You splashed your way through the muddle of a late spring rain. Galleycat was gossiping about Emily Davies this morning. You'd downloaded the latest Bat Segundo podcast only to find out after you'd boarded BART that Miss Snark had been bumped at the last minute for
James Frey. Damn. You'd rather listen to Ed interviewing anyone but James Frey, even Nicole Ritchie.

The escalators at BART's Civic Center station were busted again. You'd dragged your bundle of manuscripts up the staircase, limping on your bunion like a terrapin with a broken foot. This was not what you'd expected when you'd earned your MFA in Drama, with honors. You'd
expected to be the next Charlize Theron or at least Paris Hilton, to experience the roar of the greasepaint, smell of the crowd. Or was it vice versa? Whatever.

Instead, you had a studio apartment out on 22d, a BART commute thrown off schedule three times in the last two weeks due to either bomb threats or computer meltdowns, no dates to speak of, and newly-diagnosed soy and corn allergies. You'd had to give up nearly every kind of food you loved. No more chips and dip. No more tamales. No more sushi. No more anything made with high fructose corn syrup.

This was not the life you'd expected.

The dream you'd nurtured through years of amateur productions was a will of the wisp. You'd finally faced reality and taken a second-rate job at a third-rate literary agency in the Tenderloin. That job hadn't turned out as you'd expected either. You worked all day and read slush all night, looking for a gem in amongst the dog turds.

Dog turds. Feh. Damn dog turds, you thought, as you dodged the dog walker, promenading poodles through the puddles on Polk. Your inner snark was ready to take a bite out of the next nitwit who gave you any grief.

Turning left onto Turk Street you heard, "Spare change?"

"I said, 'Spare change?'"

"Your mother wears Army boots, lady. Least you could do is acknowledge a
fellow human."

You spun around. Lost your balance. A muddy puddle found you.

"Give me your hand," the panhandler said, and helped you up. Dripping mad, you looked up into...George Clooney eyes. Your panhandler smiled. A George Clooney smile. Great. On the day you meet George Clooney's lost twin, you're covered with mud and your mascara is dripping.

"I didn't mean for you to drop everything and give me ten...books? Are those manuscripts?" He retrieved the manuscripts.

"Can I buy you a coffee? Make amends? I was just getting in character for a bit role as a panhandler. See? No bedbugs!"

You laughed. Your morning was shot anyway. Good thing your now-soggy manuscripts were all, as usual, rejects. Coffee with your panhandler? Why not? What did another hour or so matter? Maybe your boss would fire you. More time, then, to get to know your George Clooney look-alike. Plenty of time.

Thankfully it's clear Miss Snark does not live in the 415, is not a second rate agent, and ...wait..she's NOT getting George Clooney???

Scoring to come.


Anonymous said...

Hey. Who ran a spell-check? That story said "Clooney" on submission. It did! It did! I have the copy I kept!

Miss Snark said...

err..that would be me. Sorry.
I was blinded by rage at losing Mr. Clooney to a colonizer. It's fixed now.

A. J. Luxton said...

No, it's not. You still have two "George Clooney"s and two "George Colony"s. I suppose we can tell by this which ones are the second-rate clones. :-)

JLB said...

I love the twist of fate!

Miss Snark said...

ok, NOW it's fixed.
Amazing what snooze, and coffee will do for spotting the obvious!

ed said...

The San Francisco version of "Bright Lights, Big City?" Hilarious.

Anonymous said...

Thanks for clearing up the Clooneys, Miss Snark.

Thanks, ed. Jay McInerney I'm not, but thanks for letting me know that my attempted ripoff was at least recognizable as such.