IMAGINES: Celebrity Encounters Starring You (62 page)

“I’ll have my people call you!” you hear Demi call out as you exit.

Panicking, you look back and forth between the cop and Demi’s door. “What’s going to happen to me?” you ask.

But the cop stays silent.

“I have the right to know what’ll happen to me, right?” you say, feeling and hearing yourself breathing faster than normal as your heartbeat accelerates.

“Actually, you have the right to remain silent . . .”

You feel like thousands of questions are piling up on top of your head, like there’s a giant hand grabbing your heart and squeezing it with all its might, not letting you breathe and think. Everything around you is darkening, the ringing in your ears growing louder and louder as you exit the building.

You know what’s going to happen to you, and you can’t blame anyone but yourself.

ONE YEAR.
That’s what the judge in the state of California decides to give you. Turns out, California is extremely strict about its no-texting-while-driving rule. You got the whole talk and earful from her about this situation, and all you could do was stand there and take it.

One year; 365 days.

It could have been just a few months, but you also went over the speed limit, so that added in a few more months. Also, causing someone to go to a hospital might have contributed to the length of the sentence.

Wow, you’re an idiot.

You shouldn’t have taken your phone out. You should have ignored all the distractions and everything going on around you and focused on the road. You always thought,
Oh, this would never happen to me, I’m a good driver
, but no. It can happen to anyone, and it happened to you.

So here you are, dressed in a lovely-looking orange jumpsuit.

Hey, at least now you know after this is over, you can help Demi. Maybe sooner, if she helps you out, but you know not to get your hopes up.

But in the future, when you’re finally allowed to drive again, and that damn phone starts ringing or vibrating while you’re on the road?

It can wait.

Y
ou’re sitting in your wicker kitchen chair next to a frothy mug of hot chocolate. You know, the kind that’s warm, but not quite hot, and has an excess of powdered cocoa. Imagine your foot is in your lap and you’re picking at your new shoe. Its sides are wrinkleless, barely broken in. You sigh and wonder how soon they’ll mold to your feet, though you know they will eventually feel more natural. They always do.

A beeping melody comes from your pocket and you pull out your cell phone.

“Hello,” begins an automated message. “This is
The Tonight Show Starring Jimmy Fallon.
We are calling for . . .”—the pitch of the woman’s voice lowers significantly as she says your name—“to invite you to participate on our show on . . .” Her voice changes again as she mutters the date. “We look forward to hearing from you soon.”

The message ends and you start laughing, a soundless, tight-in-your-chest laugh that you only make when something totally ridiculous happens to you. You immediately text message your closest friends:
Okay, which one of you hooligans just called me?

Within seconds, they respond:

Just woke up.

I’m in the Bahamas.

Isn’t that what caller ID is for?

Sure it wasn’t the police?

As you shake your head at your friends’ responses, the doorbell rings. Walking to the front of your house, you wonder who could be stopping by on a Saturday. You open your front door to find a stuffed manila envelope stamped
IMPORTANT
. When you lift it up, examining it with your fingers, it feels heavy and smooth—just as all important manila envelopes should.

This one’s addressed from NBC.

“Whoa,” you mutter, heading back inside.

Sitting back in your wicker chair, you cut open the envelope. Out slides a stack of papers addressed to you. You sift through them: liability forms, disclosure contracts, and first-class plane tickets to and from New York City, leaving the next day and returning the day after. Underneath the tickets is a receipt for a hotel reservation at the Rockefeller Plaza Hotel. At the bottom is a letter signed by Jimmy Fallon, saying:

Jimmy invites you to be his special guest tomorrow night! Please accept these travel arrangements as his gift to you. Returning these forms, signed and dated, can be your gift to him!

You pull your cell back out and write your friends, your fingers flying over your phone’s keypad:
Okay, seriously, guys, what is this?

A minute later you have four responses:

What is WHAT?

Okay, seriously, I’m in the Bahamas, I told you that six times!

Ur going crazy.

Stop waking me up.

As you hold the plane tickets in your hands, your breathing gets faster. First-class, window seat, to the Big Apple, your name on them. You reach for a pen and look down at your shoes.

“Looks like we’re going to New York,” you say.

LESS THAN TWENTY-FOUR HOURS LATER,
you hop off the plane at JFK, the airport terminal bustling with a striking variety of people. There are people with big shoes, little shoes, brown shoes, black shoes, shoes that light up when they walk, practical shoes, bedtime shoes, and shoes that will no doubt make their feet hurt the moment they step out of the airport. And this is just
one
terminal.

As you leave the airport, you see a man dressed in a black suit and dark sunglasses holding a sign up with your name on it. You approach him, gripping your suitcase, and say, “Hello.”

He is about a foot taller than you but smiles gently. “Mr. Fallon welcomes you to New York.”

The man, Jimmy Fallon’s personal chauffeur, drives a fifteen-foot slick black limousine. Inside are bags of chips and pretzels and a refrigerator filled with bottled water. Dehydrated and hungry from the plane ride, you help yourself, then sit back in your seat and take it all in. The variety of people walking along Fifth Avenue is even greater than what you’d seen in the airport. Everyone’s hair is different, clothes are different, and the ways they carry themselves scream magnitudes about their personalities.

