brush with fame

Washington Square Park. Passed a red haired man with construction worker shoulders and something clicked. I turned and caught him staring at me. I kept walking. He called after me and I turned again, finger to chest, head lowered in a question “Me?”

“Yeah, you.” he said, beckoning with his finger and his Long Island-ese “Come here”

I told him I was an actress. He said, “Yeah? Maybe I can help you run lines.” I said, “Aren’t you…aren’t you famous or something?” having no idea who he was. He said yes and took my phone number.

I went back to my apartment. My cell phone rang with a private number. I hesitated but answered it.

“This is Michael.”

“Yeah…we just met. Five minutes ago.”

“Yeah. Listen, where are you?”

“My dorm room.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“Why don’t you let me come up there and we can run some lines.”

“I don’t think…listen, what’s your last name?” (I was on my computer trying to find out exactly what show this guy was on. All I could think was Michael Keaton.)

“Maybe you should look me up. ” Indignant. Click.

So I did. It took a little while without a last name, but the first article I found on Michael Rappaport was about him stalking his ex-girlfriend. I found that chilling.