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Anonymous is a series of stories. Stories are what make the world go round.Chapter 2-

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. Patrons that are usually women, beautiful women, long legged women with perfect breasts and perfect hair, women that will do anything to meet a big star.

Women, he says, women I have no chance with. Those are the ones he’s into.

Three women stare at him as he downs the drink with no care whatsoever of the tab amount. It’s reaching $700 dollars.

The three women - the lipstick woman, the buxom woman, and legs - they all look at each other. They’re impressed.

“He’s doing press right now,” he says, “he’ll call me when he’s done.” He looks at his watch to give the impression that Tom Cruise is running late.

The man, he does this anytime he’s feeling irrelevant. At expensive restaurants, fancy clubs, wherever there are people of influence.

Such as the case here, at this establishment downtown. The man, known only as Unknown, whips out his phone and dials a number.

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.

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 reglossed with several brushes of lipstick. Next to her, there are napkins with lips impressions, some smudged and some more fresh.

Unknown smiles, his body 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. Money, a woman says, he must have money. 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.

“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.

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.

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. 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, at different times of the day.

His days go by with no excitement, there’s nothing to fill his inner desire.

However, at night, this is what he 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 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.”

“Is he your only client?” one girls 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.

Unknown name drops Pitt, Bale and Colin Farrell. He says, “I tell him to watch his language all the time.” Then he shakes his head and holds up his empty glass to the waiter.

“Another round,” Unknown says. He says, “Just put it on my tab.”

His tab is 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.”

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.”

Unknown says, “I’ll start off with an appetizer and some drinks though.” The waiter disappears only to return with several entrees and drinks, all complimentary Unknown reinforces.

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.

Unknown 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.

Unknown whips out his phone again, from his cashmere top coat, his only good outfit, and pushes redial. “Cruise, where are you?” 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.

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.

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.” And if they’re lucky, he might even stop in and say hi to them.

Like the restaurant manager, he comps his room, a suite, hoping for the chance to meet Tom Cruise.

One woman agrees and she and Unknown vanish from the restaurant.

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.

“Hi, I’d like to speak to the manager,” he says, to the disembodied voice that answers. Unknown 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 just roll off his tongue like that. He’s done it so many times, he’s an expert.

Through the receiver, Unknown can hear a young woman’s voice get higher, excited by the fact that her Pitt will be in town.

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.”

“Of course, of course,” she 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. 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 manager, her suit ironed and makeup plastered on her face, a feeling of elation inside, says, “Of course, of course.” Her hair, she’s done her best to avoid steam or liquids that would force her to lock herself in the restroom to redo it, is pinned back tightly on her head, a single strand falling down the side of her face.

Unknown enters with confidence, his body with grandiose posture and his head up, his aura engaging those around him. He says, “I expect him here in a few.”

In front of the diners, Unknown is led by the manager to a lone table off in the corner. A single light hangs above and a candle burns in the center. A folded piece of cardboard reads RESERVED 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.

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.

He 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.

Like clock work, 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 voice mail says, “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. At his apartment, the neighbors are both fighting and fucking.

“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.

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’s now getting skeptical.

“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 manager’s body calms and 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 them 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 a stern voice, as if he means business.

He says, “I’m sitting here with two lovely ladies. We’re having drinks, waiting for you.” 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.

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.”

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. Your friends, 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.”

Unknown, sitting in prison, a concrete rectangle with a barred up window, reflects on his life. He does this when he’s feeling irrelevant.

-END-

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