Jimmy Stewart, left: “What the hell are you doing?”
Norma Shearer, right: “Sweetie, I know you were born in Pennsylvania, and I can forgive you for that. But you are really drawing too much attention to our table with your ‘golly gee’ expression. Tone it down a notch.”
Jimmy: “But it looks like you’re breaking off those crab legs and shoving them in your purse.”
Norma: “That’s exactly what I’m doing, you hayseed. Times get tough in Hollywood when they keep finding younger starlets with firmer breasts. I’ve got to feed my family somehow. Now, go do something insipid to distract the photographers while I snatch the roasted pig from the next table.”
Jimmy: “Donald Trump is here?”
Norma: “Not that one. I’m talking about the pig with the apple in its mouth.”
Jimmy: “That could still be Trump. And the apple could be Vladimir Putin.”
Norma: “Good point. I better be careful so he doesn’t grab my putty like he grabbed Putin’s. Okay, I’m going in. Cover for me.”
She races off and the pig vanishes, unlike the outcome of the Impeachment trial.
A man walks up to the table.
Jimmy: “I had nothing to do with what happened to the pig.”
Man: “I really don’t care. Are you Norma Shearer? I understand she was assigned to this table.”
Jimmy: “Um, she had to step away. Something to do with firmer breasts and starving children. I really don’t know. I’m just here for the clam chowder.”
Man: “You sure talk a lot for no apparent reason. Anyway, is Miss Shearer coming back? I’m supposed to deliver this script for her approval. And if you promise to give it to her, I can be done and go home and drink vodka because I’m 58 and I’m still a delivery boy.”
Jimmy: “Oh. Well, I suppose she’ll be back. Her purse is still here and there’s something in there that won’t keep. You know how women are.”
Man: “I don’t know anything except when to take my medication. But that’s good enough for me. Here.”
He slaps the script on the table and runs toward the Boulevard of Broken Dreams.
Jimmy studies the cover of the script.
“Private and Confidential,” it says.
Jimmy looks around. No one is looking in his direction, mainly because everyone else is perusing the police who have suddenly shown up at the next table.
Jimmy flips open the script.
“The Philadelphia Story,” says the next page.
“Hmm,” thinks Jimmy. “I wonder if there’s a part in this thing for me.”
He slips the script into his satchel, next to his own stash of looted crab legs. Because you never know where your next meal might be coming from…
Previously published in “Crusty Pie” and “Bonnywood Manor”. Revised and extended for this post.
Categories: Past Imperfect