She was already at the bar when I walked in. It was two p.m. on a Wednesday, and aside from she, I, and the bartender, there were two other people there, the last two sitting at a booth engrossed in whatever it was they were talking about. The woman at the table, though ... I asked the bartender what she was drinking, and when she told me, "Jack and Coke," I sent one over. I didn't look her way so she could acknowledge me for buying it, which is probably what prompted her to come to me.
"You mind?" she asked as she pointed at the empty stool next to mine.
"Please," I said with a smile.
She sat, sipped, said, "Thanks," as she toasted me, then lit up a Marlboro 100. She studied me for a couple of seconds, then said, "I suppose an autograph is in order."
I quickly looked up at her. "You know of me?"
"I—wait! What?" She was working through this puzzle. "No. I mean, I thought you might want mine."
"Should I?" I asked.
"Are you telling me that you don't know who I am?"
I knew good and damned well who she was. I just didn't want her knowing that I did. "I'm sorry, but I don't."
"My name is Margo," she said as she held out her hand.
I lightly grasped it and gave it a small shake, then asked, "What do you do that would make me want your autograph?"
She laughed. It was more like a laugh that blurted from nowhere. "Well, I'm an actress." I said nothing. "In films." Still nothing. "Adult films."
"Ah," I said as I lightly nodded my head. I lifted my glass to hers and said, "To living the dream."
"So, what do you do that I should want yours?"
"I'm a writer."
"Anything published?"
"I had a short story called 'Picking Up the Pieces' that ran in the
New Yorker
a few months back; I had one titled 'The Cows Came Home,' that appeared in
Playboy
about six months ago, and then there's 'Second Chances,' which will appear in
Top Ten Newest Talents
in July. I'm currently ghost-writing Dan Marino's autobiography," I added. This was a lie. I just wanted to give myself a little cred.
"Well, it certainly sounds like you're keeping yourself busy." She sipped at her drink again, then asked, "What do you think sets you apart from any other writer out there today?"
"Give me any genre and any premise and I can come up with a plot on the spot, without fail," I told her.
"Could you do that with me?"
"I don't see why not," I retorted. "Okay, so, your genre is porn. What is the premise?"
"I specialize in incest," she told me. "The thing is, though, that I've done mother-son, mother-daughter, and mother-son-daughter to death. I need something new, refreshing."
"Okay, how about this," I began.
Once I was finished, she said, "And that was off the top of your head? I love it!"
"Just be sure the guy looks to be around your age," I told her. "You know, for the sake of authenticity?"
"What about you?"
"Me?"
"Why not? It's your idea, we look close enough in age that it would be credible."
"I'll be honest, Margo: I really don't have a big penis. It's only, like, six inches. Aren't porn stars supposed to have huge, hulking cocks?"
"Oh, you'll be fine."
"Well, there's my career as a writer to think about as well," I reminded her. "This could adversely affect my future."
"Just give yourself a fictitious name, something like Phil Herrup." She laughed at that, as did I. "Please say yes."
"Um ... Okay. When would you like to do this?"
"Oh, we could do it tonight," she answered quickly. "Just one call and I could have everyone in place in a few hours."