Seriously, he wants to be in the "in" crowd.
He tells people that he's friends with this celeb, that celeb, high profile celebrities that wouldn't give him the time or day.
He says to anyone that will listen, "Tom Cruise? I'm his manager." Then he drinks his martini and orders another round for the group of patrons he's somehow managed to con into listening to him. These patrons are usually women, beautiful women, long legged women with perfect breasts and perfect hair. Women that will do anything to meet a big star.
These women, women he has no chance with, are the ones he's into. These women are the type that read the entertainment magazines and buy into the latest fad diets and workout routines hoping that one day, their bodies can look like Angelina Jolie's or Scarlett Johansson's.
"Apply makeup like the stars?" These women are eating up the articles and spending hundreds on products. "Reese Witherspoon's children only eat yellow foods?" Now, these women's children only eat yellow foods.
Three women stare at him as he downs the drink with no care whatsoever of the tab amount. It's reaching $700 dollars. But he's not counting, because if you ask him, he's Tom Cruise's manager and, well let's just go from there.
The three women - the lipstick woman, the buxom woman, and legs - they all look at each other. They're impressed at this frivolous man that has presented a much better evening than they had planned. Of course, planning to meet Tom Cruise is never on the agenda. Unless you're a stalker. And even then, meeting Tom Cruise takes scheming; it's never as easy as this.
When you're hiding out in bushes to meet your favorite celebrity, well, that's just pathetic. When you're designing an elaborate plan to get laid, that's just creepy.
"He's doing press right now," Unknown says, "he'll call me when he's done." He looks at his watch to give the impression that Tom Cruise is running late. Tom Cruise is always late. In fact, he's still late, from the last time he didn't show and the time before that.
The man, Unknown, he does this anytime he's feeling irrelevant. At expensive restaurants, fancy clubs, wherever there are people of influence. He does this wherever there is culture to be steered.
Such as the case here, at this establishment downtown. The man, known only as Unknown, whips out his phone and dials a number. It's the same number he uses every time. The lettering on the phone's number pad is faded so you can't tell if the digit is a three or an eight.
Leaking out of the receiver, ringing is heard, and then voice mail.
He says into his phone, "Cruise, it's Unknown. Where are you?" Then he flips down the lid and sticks the phone back into his jacket pocket. Somewhere a few miles away, Unknown's home answering machine is filled with messages similar to this.
"Seriously, you're like an hour late," and "What the fuck dude?" are his favorites. He says these lines while eyeing each woman. Secretly, as he's talking, he's undressing each lady and envisioning what they look like naked.
One of the girls sitting next to him, she turns to her friend and smiles seductively. She thinks she's going to meet Tom Cruise. "So, he's really coming?" she says, primping her hair with her newly manicured fingers.
Her lips, they've been glossed and re-glossed with several brushes of lipstick. Next to her, there are napkins with lips impressions, some smudged and some fresher than others. The corner of the table looks like an origami project gone horribly wrong.
Unknown smiles. His body, it's leaning back on the nice cushion at the round table off to the side. The table is the VIP table. It's away from the rest of the seats, making everyone in the restaurant know that it's for important people only.
Occasionally, random diners, they look toward Unknown, their thoughts of who and why. A famous writer, a businessman people think. Perhaps an attorney. Women always think it's money. This person must have money.
A woman across the room stares at Unknown and then to the women. She shakes her head in disgust and wonders the worst of this situation. Then, she returns back to her plate of spaghetti that's on special for $9.99, stuffing her face with her fork. Oh, and you get free garlic sticks tonight with every entrée. She's just happy to be out for the night. No cooking, dirty dishes, nothing. Had she been 50 pounds lighter and 10 years younger, she could have been sitting at the table waiting for Tom Cruise to appear.
"Got his voice mail," Unknown says, as he sits back into the cushion. The thickness, it forces Unknown's body to go back a few inches. The seat's cushion, it now has a perfect indentation of Unknown's back.
