My challenge response for dinner with celebrity...
Dinner with Mick
Oh my Gawd! Oh my Gawd! The very thought of Mick Jagger coming to dinner at my house! I couldn't believe I'd won the "Dine with a Rock Star" contest. And all I had to do was write a song about him. The song I wrote about Mick being my favorite bad boy did the trick.
I'd sent my hubby and the dogs off on a trip, and the house was mine...well, ours...Mick's and mine. I thought of his mouth, his pouty big-lipped mouth and...well, never mind.
The bell rang, and my heart flip-flopped. Mick! I ran to answer, my mind racing through the menu as I rushed...roast beef, roasted potatoes, fresh corn on the cob, salad and dessert...what a lovely dessert...apple pie topped with vanilla-caramel swirl ice cream. Nice down-home cooking.
My hand clutched the door knob as I took a deep breath. Mick was on the other side! I swung it open.
Four huge men rushed in. Honestly, I had never seen such giant creatures. Clearly, each stood over six feet tall, and their black leather jackets only made them more ominous. One turned to me as the others dashed about the living room, pulling back drapes, opening the closet door, peering around corners.
"You are Ms. Janoski?" he asked, his eyes dashing about the room as he spoke. Such a face! A pig's face, with a punched-in, flat little nose. Ghastly fellow!
"Yes. Who are you?"
"Body guards," he snapped back.
I watched in horror as the crew opened desk drawers and my curio cabinet, poking around in every conceivable space.
"I hope you don't mind me posse."
The voice broke into my thoughts and sent my heart reeling. Mick! Mick was standing in my doorway, all decked out in leather pants and a denim jacket. He looked at me through dark shades. I was speechless.
"Is your daughter home?"
"I...don't have a daughter..."
"JO Janoski? Is that your daughter?"
"No, that's me."
He stared back before reaching in his pants pocket (no easy feat in those leather jobs) to extricate a white paper. He swiped the shades off his face and held the paper close to scan it. It rested against his nose as he read.
"Perhaps you need your reading glasses?" I asked.
"Shut up!"
"I beg your pardon."
"Oh, sorry, love. I'm feeling a bit tense at the moment. Hold on." He reached into his jacket again and pulled out a cell phone. He punched a speed dial button.
"Hallo, Mick here!" He turned his back on me and mumbled into the phone. I shot nervous glances around the room at the posse. Each one stood statuesque, hands folded in front, eyes focused well above my face.
"Okay." Mick slipped the phone back and looked my way. "So, where's me supper?" he asked with a sigh.
I lit up at the question.
"Here, have a seat at the table, and I'll bring it right in. They wanted me to go to a restaurant, but I wanted to cook for you." With that remark I blushed.
"Fair enough."
"Perhaps these gentlemen could help carry the food in?" I inclined my head toward the closest of the body guards. He ignored me. Hmmm, no help there.
My legs were rubber as I carried in steaming dishes. I served the beef and potatoes on a big platter. The corn and salad were two more trips as Mick stared with an empty expression.
"Love, what is this?" he asked as I seated myself. He pointed to the meat platter.
"Roast beef and pan roasted potatoes," I replied. "They're..."
He stopped me mid-sentence, holding out a skinny calloused hand.
"Love, I'm a vegetarian, and where's the caviar?"
"What?"
"How can you expect me to dine without caviar?"
I stood, outraged. "Excuse me. But I thought I was the contest winner here. Am I not supplying the meal? Isn't it supposed to be on my terms? I won a dinner with a rock star. It's turning out to be dinner with an a-hole!"
"Darling, I'm not eatin' this slop."
"I guess not." I took the beef platter up in my arms with a flourish and proceeded to dump it on his lap. It plopped down in a thick river of brown gravy. As I watched tributaries of grease spread across his thighs, I added, "You're not eating it because you're going to wear it instead."
The body guards rushed in, grabbing me.
"You wicked old lady!" he bellowed, jumping on his feet and dumping the roast beef and potatoes off his lap.
"Old lady? Old lady?!! YOU'RE OLDER THAN I AM!" I screamed.
"When you're rich, you never get old," he said. He flipped his hand and the guards let me go. They followed him like puppies as he went for the door.
He turned to meet my gaze. "Never, you never get old if you're bloody rich enough."
In the blink of an eye, they were gone. I ran to the window to see a black stretch limo pull away.
And that was my dinner with a celebrity. But I learned one thing. Money may buy Mick illusions of youth, but it will never buy him grace under fire.
Copyright 2007 JO Janoski
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