When you’re a kid, you watch a celebrity being rushed through a crowd and wonder what the big deal is, but when people get into crowds, they cease to be people. Once the group mentality kicks in, you’re just as likely to get killed as you are to get your dick wet.
Since I started getting recognized, I’ve learned not to trust any groups larger than two strangers.
The reality of the situation is that if you don’t go through one of those gauntlets with some kind of escort or a good, solid barrier between you and them, chances of making it out of the situation uninjured drop substantially.
I’m looking through the glass section of the door at the mob on the other side just waiting to tear me to shreds when I notice that not one of them is looking in my direction. If they were, one of them would have seen me through the glass, and I’d be making a run for it.
In fact, as I inch closer for a better angle, they’re all looking toward the center of the group.
I open the door.
Nobody even looks over at me.
They’re all crowded around a man in his early 30s wearing a suit that looks to be in its early 60s.
This is just a simple waiting room for people with appointments with someone in one of the offices in the back, but it’s packed almost full with women literally and figuratively throwing themselves at the short, and from what I can tell from where I’m standing, balding man in the middle.
I tap one of the women on the shoulder.
She turns around and, although it takes a few seconds, she recognizes me.
“Oh hey, you’re that actor guy, right?” she asks.
I think that counts as being recognized.
“Yeah,” I tell her. “Who’s that man you’re all crowded around?”
“Oh, it’s Hershel Hansen,” she says. “Can you believe it?”
Can I believe it?
Can I believe it?
I don’t mean to throw a celebrity fit, but I’m Damian God-Damned Jones, for fuck’s sake. I should be the reason panties are wet in any given room, and I’m not about to be upstaged by Hershel Fucking Hansen, whoever he is.
Now that I think about it…
I tap the woman on the shoulder again.
Yeah, my presence made such little impact that she got bored with the fact that I’m in the room and turned her attention elsewhere.
She turns back around with annoyance plastered across her face. “Yeah?” she asks.
“Who is Hershel Hansen?” I ask.
A couple of the women closest to my informant turn and glare at me as if I’ve just insulted their holiest figure.
Maybe I have. How the fuck should I know?
“You’re kidding, right?” she asks.
“Can’t say that I am,” I answer.
It looks like she’s about to answer, but as she’s standing in such a way that she can talk to me and still keep an eye on Hansen, she sees him start to move toward the backstage area and she jumps back into the pack.
I’ve been replaced in the hearts and sexual organs of young, horny women.
This just might be the worst day of my life.