Unknown, he's a celebutante, a term he made up while sitting on his raggy recliner eating chips from the bag. A far cry from the booth he's enjoying right now. His recliner is partly made of duct tape, spread evenly down the sides and across the chair's arms. They look like racing stripes and as a joke, Unknown pretends that his recliner is a race car going 200 miles per hour. At times, he watches NASCAR and pretends that he's in the driver's seat.
Unknown, he's a wannabe socialite whose real life sees appointments, post office runs, and grocery store drop-ins. His life sees ATM stops and movie rental returns. In the microwave is the stench of burnt popcorn. The knob is missing on the stove's burner control. Often, he has to turn it with a wrench just to make it burn. This is Unknown's real life.
His apartment, it pales in comparison to the lifestyle he suggests he lives. The wallpaper is peeling in certain areas, while water spots hang above him on the ceiling. The carpet, it's faded from years and years of shampooing and vacuuming, and Unknown's wondering if he should buy more. The walls, they're very thin and at times, he can hear his neighbors yelling. F-this, F-that, then a lamp against the plaster. "At some point," he says, "that wall will have a hole the size of a lamp." Every now and then, there's humping up above him. The lady who lives above Unknown, she's a rabbit. Squeak-a, squeak-a, squeak-a. In different rhythms, and at different times of the day. The picture frames on his wall are never in the same position. One day they're tilted right, the next they're tilted left. The positions depend on how hard the upstairs neighbor is getting it from behind. Have you ever seen picture frames Salsa dance? Go to Unknown's apartment.
Unknown's days go by with no excitement; there's nothing to fill his inner desire. He doesn't have a job anymore because disability pays his monthly rent and bills.
Apparently, being mentally ill is a cause to not work. In Unknown's case, mental illness is only half of his problem. Sex addiction is the other half with bad furniture coming in a distant third. Oh, and the sound of stomping above interjected with "huh, huh, huh" noises? That comes in a close fourth.
However, at night, this is what Unknown does. He cons people by using big name celebrities, saying that he's their manager. Other clients Unknown says he has are Colin Farrell, Brad Pitt and Christian Bale. He says this to the restaurant manager, the club owner, whoever is the boss, whoever will listen.
Unknown says, "They're filming a movie here." And when that happens, you can bet the manager, the club owner, whoever will never check the papers to see if city blocks are closed down for filming.
Sometimes there's a notice, sometimes there's not. It's usually a single box, no bigger than two inches by two inches, hidden in between a personal ad featuring a DWF and an ad selling an old console television. "Antique. Good condition. $200.00. Or best offer."
"Is he your only client?" one woman says, anxious to know more, as she applies another coat of lipstick. Her lips are full, moist from her drink. Her lips, they now extend a quarter inch from her face. It's like a third coat of paint to hide an imperfection. Gradually, the shade gets darker and darker until it begins to peel.
Unknown name drops Pitt, Bale and Colin Farrell. One time he mentioned Zac Efron but the young, hip actor was so famous in the teenage girl category that most of Unknown's victims had no idea who he was referring to. If he were into little girls, well, that would be his fifth problem.
The con man, Unknown, he says, "I tell Colin to watch his language all the time." Then he shakes his head and holds up his empty glass to the waiter.
"Another round," he says. "Just put it on my tab."
His tabs are complimentary. They're always complimentary. What he does is call ahead of time introducing himself as so-and-so's manager. He says, "I'll be coming in with Tom Cruise later today. Get a table ready for us." He adds that he expects his bill to be complimentary.
The restaurant manager, knowing that this is a huge honor to have such a big star in his establishment says, "Of course, of course." The restaurant never checks references, living by the motto that the customer is always right. Or maybe the manager just wants to believe that people are genuinely honest in life. Or maybe the manager has not stumbled upon a down on her luck mother pleading for money to help her sick child.
Then Unknown shows up, alone, saying that Cruise, or Pitt, or Farrell is running late. He's doing press and that he'll get here as soon as possible. "Press junkets," he says. "Tom's a busy man, but he'll be here as soon as possible."
Blocks away is Unknown's beat up and rusted out car parked in between an expensive BMW and Mercedes Benz. The bumper is falling of and he's had this car for a decade. The dash where the stereo goes is empty from the time his unit was stolen in a string of burglaries on his block. The glove compartment is tied to the latch so that it doesn't fall open. To Unknown, this isn't a big deal as the only thing in his glove compartment is a broken air conditioner knob from his dash panel.
