So we had this little conversation the other day, my co-workers and I, about who we would have the hardest time being cool around if they came in the store. "No, really," I said, "who would cause you to nearly piss yourself and possibly fall down?"
We all thought hard. The results of our poll:
John: Gwyneth Paltrow. Jennifer Aniston. Drew Barrymore. ("Oh, come on, Johnny, you know she's a skag!" He disagrees.)
Alison: Billy Connolly. (She's a Scot.)
Andrea: Nick Nolte. ("Or what's left of him," I add.)
Hillary: Cher. ("In a bookstore?" I sneer.)
Me: Anthony Hopkins. ("SIR Anthony Hopkins," John corrects me.)
Aaron: Some guy I never heard of, who writes sci-fi.
Brenda: Elizabeth Taylor.
So today I come sailing in at 1PM, right on time, and go to stash my bag under the counter, but there's some guy in the way, standing there talking to Johnny at the cash register. Excuse me, I say, and he steps aside, and I stash my bag and head for the back of the store to see what my first task will be.
Johnny meets me on my way back, in the middle of the store. "I want to thank you for your restraint and composure--" he says very seriously, and I think he's referring to a nasty personnel problem we're having, which I've kept under my hat--"just now, in the presence of SIR Anthony Hopkins."
Of course, you knew that was coming. But I don't know how else to tell it, which is why I am an unpublished novelist.
And I guess we can forget about that radar I was bragging about yesterday, huh?
Comments