Somehow, they look larger than life on TV. Beverly Hills homes, I mean. Up close and personal they're magnificent for sure, but up close and personal, you can see their little flaws: spots of weeds in the otherwise exquisitely manicured lawns, sections of withered ice plant gathered around a busted sprinkler head, spots of rust on a wrought iron security gate. One had shutters that were perhaps a few months beyond needing a fresh paint job, while its mailbox was recently decorated by bird doo. But where else might one happen upon a chance encounter with Paris Hilton or Ashton and Demi taking out their trash.
Can't tell the players without a scorecard, though. And it seemed the guy sitting on the corner was just the man to help. Unfazed by the celebrity around him, he sat in a metal folding chair, stringy long brown hair growing out beneath his now retro California Angels ballcap, torn blue jeans and a "Why Beer is Better than Women" T-shirt ("I'm With Stupid" must have been in the wash). He sat there sipping on his bottle of Aquafina, next to his makeshift "Celebrity Maps, $20" sign.
"20 Clams? For a map?" I protested as I walked up to Maps Guy. "Mind if I have a look first?"
"Last person who undid one of these maps couldn't fold it back good. Had to eat the cost of it. "
Cost? A buck maybe?
"Sell me one for ten?"
"Tijuana's south of the border, pal. You wanna map or not?"
"So this'll show me where all the celebrity houses are?"
"That's what it says." Somehow Maps Guy didn't seem that much the expert of his product. "Hadn't gotten any complaints."
"Well, OK, I'll take one." I parted ways with my twenty dollars, and took off down the street, nose in my map as I began my Celeb Quest. I quickly discovered, however, that the most recent "star" on the map list was Morey Amsterdam, who died ten years ago.
Oh well, musta been the B-list section of Beverly Hills .
Disappointed, I made a half-assed effort to pick out what turned out to be the former houses of the likes of Soupy Sales and Tom Bosley, then opted for an outdoor café on Rodeo Drive for lunch. There a gum-smacking waitress met me with Maps Guy-like disinterest. Understandable. I was, of course, no movie star.
"How you doin', darlin'?", I asked her, on vacation and overly full of myself.
"What'll it be, sir?" The "sir" was more of the Server's Handbook variety. She didn't exactly say it "with feeling", though.
"Cheeseburger. Medium well. Side of Fries. Michelob Light."
"How do you want that done?"
"Med..."
"Right, right, medium. You said that. Sorry."
"Aren't you going to chastise me for what I just ordered?"
"Why?"
"This is California. You know? Health conscious? I'm surprised a cheeseburger was even on the menu!"
"No, I wasn't." A pause. "It's not too busy, this oughtta be up in just a few minutes."
"Hey, do any famous people ever eat here?"
Sigh
. A roll or her eyes accompanied her not-so-subtle exhale. "Yeah, sure. This is Beverly Hills. It's no big deal. If you want to see celebrities when you're done eating, you can buy a, whatever they call it, Map of the Stars' Houses, and you can find where people live. I hear they're a rip-off though. Haven't been updated in a while."
"Hey, thanks for the local knowledge", I said with a wink, and feeling like a total dumbass.
I got a call from my pal Freddie who'd seen Laker Coach Phil Jackson at dinner before. We'd split up briefly since he had plans to visit his sister while we were on the West Coast. He was in the middle of explaining how he thought he'd just seen the Gubernator and wife Maria until he realized they were celebrity impersonators, when SHE came into the café and sat down at a table across from me.
"...and so they were opening up some car wash. Hilarious. People actually believed they were the real thing."
"You did, didn't you?" Gorgeous blonde hair, deep green eyes, pouting lips. Staring at...MOI? "Hey, Freddie, I gotta go. My lunch just got here and..."
He didn't wait to let me tell him who I just saw. "OK, later, dude."
"Bye".
Why was she staring at me? Looking a little pissed off to boot? Feeling a little bit ballsy, I met her gaze, cocked my head, and shrugged.
"Whatchoo lookin' at, Willis?" After all, what's more charming than an impression of an undersized, washed up child actor who didn't even rate a mention on my map?
That earned a nod and the hint of a smile. As the waitress came over to take her order she waved her off, got her sexy self up off her chair, and came sauntering over to my table.
Don't drop, jaw. I reached into my pocket for my trusty Sharpie. Gotta have the autograph, you know. That stopped her in her tracks. "No, no", I said. I laughed. "Just getting a pen out of my pocket."
I could see why she might be a little jumpy, though. "Have a seat, I guess."
She'd yet to say a word to me. She sat down, giving me a bemused look. I wondered if something was bothering her, but dismissed the thought. What has she got to be worried about anyhow?
She bit her lower lip ever so slightly. I couldn't help but think how adorable it was. "So, what do you do when you're not busy..." I began to ask, but she cut me off with a finger to her mouth. Seems she didn't want me speaking, either. Just as well, I can hardly imagine the awkward conversation I'd be trying to make. Before I resumed digging into my cheeseburger I motioned to her to see if she'd like some, but she made a face like I'd offered her a pile of dogshit from my plate. Then I remembered she'd be voted World's Sexiest Vegetarian on some PETA online poll. Now who else but a "big fan" would know that?
Despite the gag order, I started feeling more comfortable with my Hot Hollywood Actress lunch companion, even giving her one of my "swave and deboner" looks into her eyes as I reached for my beer.
Bad move.
My beer was about three inches closer to me than I thought it was and before I knew it, a little less than 20 ounces of Mich Light covered the tablecloth and were quickly making their way to ruining somebody's pretty outfit.
No harm, no foul, fortunately.
She was out of her seat in a flash, long before the first drop dripped onto her chair. I lifted the gag order, stammering like Hugh Grant trying to explain to the cops why some hooker named Divine was giving him a blowjob in his car. "I...I...I'm so sorry, God, w-what a mess....."
She waved her hand and laughed, taking the chair right next to me.
Fuggedaboudit,
she said with a wave of the hand. Nice that she cut me a break. I suppose movie stars were people too, after all.
Well, Hugh Grant spilled orange juice on Julia Roberts/Anna Scott in
Notting Hill
. I got his stammering bit down. Maybe it's my lucky day. I finished my lunch. In silence, I needn't say. When I took my last bite, she gave me the universal "Let's go" cock of the head. While I probably should have said no, I wasn't about to.
I gave Indifferent Waitress a wink as we left the café. She remained disinterested and unimpressed. Good that I passed on the thumbs-up sign. Meanwhile, my date took my hand as we hit the sidewalk.
So where are we going?,
