15 Seconds with Fame


  Finally Orson found himself at the front of the line, his predecessor – a larger gentlemen who had evidently bathed in cheap cologne, but bathed nevertheless – having stepped forwards to meet the legend only seconds before.  

  Orson looked at the DVD case in his hand and then to the star before him, rehearsing his lines over and over again to himself. She was smiling as she signed whatever movie the other guy had offered up to her, nodding and pretending to laugh. Not me Orson thought. He didn’t want to be just another avid fan or psycho stalker. He certainly didn’t want to kill her, if that’s where you thought this was going. No. He was going to be concise. He was going to stand out. He was going to be memorable, so much so that when she thought of Ontario twenty-ten she’d think ‘Oh yeah, the signing with Orson.’

  Somewhere he knew the fantasy had gotten away from him. Had risen to echelons she’d be unable to satisfy with a minute long meet and greet, but that was the fun of it, right? He hadn’t queued for hours for a glimpse at reality, at some tired starlet who wanted nothing more than her shift to be over. Instead he’d waited with throngs of like minded brethren for a fleeting crash course in idealism gone right. The oaf ahead was lumbering out of the way now. The attendant was ushering Orson forwards, toward destiny, he thought. She appeared from behind the obstruction, as beautiful in real life as on the screen, and he smiled at her as he approached. She smiled back, the facade that this was any kind of fun to her slipping, faltering – and understandably so, after so many patrons – but it didn’t matter. Orson stopped in front of her table and nodded at the bored looking bouncer to her left. He put the DVD down in and she slid it towards her, eyebrow cocked, marker poised, and – recognizing the cover – exclaimed “Butt Pirates 2? Why that’s positively ancient, babe.”
  “I loved you in it,” Orson said with a smile, cocksure, his ace still firmly in its hole.
  “Well aren’t you sweet. You boys never fail to surprise me with how far back we go.”
  “Like you wouldn’t believe,” he replied, laughing. She laughs too.
  “So who should I make this out to, hun?” she asked in a sultry voice.
  “Orson,” He said, grinning as he finally played his hand, “Orson Cole.”

  There was a moment of silence as she began to scribble the note before recognition kicked in and, agape, she looked up at him. “Orson?” She asks incredulously. She remembers it all. The notes in class. The stolen kisses behind the bike shed. The night of November 18th 1987. It’s all back in a flash, she’s actually choked – more so than in any of her deep throat videos – and Orson simply smiles.

  “How ya’ been?” He asks simply.


~ by Joseph Blame on December 26, 2010.

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