Ed. note: while jasmine is off studying for the bar, she's rounded up some forces to keep the readers happy while she's gone. enjoy!
Ed. update: the tech boy has a name and that name is chris. i told my friend mike at school about my tech boy crush. i told him i didn't even know tech boy's name, but that the guy in the booth was working with him today. mike turned around, walked into the tech booth and said, "what's the name of that guy who was just working here with you? my friend has a crush on him. does he have a girlfriend?" i'm sitting outside, my jaw is dropped and i'm speechless/mortified/i don't even know what. guy in booth says boy's name is chris, that he doesn't think he has a girlfriend but doesn't really know. i gotta make a move. eek! it's scary...
now, without further ado...guest post by g.lo. also, i'm happy to note that i'm NOT flashing anyone in this one!
It was hot in LA. Muggy. With mostly inverted skies and hint of chemical in the wind. I had left my office after a phone call from one of my famous clients but decided to check the Louis Vuitton knock-offs at Hollywood and Vine before attending to business.
A tourist couple wandered the avenue, reading the quotes along the famous walk of stars. They came upon a cryptic message from Bruce Willis: “Beware the Jasmine in March.”
Little did this couple realize, but my seemingly unrelated argument with an Asian-American woman over a handbag had been precipitated by this statement. The legend of The Jasmine. Just another of the many secrets in this place called Lollywood. Er…
I cruised down the dank streets of Sunset Boulevard. Not a single apartment complex of attractive 20-somethings greeted my drive. Disappointing. At least there were prostitutes; there would always be prostitutes.
When I reached the snazzy hotel housing my client, I let the valet park my Nissan Sentra. He jerked along the drive, unfamiliar with the vehicles of the lower class.
My beautiful client awaited me in the restaurant. Even though I’m a girl, I threw on a jacket and tie because I never know how to behave in swanky establishments. The celebrity waved me over.
“I got here as fast as I could,” I informed Topher before I grabbed some sushi off his plate.
He looked ready to cry. Celebrities today cry a lot. In fact, only Ashton Kutcher cries more than Topher – must be a ‘70s thing.
“She’s here!” Topher stammered. “I saw her. She knows my name!”
“Topher, everyone knows your name.”
“No, not that name – my pretend name,” he whispered.
Then he succumbed to sobbing. I took the opportunity to sample the raspberry and glazed walnut salad. It was delicious.
After savoring the sweet rosemary vinaigrette, I murmured through a full mouth, “She isn’t real, Topher. It’s just a legend. There is no Jasmine.”
“No! Look! There she is by the bar.”
I glanced over and saw firm cleavage attached to the artificially young face of my next door neighbor. “Not her, Topher. You’ve been seeing old ladies again.”
“No! I saw her! That may not be her, but I’m dating her friend! I-I’ve never actually seen her face.” He looked embarrassed. He should be. The breasts are great, but women are people first. Even if this woman is just a legend.
“Not possible. There is no Jasmine. I’ve searched for years. Chased rumors of her in snow-soaked Sundance, followed sightings in sunny
“But John Lythgow wouldn’t lie! And Hugh Jackman swears they’re friends! She’s real, I tell you!”
I sighed. There’s no arguing with blind belief. “Okay, here’s a new super-secret identity based on cartoon/children’s characters. If she is real, she’ll never find you now.”
Topher looked relieved as he accepted the package. I slid out the door, still licking my fingers from a stolen swipe of lemon sorbet.
My Sentra arrived. On the passenger side sat a young, attractive law student immersed in preparation for the bar. I handed her a wallet as I started the engine.
“Topher’s stuff. Should make it easier for you to track him. And I gave him Buttercup Blossom as a new identity.”
The Jasmine smiled. Then she silently resumed her study of the law.