady would have to get off the Royal and give his Master a chance to type his own letters, at least to me.

There was his address and phone number, typed (alas) beneath his signature. At least he had signed it. I hoped. His name sat elegantly at the top, printed in capital letters. Very sophisticated, I thought, and made a mental note to order myself the same kind.

I read the letter five more times, hunting for any clues I might have missed, and then burst into my roommate's room and started jumping on his mattress.

"What the fuck --?" he mumbled, having been kicked in the neck. I dropped the note on his face. He read it and then started jumping up and down with me.

"Holy shit," he said, holding it in his hand.

"Well, don't rip it! Don't bend it. Give it to me."

We both sat down on the edge of the mattress and caught our breath. I held the note up gently with both hands and we stared at it as if it were the Holy Grail. For me, it was. How could this have happened to me? He had somehow seen into my soul, via the U.S. Post. I felt lucky, excited, slowly sucked into the vortex of everything I ever wanted. Let him view this as just a casual meeting, a perfunctory drink. I saw all my dreams were possible; this was a way to get to that little island called fame.

If I knew what the letter would unleash, would I have taken the #66 bus from Montclair to Manhattan that night? Of course I would.

We made a date for Friday and this was Wednesday. Shit, what to wear? I was thirty but looked younger. Coupled with my naivete and unabashed excitement, I'm sure I came off as someone still in school. Possibly. I could fit into size 28 jeans; a day which will never come again. I wore a mesh shirt, (canary yellow) and tight black jeans that cupped my ass like nobody's business. You could see my trim torso through the tiny holes in the shirt. It was a look I thought would be both sexy and memorable. I'm sure it was memorable. And it was the 'Eighties, so, what the hell?

It was a look which said, "Look, but don't touch." Or, "Touch, but not too much until you give me a part." We'd see. If nothing else, I looked like a sexy bumblebee, and that would do, too.

I grabbed my bus money and went to wait out on the corner.

Here it comes.