The car was a gift from his godparents, who urged him to get out and meet people when they realized he hadn't left the house for months. Unknown was a 20-something-year-old virgin with no job, no education and no social skills. His mother was a lowlife as well; it's probably where Unknown got it.
At first, Unknown's godparents thought they were coddling him, or in their words, "protecting" him from the anonymous people out there ready to take advantage. After all, he was without a mother and who really knows what happened when he was under her control?
When they first took Unknown in, he was shy and introverted. Years of abuse does this to a child. So, the decision to "care" for him became a priority.
Whenever he bounced a check, his godmother would call the bank for him. Whenever he had a complaint, his godmother would talk to the manager. And whenever Unknown was feeling lonely, his godmother bought him a nice television with premium cable. To anyone that would ask, she'd say, "We just need to make sure that he doesn't have any side effects. Let's just let him be for a while. Let him get accustomed to his home."
With abuse, a child is forced to imagine a better life. With loneliness, a child is forced to imagine a better life. It's a coping mechanism when your real life offers very little.
Now? Unknown's godparents are proud of him for getting out into the real world. Amongst the thousands of messages to himself there are phone calls from his godparents telling him that they love him, and that they are proud of him, and that if he needs anything to not hesitate and call. To them, they did a fine job in raising their godchild.
Unknown says to the waiter, "He'll be here shortly. While I wait, I'll start off with an appetizer and some drinks." The waiter disappears only to return with several entrees and drinks, all of which are complimentary. All of which are in the higher priced section of the menu.
As he's sitting there sipping on expensive martinis and indulging himself with $30 dollar food dishes, word gets around that Tom Cruise will be arriving and that the guy sitting over there is his manager. An anonymous phone call to the hostess from an obsessed fan leaks word that he saw on E! that Tom Cruise's new movie is being filmed.
The hostess, a high-school student working part-time, smiles from ear to ear and joins in on the excitement. "I love the 'Mission Impossible' movies," she says into the phone. Not once does she question the caller.
Unknown's cell phone is like the Yellow Pages. Every restaurant and night club's phone number in the city is saved.
Unknown, he invites a table of beautiful women over to join him and runs up high tabs, which go unpaid courtesy of the legend of Tom Cruise.
Or the legend of Brad Pitt.
Or the legend of Colin Farrell. Colin Farrell, he swears all the time and Unknown, well, he's trying to get him to ease off on the curse words.
Unknown whips out his phone again, from his cashmere top coat, his favorite outfit, and pushes redial. "Cruise, where are you?" The phone machine at his apartment, it flickers its bright red digits, adding another call to the list. Unknown, he flips down the lid to his phone and slides it into his inner pocket.
An hour goes by, the table covered with empty glasses, the glasses with smeared lipstick on the edges, and stacked plates that have all gone eaten by, not only Unknown, but the three women as well, and the manager comes out asking if everything is fine.
Unknown says, "I'm sorry, Tom is extremely busy and it looks like he won't be making it after all." His body is calm from the alcohol and his attitude is a winning one. His alcoholic haze has him seeing six women, three sets of twins.
The manager, disappointed with the news, smiles in defeat and says, "Of course, of course. Maybe next time." Then he, along with the waiter, removes the plates and glasses. He says, "I still pick up your tab." He says this hoping for another time. He says this because he believes in people.
On the entertainment programs, witnesses come forward to say that their favorite celebrity always eats at such and such place and orders the same thing each time. Like clockwork, you can always catch a glimpse of your favorite actor. A show like this sticks in your head if you're plopped in front of the TV long enough. And if your godmother coddles you your entire post-abuse life, at some point your brain develops in a way that is unhealthy.
Unknown smiles, his bill reaching $1000 dollars, and says, "I promise you." Then he looks at the three women, each with her own agenda, and says, "Maybe next time girls."
Unknown says, "Anyone interested in a night cap?" This anonymous man, he's very blunt. His quote unquote star power and complimentary meals give him the leverage he needs to take one or two or all three of these women back to his hotel room. A room that's also complimentary by using the same tactic.
