The Table
I live near the ocean on a clay rusty mesa between the celebrity meccas of Los Angeles and La Jolla. I have my brushes with fame, sure. I once saw Gwyneth Paltrow drinking skinny latte at a chic beach-side cafe. She wore ratty gray sweatpants and a tight aqua t-shirt. I stooped, pretended to adjust my flip-flops, wanted to be sure I was right. She knew what I was doing. She smiled, gave me a curt wave. She told me she liked the plumeria flower in my hair. But that's Del Mar, man, a north coast suburb of San Diego full of starfish and stars.
My town lies further north still, a quiet community of retirement homes and fading family beach resorts. No actresses park it at the local coffee shop, grab a sweet at the Chinese Donut and sun their bellies on our beach. Not until six months ago, anyway, when I noticed something odd. A sleek Mercedes passed me on a late afternoon as I peddled my Avon door-to-door, drove up Hillside Street and turned into a subdivision overlooking the lagoon. I wouldn't have thought twice about it, but the two people sitting in the back looked familiar. They wore large dark glasses, chatted with each other, ignored the middle-aged driver. Celebrities. A married couple. A pair so famous, so beautiful and blonde-highlighted and hip that I dropped my backpack to the cement in surprise and turned to watch the car hang a right turn. No way, I thought. No way. Can't be. Not in this crappy town.
A couple weeks later it happened again. The same Mercedes, the same direction, time of day, slightly tinted windows, happy couple - but wait! It wasn't the same married pair. It was another celebrity duo, two hot young men known for their close friendship. The car turned right. What the heck?
I described the car and driver and changing famous passengers to my Turkish friend, Ulak.
"So, what do you think is going on? Think it's some kind of kinky celebrity sex parties?" I pointed a pretzel at Ulak, jabbed it to make my point, leaned back and waited his response.
"Birdie. You are seeing things. I don't think those kinds of people visit your neighborhood."
Ulak sipped his beer. He had a point. What would The Beautiful People do in my part of town, on a street full of identical oh-so-normal stucco homes?
"Well, maybe they're playing poker. You've heard about those secret high-stakes gambling homes, haven't you?" I puckered my brows, made a mental list of activities the rich might like. Sex. Poker. Well, it was a short list. "I think it's poker. I has to be."
"Birdie. Next week you'll be seeing Elvis in that Mercedes." Ulak laughed. He crunched a pretzel, chewed it thoroughly, swallowed before speaking once more. "I will bet you one hundred dollars there are no celebrities in Mercedes sneaking around your neighborhood."
Ulak didn't know a few months later, on a cool mid-June afternoon this past week, he would lose that bet.
To Be Continued....
11:10:50 AM 
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