Dinner and a Basement

I went to dinner with Lenore and Burbank at a fancy Greek restaurant called Myko's where we met a very nice old Hungarian man sitting at the table next to us. His name was T. R. and he was wearing a tuxedo. I felt under-dressed in my brown knit. He sat all alone, so Burbank offered a place for him at our table, which he accepted. He bought us a round of wine.

When he asked us each what we do, I humbly told him about my book series and the new book tour. Suddenly, his whole demeanor changed. Seriously, it was like somebody lit a firework inside his face. He went all shiny. "You are celebrity!"

I just shrugged. I am not a boaster.

"I am friends with many celebrities," T. R. said. "You would like to meet them?"

I don't think any of us really knew what he meant, but not wanting to be impolite, Burbank said that he did.

"Wonderful," T. R. said. "I own restaurant next door. I will show you my friends."

He led the three of us to the restaurant next door, which was at least five times bigger than the little Greek one, but probably just as posh. I looked into the eyes of all the people I could, partly to see if I recognized any celebrities and partly to make sure there were witnesses who could say they saw me here.

T. R. took us past everyone and to a little door on the side. He went down first, then Burbank. I paused at the top of the narrow stairway and looked down into the darkness. I could feel the coldness wafting up. I turned back to Lenore who said, "Don't," but Burbank was already down there and I’m too good a friend to abandon him.

T. R. rounded the corner, but Burbank stopped at the bottom of the stairs and looked up at us. He asked if we were coming. I said that we were and crept down the stairs.

There was a dark hallway down here, next to the ladies' and gents' toilets. I still couldn't figure out where these celebrity friends were.

T. R. unlocked a door and opened it to reveal a bright little basement office with empty concrete walls and lots of boxes and papers on a desk. There weren't any celebrities.

Burbank followed him into the room. Lenore and I stood in the doorway, keeping the door propped open as if it would take two of us.

T. R. pulled out a briefcase and unlocked it. Burbank leaned his head closer. I held my breath. The briefcase sprang open to reveal over a hundred letters and postcards. T. R. picked up the top one. "Look," he said, pointing to a photograph. "That me and Tony Blair. You like it?"

Burbank nodded.

T. R. pulled out a letter. "'Dear T. R.' That me. 'Thank you for your support...' You know who this from? Look." He pointed to the signature. I couldn't see it from the doorway. For some reason, I thought if T. R. could close the door, he’d kill us all. I sure am silly sometimes.

He read aloud, "Ronald Reagan." He went on this way for twenty minutes, each letter or photo more impressive than the last.

Lenore said we needed to get back to the hotel. T. R. decided he'd shown enough of his treasure. "Okay," he said. "We go upstairs and take group photo!" He walked to the door and patted me on the back. "Photo with my new celebrity friends!"

We followed T. R. back up the eerie stairs and into the warm, candlelit restaurant where T. R. made one of his waiters take a photo of us all together. I was sweating a lot by this point. T. R. shook each of our hands and said good-bye.

In the parking lot, Burbank asked why I'd made a funny face for the camera. I told him that I wanted to look the least like myself in case this bloke ever tries to hunt me down. I know. I worry too much.