He says to the hotel manager, "Tom's staying at a nearby hotel under an assumed name." He jokes, saying the name is George Clooney. "Not really, but you get the drift," he says.
And if they're lucky, he might even stop in and say hi to them. He might even sign some autographs and take some photos. He says, "Wouldn't that be great?"
Like the restaurant manager, the hotel supervisor comps his room, a suite, hoping for the chance to meet Tom Cruise. Like the witnesses on television, the supervisor wants to say that Tom Cruise stayed at his wonderful hotel and tipped very well. Unknown, he knows the power of celebrity.
One woman agrees and she and Unknown vanish from the restaurant. They walk into the hotel lobby, waving to the night staff. "Have a good night, folks," they say. Unknown, he escorts his guest to the penthouse suite and the two take advantage of the amenities that the hotel offers.
After a soak in the hot tub, utilizing the mini-bar and ordering from room service, Unknown takes advantage of his guest, wearing off the several coats of lipstick from her face.
Unknown does this anytime he feels irrelevant. The same routine beginning with a couple phone calls. His answering machine, filled with messages from himself that say nothing more than, "where are you?" blinks its red indicator light, showing how many new messages he has. One message lost in the batch says, "Hi honey, your father and I want you to come over this Saturday for pizza and movies. Any suggestions on a movie?"
"Hi, I'd like to speak to the manager," Unknown says, to the disembodied voice that answers. He says, "I'm Brad Pitt's manager and he's in town doing some promotional work for an upcoming movie he's starring in with Tom Cruise."
The lies, they just roll off his tongue like that. He's done it so many times, he's an expert. He's done it so many times, he believes them himself.
Through the receiver, Unknown can hear a young woman's voice get higher, excited by the fact that her Pitt will be in town. He waits until the enthusiasm dies down, knowing that his scam will work like a charm.
Unknown says, "We'd like to come in for dinner but are in a hurry so if you could get a table ready for us, that would be great." Above him, the neighbor is experimenting with tantric positions from the Middle East. He looks up at his ceiling, drywall falling down onto his floor, and hears the groans escape his neighbor as she moves from corner to corner.
"Of course, of course," the manager says, her voice holding back the excitement. Before Unknown can ask for courtesy, she says, "It's on the house."
"And please," Unknown says, "keep this on the down low." He says this, but deep down he loves the attention. "Women can't keep secrets," he says. The near sighting will spread in no time.
The newspaper, there's a two inch by two inch notice saying that blocks will be closed for filming. And then detours down other streets. From this date to this date, and we're sorry for the inconvenience.
Unknown hangs up the phone and waits, for show time. The lady upstairs, her vagina must be the size of a double wide by now. Next door, Unknown is surprised there is still furniture left to be thrown. He says this as he straightens the picture frames just because. He says this as he waits for his phone call to make its rounds through the establishment.
Fifteen minutes before he's supposed to arrive, he makes a quick phone call to the restaurant saying that Pitt is running late and if it would be alright if he came in and had a few drinks.
The restaurant manager, she says, "Of course, of course. We'll have a table ready for you." Then she hangs up and rushes to clear a corner table with dim lighting. And Unknown, he heads out for the night, leaving the neighbors to fight and fuck, both at the same time.
Parked in his car blocks away, Unknown pulls down the driver side visor to check himself in the mirror. The edges of the visor are frayed and one corner is taped together. In the back seat are stacks of entertainment and men's health magazines.
A large suitcase is in the trunk filled with various outfits for the occasion. There's a retro leather jacket to go along with his faded jeans with holes in the knees. A couple vintage button down long sleeve shirts are folded neatly on top of each other. Different pairs of shoes he's accumulated for each outfit, they are spread out evenly across the bottom of the suitcase. Stashed along the side of the clothes is a box of condoms. Various types of condoms that include ribbed, sensitive, flavored and self-lubricated. Like the restaurants and hotels are accommodating to Unknown is the same way he is accommodating to women.
