Page 24 - Sweet Embraceable You: Coffee-House Stories

12 Jack Fritscher

“Nobody else recognizes them.”
“They’re off-camera,” Cameron said. “Movie stars aren’t what
they used to pretend to be.”
“Quiet,” Ada said. She had this fan-madness about her. Cam-
eron had witnessed it before. She had a passion for the fabulous,
for fabled people. She collected fame the way a philatelist collects
stamps. Once in Union Square, Clint Eastwood had smiled at her
between takes in one of his films.
“Do you think he recognizes me?” Ada said.
“You’re kidding.”
Six months before, Ada had been in the right place at the
right time, the corner of Broadway and Columbus, when the cast
and crew of The Streets of San Francisco carried Edmund O’Brien
costumed like a cop out of a little jeweler’s shop on a stretcher. Ada
had worked her way to the front of the crowd and planted herself
smack between Karl Malden and Michael Douglas. Malden’s line
had been to the crowd: “Move back, everybody. Move back.” And
she had, frowning, but not too much, under-acting for the Panavi-
sion camera, determined not to end up on the cutting room floor.
When the take was over, Michael Douglas, like Clint Eastwood,
had smiled at her. She had been wearing a tight T-shirt of alternat-
ing blue and yellow stripes that she had then folded into her cedar
chest as a souvenier.
“Ada,” Cameron whispered. “I think he recognizes you.”
“No, he doesn’t. He couldn’t.” Ada looked for a menu. “Why
do you think so?”
“By the way he keeps his back to you.” He nudged her ribs.
A gull reconnoitered greedily overhead.
“Call a waiter, will you, Cameron? For godsake, I’m starving.
I need a menu.”
The woman with Michael Douglas turned around. “Here you
go,” she said. Her voice was husky. “We seem to have three.” She
handed the menu to Cameron.
“Thanks,” he said.

©Jack Fritscher, Ph.D., All Rights Reserved
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