My First, Real-Life, Honest-to-Goodness Hollywood Premiere: Part 2

Peeples poster (19)

I was very worried about what kind of clothing I would wear to this premiere.  I had a suit, tie, pants, shoes, but no jacket.  I felt like I needed a jacket, or I wouldn’t look good.

Malcolm lent me a jacket.  I looked good now.

We had a car come and pick us up and drive us right up to the red carpet.  I felt important.

Most of the people there were dressed up, but some people were there wearing nothing but jeans and buttoned-up shirts.  I felt slightly superior to them, because I was wearing a jacket that my friend had lent me.

Inside, they had rows upon rows of popcorn bags and sodas lined up on a huge table for us.  They were free.  I wish I’d gotten a picture of that table.

The movie was funny.  I laughed and slapped my knee a lot and stomped the ground. Later, I took pictures of Malcolm getting his picture taken with audience members. 

The after-party was at a place I don’t remember the name of.  It was big and dimly lit and full of tropical-looking trees.  They had an open bar.  I didn’t need to worry about driving home, so I started off with two shots of something that may have been tequila, followed by a Jack and coke.

A few of us took pictures of Malcolm standing next to one of his co-stars.  The co-star – a tall, beautiful woman – came up to me and asked to see how the picture I took came out.  I showed it to her.

“That looks good,” she said.  I was happy because she was a famous person and she was happy with the photo I took.

“Can you send it to me?” she asked.

Before I answered, she took my phone  and started tapping away.  She was having problems sending the photo to herself, so she went into my Settings page and started changing things.  Then she went into my email account and tried to send my photo from there.   Please stop, I thought.  You are famous, so I won’t say anything, but please stop.  

She sent the photo and gave me the phone back.  I had another Jack and coke.

I walked into another section of the party and ate appetizers.  I danced to a little music.  I saw Mario Van Peebles, who saw me dancing.  He smiled and nodded his head.

“Dude,” I said, “You’re amazing!”

“Thanks, brotha!” he said.

I saw Kerry Washington and was too shy to say anything to her, so I went back to the bar with my drink.

Malcolm joined me at the bar.  We stood there, drinking, grinning.  I felt like a king.  I tried to flirt with the bartender, but she ignored me.

A woman came up to Malcolm and said he was going to be very famous very soon.  She said she was a publicist and represented high-profile clients.  She sounded eccentric.  He thanked her, told her to give her information to me and left.

“Your friend is going to be famous soon,” she said. “I can help him.”
“Yeah?” I said.
“Yes.  I can sense these things.  I’m a prophet.”
“A prophet?
“Yes.  And my brother is the Beast.”
“Sorry, did you say your brother is the Beast?”
“Like…from the Book of Revelations?”
“I’ve had too much to drink.  I had two glasses of wine.”
“Uh huh.”
“So what do you do?” she said
“You’re a prophet,” I said.  “You tell me.”
She laughed.  “I’ve had too much to drink,” she said.
She told me she represented celebrities.  Miley Cyrus may have been one of them.  Or Amanda Bynes.  I’m not sure.  I was pretty drunk by then.  I wasn’t really listening.  I was just trying to figure out a way to extricate myself from the conversation as smoothly as possible.

“Let me get your number,” she said, handing me her smartphone.  “Type it in.”

I didn’t want to give her my number.  I thought about giving her a fake number, but I was afraid she’d call it right then, and my phone wouldn’t ring, and she’d know.  So I started to type in my email address.  Then I decided I didn’t want her to have my email address either.

I put in a fake email address and gave her the phone back.
“Send me an email,” I said.  “Let’s keep talking.”
She looked at the email address and then looked at me.
“This is bullshit,” she said.
“No, no, no! This is bullshit, because if I was a white girl, you’d have given me your number.”
“That’s not true.  It’s just that I don’t know you.”
“Why won’t you even tell me your name?”
I told her my name.
“I’m a writer,” I said.  “I have trust issues.  I’m not good with people.  I put a lot of walls up.”
“What your sign?” she said.
“That’s bullshit.  Leos are sensitive to other people’s feelings.  And they’re professional.  I’m going to leave and come back with a white girl, and then we’ll see how quick you give me your number.”
She left.  I felt bad.  Then I had another shot of something, along with a Jack and coke, and forgot all about it.

I couldn’t find my friends.  I stood in the center of the party, looking around, wanting to talk to someone. 

I found my friends.  We took pictures and drank more.  I felt like I was walking through fog.

Craig Robinson was walking around with a microphone in his hand, sometimes talking into it, sometimes singing.  I walked up to him and said, “Congratulations.”   He looked at me with sleepy eyes and said, “Thank you!”  We’d met a few times before, but I don’t think he recognized me.

By the end of the night, I was laying on my friend’s couch, too drunk to drive home. 

The next afternoon, I was back home, sitting on the couch, in too much pain to even move.  I thought about the previous night, and decided I didn’t know who I was anymore.


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