The manager, her suit ironed and makeup plastered on her face, a feeling of elation inside, says to her staff, "He'll be here in ten." Her hair is pinned back tightly on her head, a single strand falling down the side of her face. She's done her best to avoid steam or liquids that would force her to lock herself in the restroom to redo it.
Unknown enters with confidence, his body with grandiose posture and his head up, his aura engaging those around him. The manager and her staff, they are lined up with perfect posture and bright faces. He says, "I expect him here in a few."
A group of waitresses has timed it perfectly to be in between tables and refills, with a few girls holding pitchers of water and iced tea. One waitress has a dish of meatloaf that has gotten cold courtesy of the legend of Brad Pitt. To the diner, however, the meatloaf can be nuked and she apologizes for the inconvenience. Brad Pitt is definitely worth the extra dollar lost in tip.
In front of the patrons, Unknown is led by the manager to a lone table off in the corner. The waitresses stand and watch until the two are no longer seen. Then they return to their respective tables with excuses already made up. "There was a mix up in the kitchen," or "I'm sorry, we had to change out the iced tea."
A single light hangs above and a candle burns in the center of the lone VIP table. A folded piece of cardboard reads RESERVED FOR MR. PITT in sharp calligraphy.
The manager says, "Anything you want. It's on the house." She smiles and walks away, only to hide behind the counter in the kitchen, where she stares at Unknown, as he breezes through the menu. She says to herself, "My Pitt is coming in. To my restaurant." She bites down on her bottom lip and obsesses.
Unknown orders his usual five entrees and mixed drinks, his tab once again reaching a limit his credit card couldn't handle. And like before, word somehow slips through that Brad Pitt is coming, Brad Pitt is coming.
Women, shameless women, some with dates and some married, they make excuses and then shimmy past Unknown and smile sensually. They go to the restroom to freshen up, they say they have to make a phone call, or that something needs adjusting, always making it a point to pass by Unknown's table, even though the pathway is nowhere near their own.
Unknown says, "Hello. Would you like to join me?" He pulls out the chair to his right and, while a few women decline, a couple do.
"Unknown," he says. "I'm Brad Pitt's manager." The women, shaking in their heels, extend a hand to Unknown. He kisses the top of each and orders drinks for them. Anything on the top shelf works.
Like clockwork, Unknown reaches in for his phone and flips the cover and dials home. A couple rings go by and the voice mail picks up. The answering machine is in the kitchen, on the counter pushed back to the corner. Next to it is a case of pop that just reads COLA on it. Unknown's real top shelf consists of generic, on sale, marked down for expiration date and two for one.
The voice mail says, "This is Brad, leave a message." Unknown turns the volume up on his phone ahead of time so that the women can hear the announcement through his phone. They turn and address each other, with one woman biting down on her bottom lip to hide a smile, and the other staring with bulging eyes. The two can't believe this is happening.
Unknown says, "Pitt, where are you?" Then he hangs up and flips down the lid and replaces the cell back in his inner pocket. Around his apartment, the neighbors continue fighting and fucking. On the walls, the picture frames are doing a jig from left to right and back again.
"Actors," he says. He says this jokingly for playful conversation. Although the women giggle, they don't say a word, still nervous and slightly intimidated by this man who knows Brad Pitt.
"You two can relax," he says, smiling to each individually. One woman laughs awkwardly and then drinks from her glass. The other, she still can't believe this is happening. Her eyes, they're locked on Unknown, bulging to a point they might fall out.
More drinks come and plates of hot food arrive. He says to the server, "You're doing a fine job." She takes away empty glasses and reports back to the manager.
The manager, still holding her position behind the counter, checks her watch. It's been an hour and a half. No Pitt. She checks the door and then her watch. Then she regains her position and continues staring.
She calculates the total in her head and begins to get skeptical. After a couple breaths, the manager straightens her shirt and disappears out of the kitchen.
"You have a fine establishment here," Unknown says, the manager now within earshot. She walks up to the table, her body stern and ready for answers.
"I just called, he should be here shortly," Unknown says. He says, "I'm sure he'll love your hospitality." He squints to see the manager's name badge. "Tanya," he says.
