Ten Perfect Seconds

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r-pat.jpgIt is almost two p.m. on Monday.  I have hours of work ahead of me this afternoon, not to mention the rest of the week.  So what the hell am I doing standing at the South entrance of the Plaza hotel, standing being a misnomer, because what I am actually doing is clinging to one of those electronic parking meters (Muni Meters, I believe), trying to keep my flip flops from slipping off the pedestal, all to get my head above the crowd of fifty or so adolescent Midwestern girls and their mothers? I look at the middle-aged Midwestern woman standing next to/below me.  “I swear I’m not thirty,” I say.  “Huh?” She looks at me quizzically.  Sigh.  No sense of sarcasm.  What did I expect really?  What kind of people did I think were standing out here?  What could possibly bring together screaming teens, the Plaza, and me, playing hookie from work on a Monday afternoon?  Why, nothing less than the promise of a glimpse of Robert Pattinson emerging from his trailer.

“So?  I’m twenty one and I’m here,” says a Madeline Zima look alike, also standing next to/below me.  That’s what I love about people in their early twenties.  They think that all people in all stages of their twenties are the same age.    They have no sense that, by twenty-eight, they will already regard twenty-four year olds as children.  I glare at her.  “I’m a LAWYER,” I say, as if that will be sufficient explain to a college student why it is entirely absurd for me to be spending two hours hoping to see the top or back of Edward Cullen’s head.  She shrugs. I hear teenage shrieking and abruptly jump up on my tiptoes, trying to ignoring the filth on my hands from the parking meter.  R. Pat, is it really you? No, it’s not.  It’s just a brown-haired geeky dude in Wayfarers that look just like Robert’s.  C’mon fourteen year old girls, I really expected more of you.  Am I seriously the first to notice that this dude’s hair is much flatter/duller than Rob's and that he just isn’t tall enough?  I relax a little on my post. The Midwestern Mom looks at me.  “You could try to think about your cases while you are waiting here, then go back to the office and bill the time?”  Genius.  Perhaps I’ve underestimated this woman. More teen screams.  I look up again.  It’s nothing.  Not even a decoy.  The sidewalk on the opposite side of the street is also packed with adolescents, and apparently, each time a truck goes by that blocks their view, they start screaming.  Unhelpful. I check my watch, wondering if I should give up, but fully aware that if I leave, Rob will come out no less than twenty seconds later. Finally, a trailer door opens.  “Is it him?” the mom screams.  “It’s him!” I yell.  I’m careful not to shriek.  “Are you sure?” asks one of the teens.  I glare again.  Kids these days, they don’t know the true meaning of a good, old-fashioned celebrity obsession. Of course I’m sure.  He saunters out of the trailer, looks in our direction, in my direction, I am certain, and easily glides through the doors of the Oak Room.  As suddenly as he appears, he’s gone. Ten seconds of Robert Pattinson.  Two hours of my day converted from juggling fifteen cases at once to blatantly and unapologetically indulging my inner teen.  Ten, thrilling, heart pounding, brilliant seconds of Robert Pattinson.  Embarrassing?  Absolutely.  Worth it?  Totally.

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