Last night in the pre shift meeting the staff was informed that we would be hosting a celebrity that night. Big fucking deal. I hate it when celebrities come. They’re usually cheep, tipless, and create this huge fucking traffic stopping mob in the club that makes it impossible for all us non celebrities to work. (Can you imagine if ad people were overpaid and famous? And if we got our own episode of “Driven” on VH1? Ahhhh….) But a few of us seemed a little more starstruckable than me, and begged our manager to tell us who was coming in.
And it was none other than my one and only celebrity makeout, Matt Damon.
A long time ago a little bit younger and much more naïve girl sat in her orange cocktail dress in a little Miami beach dive bar. She had just got off from work and hadn’t planned on going out, but the lure of cocktails and cocaine was too tempting. So there she was, still wearing her orange work dress (because she hadn’t brought a change of clothes) and her University of Florida sorority poncho on top of it. (This might speak for Matt’s taste, as he was letting himself make out with a nobody, still in uniform, post-shift cocktail waitresses, who hadn’t yet retired her sorority rain gear.) She knew Matt was in town, as she had served (btw…why an I writing in the 3rd person?) him earlier at a pass hors d’oeuvres party. The kind of party I told you about before, that rbrown can’t seem to find. And then, as she sat on that bar stool in the corner, sipping a rum and coke and watching her friends play a game of pool, a friend jabbed her side and said…”Omigod, Matt Damon’s here.”
“Elli, remember when I made out with matt damon?” I asked my manager last night.
“Yes, I do, you little whore. You and all the hostesses at Pearl made out with him. “
That, I didn’t know until last night. But I laughed it off pretending I did. But what should I expect for someone with his non discriminant tastes? That I was special?
But I thought I was that night. “I’m gonna go talk to him,” I informed my friend and took my place at the bar next to where he was standing. The details of that conversation, like the details of most of my first year in Miami, are a little hazy. I know that we talked for a bit and he excused himself. At that point I figured he was blowing me off. Oh well, no loss, I thought. And resumed my position on the bar stool in the corner.
But then he did the unthinkable. He came back over to talk to ME. Walked right back over to where I was sitting and struck up a conversation. My first attempt in the exchange was to explain why I was wearing an orange dress/uniform, and why I was even a cocktail server at all. I was starting ad school next month. I was going to study copywriting, but that wasn’t the only thing I was interested in. I went on and on about how I really liked editing and maybe would like to get into production, so I would look like more than just a waitress and show that we had some career interest in common. But much to my try-way-too-hard-to-impress-a-celebrity dismay, the only common interest he shared with me was figuring out a way to get under my poncho.
Sitting in the dressing room last night before work, the girls discussed celebrities.
“I heard Vin Desiel is gonna be at Stereo [another club] tonight,” one said.
“Big deal,” answered another. “I don’t wanna wait on Vin desiel. I already fucked him once so what’s the point? He’s got a big dick, though.”
But I’ve never been one to just fuck. Getting under my poncho takes more than a few drinks and a celebrity name. And although that night (or morning…the sun was up) Matt took my friend and I back to his mansion after the bar closed, I was pretty intent on making sure his home was not the evening’s final destination.
“Really, I should go,” I said in the middle of kissing him. “The sun’s up.”
“No, no…stay here,” he protested.
“No really, I don’t want you to get the wrong idea…”
“It’s okay,” he said. “If you don’t wanna have sex than I can just go down on you.”
I pulled away. “Can you tell your driver to take me home now?”
And then I went home. Went to ad school. Went to Europe. Snagged the Rican. Moved to new york. Traded my orange cocktail dress for a black one. And after all that, i was about to face my former make out again. Doing the same old job. Seemingly not moved on with my life at all.
But was he going to remember me? Of course not. Having gone through all the hostesses at Pearl that same week I was just another orange dress to him. (And since that night I added a poncho to my ensemble, I’m sure I was the one he tried to forget.) So my plan was to just hang low, hide in my section and hope sans rain gear, I’d only look like just another dumb waitress trying to make a few bucks in new york. Nothing special. Nothing at all.
Eight hours later, I was standing in front of a hot dog vendor buying a late night snack.
“You work in the club over there, right?” The vendor asked.
“I recognize you. I always see you walking down this street around this time.”
I laughed. “Yeah, this is when I get out.”
“You make big money tonight?”
“Yeah, actually I did.”
“Congratulations, my friend. And see you tomorrow.”
“We’re not open tomorrow.” I said, “So next week.”
A cab pulled up and I got in it. As I shut the door, I realized that Matt had never showed up. And I was glad. If the random hot dog vendor recognized me, then maybe he might have too. But I was safe in cab and on my way home. On my way home and happy. I’ll take the Rican and a two-dollar hot dog, over his “I can just go down on you” celebrity ass any day. It may not seem like much to Matt, but to me it's pretty special.