I met him at my favorite grocery store. Johnny. We didn't say more than 20 words to each other...but we had scheduled a date.
Or so I thought.
He pulls his shiny black Porsche in front of me as I walk out. He'd been eying me in the canned foods section and I'd given him a smile as I passed, thinking he was kinda cute.
"You have a fantastic smile," he says. "You have a fantastic car," I say. "Can I take you out for a drink?" he says. "Sure!" I say. We exchange first names and phone numbers and before I finish my five-minute drive home he has texted. "Awww, that's nice," I smile.
Johnny- Very nice meeting you :)
Me: thanks, you too!
Johnny is a writer on a very popular television show and was a writer on a #1 show that ended a few years ago. Johnny is also a writer of text messages. Johnny wants to know everything there is to know about me from birth to present day, via text. I avoid questions, attempting repeatedly to meet him out (at a very public place) to talk instead, but Johnny is having none of it. He wants to text. And text. And text.
The next night...
Johnny- What's your last name. Are you on Facebook?
Hmmm. Weird. We haven't even met in person yet and he wants to Facebook me. Ok, I reason. Everyone's on Facebook; I guess this is normal. I stupidly give him my last name (instantly regretting it and flashing back to a Lifetime movie involving the murder of a girl who stupidly gave her full name to an on-line predator.)
I search for Johnny only to find that he is not actually ON Facebook. Johnny has a Facebook page. But, his page has no picture and absolutely no information (except that he's a television writer, which is how I know it's him), wall posts or activity at all. I am irrationally relieved that there aren't three names on the profile (John Wilkes Boothe, John Wayne Gacey, Lee Harvey Oswald...you get the gist.), but it's a stalker page, nonetheless.
Feeling like the girl in the horror film whose murder you want to assist with because she's THAT stupid, I quickly make my name unsearchable.
Johnny- hey, i can't find you on Facebook. Friend me so I can look at your page. I'm going to google you now.
Hold. The. Phone. Or drop it...which is what I did.
Me: Um.....what? You want to google me??? That's a little creepy.
Johnny: What? Why? That's what people do these days. Why are you freaking out? (oh, I don't know...I guess the kill room in your basement wasn't what I had in mind when we said we'd meet for drinks...)
Crap, I've pissed off Dexter.
I put the phone down and back away slowly...expecting him to actually walk through the screen holding the length of rope and roll of duct tape he purchased earlier today. You know, the evidence the police will later find in his trunk along with my DNA.
Johnny: Where did you go? You haven't answered. Are you on IMDB? Where did you go to college?
I can't block him...and I can't even ignore him. Because, Johnny is a writer on a very popular television show. And, in television, the writer is God. And, God better not have an axe to grind with you (or into you) when you audition in front of him or you'll never been seen again. By anyone. Ever. Much less book his show. You never piss off the writer. Or the psycho.
Thinking of my acting career and the fact that it will be slightly harder to book while in pieces in his freezer, I decide to respond.
Me: Early day tomorrow...gotta run. But, have a good night and pen something brilliant tomorrow.
Cordial. Acknowledges his talent. But, not encouraging. Not engaging. Perfect.
Johnny: Oh...ok. Yeah, you too. I'll try.
And, just like that, the horror film ends. For the night.
Over the next 2 months, Johnny randomly texts the word- hi. I don't know why, but I have always found it eerie when people just text- hi. I wait the appropriate you're-so-weird-but-I-can't-be-rude-to-you-in-case-you-kill-me-or-worse-yet-blackball-me 24 hour period and text back, hi. (hey, he started it!)
A week later...
Goosebumps. Check the locks.
At this point, I know he's either losing interest or plotting my demise. I give up my favorite Beverly Hills grocery store and keep an eye out for shiny black Porsches. There are almost no black Porsches in Beverly Hills. (That, Miss Morrisette, is irony. A fly in your chardonnay, is not.).
Two weeks later...
Johnny- Where have you been? I haven't heard from you. Wanna meet me for a drink?
Annnnd, there it is.
So, i do what any strong, capable, woman of the new millennium would do. I make up a fake boyfriend. A big one. One whose bodybuilding competition has kept me away from my phone for a while.
Johnny wishes me luck with Arnold Fakezenegger and disappears. Just like that.
If I do ever audition for him, I won't know it. I can't even remember what he looks like anymore, but I no longer think he's kinda cute. He, however, will definitely know me, as he sits with a panel of producers, my name in block letters on the headshot in his hand.
At least he won't be holding my actual head.