The two women, they simultaneously turn to the manager to confirm the phone call, nodding their heads up and down. One woman, her smile is frozen while the other, her mouth is open and her eyes are strained.
The manager's body calms. She says, "Of course. If you need anything, just let me know." In her mind, there's still hope. She escapes into the kitchen and tells the server that her Pitt should be coming anytime now and that the man had just talked to him.
They rejoice like school girls, shaking their hands as they meet in between their bodies and, together, stare from behind the counter.
Unknown says, "Are you ladies big fans?"
One woman, sipping her margarita, sets the glass down and says, "I love his movies." The other woman just sits and nods her head, her eyes still bigger than normal, hoping that she will soon be sitting at the same table as Brad Pitt. Her body, it doesn't move, it is still like a mannequin.
A few awkward moments go by, eerie silences in between drinks, and Unknown reaches for his phone. He pushes redial and, again, after a few rings that leak out from the receiver for the women to hear, the voice mail triggers. "Brad, it's Unknown. Where are you?" He says this with an uncompromising voice, as if he means business.
He says, "I'm sitting here with two lovely ladies. We're having drinks, waiting for you." He pauses and says, "Tell Angelina and the kids I said, 'hi.'" Then he closes his phone again and slides it into his inner breast pocket.
The bill, now above $1200 dollars, sits on the computer as the manager watches it ring up more and more drinks, and more and more food. "How much more food can they eat?" she says. The bill, it's something that she will be explaining to the General Manager at their next meeting.
Twenty minutes have passed since her last visit and she sees that the restaurant is closing in less than an hour. Her Pitt needs to arrive soon.
Unknown, on the brink of drunkenness, downs another martini and says, "I can't believe Brad didn't show." His voice is slurring and his eyes are getting heavy.
He says, "He'll hear about it tomorrow. Trust me." The women, looks of exasperation, look at each other and then to Unknown.
One says, "What now?" She's sloshed herself and feels guilty drinking for free all night. In a roundabout way she feels if she's with Brad Pitt's manager, she'll have a story to tell for life. An "oh yeah?" story, one that plays out like a six degrees of separation. If you sleep with someone, you sleep with every person that person has slept with. Unless of course, it's Brad Pitt's manager, then you've one upped them.
The other woman, her eyes now tired, says, "Do you have a room nearby?"
And Unknown, once again, seeing that his plan is working as usual, says he does, and that it would be a good idea if the three go back and party.
They agree and stand, the manager bolting from the kitchen to see what's going on. She says, "He couldn't make it?" her voice nonchalant and reaching disappointment.
"Maybe next time," Unknown says.
The four stand in a circle by the table when a woman yells out, "He's here! He's here!"
The newspaper, there's a two inch by two inch notice saying that blocks will be closed for filming. And then detours down other streets. From this date to this date, and we're sorry for the inconvenience.
The manager, the two women, and Unknown focus their attention to the front and see Brad Pitt standing there, waiting to be catered to. The hostess, she points over to Unknown's table and Pitt shakes his head, his shoulders shrugging.
"Your manager's over there," she says, pointing to Unknown specifically. Pitt turns toward the door, and a man enters.
"This is my manager." Pitt turns and the man extends his hand out for a shake.
"Please to meet you," he says to the hostess.
The restaurant manager walks quickly up to the front and introduces herself. She tells Pitt what happened and the next thing they know the police is there.
Witnesses give their statements, saying things like, "This guy came in and acted like he was Brad Pitt's manager so he could score free food and chicks." The cops, they divide their officers with some making arrests and others questioning the manager and the two women.
Unknown, his gig is up. His feeling of irrelevancy, it's back. And his godparents, they're leaving messages on his machine asking if he likes action flicks.
The police officials are hauling Unknown out of the restaurant in handcuffs. This is the most exciting thing that has happened all night.
The manager is getting her photo taken with Brad Pitt. The high bill was worth it, even if it didn't go exactly as planned.
Unknown, he's now sitting in prison, a concrete rectangle with a barred up window, reflecting on his life. He does this when he's feeling irrelevant.
And to those he's conned, they're thinking, anonymous did this. There was nothing really special about this man. He was just some man.