After putting a clean folded towel and washcloth at the foot of the freshly made bed, I came downstairs and walked into the kitchen.
“You’re all set,” I told George Clooney. Then I opened the refrigerator and grabbed the orange juice. The lightness of the carton startled me. “I’m almost out of orange juice,” I said to George Clooney. “I think I’ll save the last glass for breakfast tomorrow. I like to have orange juice with my breakfast.”
“I’m not a big orange juice guy,” George Clooney said, never looking up from his blackberry.
“Oh, I am,” I said. “I’m a huge orange juice guy. I like it with my breakfast,” I said. To George Clooney.
He looked up from his ‘crackberry,’ puzzled. “Yeah, you just said that.”
George Clooney was staying at my house. He had meetings in Tysons Corner that day, and was catching an early flight out of Reagan National the following morning. Rather than book a hotel, he was crashing in my spare bedroom.
“It’s an O.J. thing; you wouldn’t understand,” I told George Clooney. “Well, I’m turning in. If I don’t see you in the morning,” I said to George Clooney, “have a great trip.”
We shook hands and I went up for bed.
At around 4am, I heard George Clooney’s alarm sound. I was half asleep as I heard him get ready and brush his teeth. I must have been drifting in and out of sleep, because I had a dream that the person brushing their teeth in my bathroom was my neighbor, Kevin. But it was George Clooney.
My alarm went off around six. I got up, bleary and with a bad taste in my mouth, but nothing that a little orange juice wouldn’t cure. In the kitchen, there was a note.
Good seeing you again. Thanks for letting me crash in your spare bedroom.
Hmm, I thought, and went to the fridge. The orange juice carton was gone. In a panic, I looked over at the trashcan. The empty carton was on the very top. A glass that obviously had orange juice in it earlier was in the sink.
Not a big orange juice guy, huh, George Clooney?