Debbie Does Drivel

Brush With Fame, Pt. I

As part of a quasi-continuing and erratic series of essays, I plan to set forth my brief, non-intimate, somewhat pathetic encounters with semi-famous people during my L.A. internment.
And we begin.

I was at a bar restaurant mid-week. Alicia Silverstone came in with two other people. One was Benicio del Torro, though I didn't know it at the time. Alicia seemed out of it: very droopy-eyed and sloppy. After a brief stint at the front bar where I sat, she loped out to her SUV parked directly out front. A dog barked within. She retrieved something from the front seat, it turned out to be a pack of cigarettes.
I wanted a few cigarettes, so told my bartender friend that I would bum some from Alicia Silverstone. (Since it'd make a good story someday. Boy, was I wrong.)
My pal DID NOT want me to ask Alicia for some smoky treats, since it'd be a poor reflection on him (twisted bartender logic).
I did it anyway. She slid her pack toward me, and I extracted two cigarettes, much to my friend's embarrassment, since I'd only asked to borrow one.
But Alicia didn't notice. Her eyes were barely open, and she took nearly no notice of my indiscretion.
She wore faded Levis and was prettier in person.
End scene.