The limousine pulls into the most bustling square, surrounded by skyscrapers, you have ever seen in your life. The largest of the skyscrapers overlooks a magnificent fountain and has huge, lavish windows and a stepped roof that disappears up into
a blanket of clouds. The adjacent buildings are nicely decorated, though they cannot match their leader’s height or grandeur. As your driver pulls up next to the center skyscraper, he says, “Last stop: Rockefeller Plaza.”

Exiting and opening your door, he helps you climb out of the limousine, and you can hardly stop grinning.

“We’ll have your bags dropped off at the hotel. Walk through these doors and our receptionist will help you find the studio.” He gestures to a door to the side of the center skyscraper, and not the main tourist entrance.

As you step away from the limousine, a light breeze swirls about you. Your new shoes feel bouncy against the cobblestones. You run your fingers through your hair, taking it all in: the smell of food trucks, the excited laughter of tourists, and a lingering taste in the air that culinary wizards would call “New York City on a Good Day.” You know that Rockefeller Plaza is one of the things that demand being experienced with all five senses, like the top of the Eiffel Tower, a canoe ride into the middle of Lake Michigan, and the long lines at Disney World.

You step through the door and into the Comcast Building. The lobby is tight with a dark woody finish. It features three armchairs and a small desk that a middle-aged man stands behind. He holds a cheery glint in his eye and motions for you to approach. The same pop music you heard in the limousine plays over the speakers in the lobby, an upbeat song about a woman and her recent breakup. The receptionist asks to see your ID and smiles when it matches the name on his agenda for the day. “Welcome to New York,” he says so quickly that if you blinked, you would have missed it, but you knew you would remember it forever. He asks if you’d like to put your coat somewhere and you shrug off your Windbreaker, wondering whose fancy, celebrated coats your coat will soon be joining.

“Hello.” A woman in her thirties with glowing blond hair approaches you. She wears a gray pantsuit and red high heels that are so pointy you’re surprised they haven’t taken any of the ground with them. “I’m Angelica Seacrow. We’re so excited for you to be joining us this evening. Please, come right this way!”

Angelica extends her hand for you to shake. She is all smiles as you follow her down a hall. “How was your flight? Did you like your seat?”

“The seat was awesome. Thank you so much.”

Angelica grins at your response, and you reach a large metal elevator in the lobby and step in. The elevator is enormous and decorated with signed pictures of celebrities like Mick Jagger, Madonna, George Clooney, and Tom Brady. Even the ceiling is decorated, with a giant picture of the president’s dog, Bo, paw print and all.

The doors open to reveal Studio 6B, where a thirty-person stage crew greets you with nodding heads and warm smiles. On the plane you’d studied Jimmy Fallon’s most viral shows, the ones with the most views on YouTube, and you had to admit,
The Tonight Show
studio in real life looks almost exactly like it does on television, except none of the audience had yet arrived. There are the glaring lights, the enormous speakers, and its three stages: Center Stage holds Jimmy’s desk, parked next to the celebrity hot seat. It sits against a backdrop of the nighttime New York City skyline that almost takes your breath away—it looks that real, that beautiful. On both sides of this stage is another giant stage, where Jimmy’s famous show games take place. You smile, thinking of Emma Stone’s legendary lip-synch battle with Jimmy, and Channing Tatum’s script readings of
Magic Mike
as written by six-year-olds.

Before you can take in much more, you are swept up by the crew. Angelica steps beside you, her stride long and her pace
quick. You think you can hear upbeat, instrumental jazz play over the speakers, but the most noise is coming from the crew as they ask what your favorite colors are for wardrobe, if you’re allergic to anything, and if you would like some sparkling water. It drowns out the jazz and any coherent thoughts you might form. They bring you to a room that could fit forty people but has only three reclining chairs, surrounded by mirrors and drawers of products.

A tall, skinny man looking no older than twenty helps you sit in one of the chairs. “I’m Tony,” he greets you, peering at your face, slowly scrutinizing every detail. “I’ll be your makeup artist for today. Close your eyes, please.”

You do as you’re told and hear the room go silent. Before you can wonder what else is happening, Tony says, “Now open. Good.”

You open your eyes and Tony steps to the side to converse with two women holding brushes and sweaters. With all these people surrounding you and doting on you, it’s easy for you to feel like a star.

You sip your sparkling water, and Angelica approaches you with a folder full of papers. “Thank you for filling out our first forms.” She smiles at you. “But we do have a few more confidentiality agreements, as well as disclosures for content that we put online.”

You take the forms and the long ballpoint pen she is holding. Tony comes back over, and his two assistants swing your chair closer to a mirror. “This is just some powder to help you keep your color for the cameras,” one of the women explains as she spreads powdery goop onto your cheeks.

“And this is to bring out your eyes,” the other says, plopping a cool lotion onto your forehead. The women work on your makeup and Tony watches them thoughtfully. You feel one of them dab
your hairline with a towel to cool you down. Tony’s eyes never leave your face, until finally he takes a step back to look at your entirety.

“And what would you like to wear tonight?” he asks. “Would you like to see our wardrobe options? Anything you choose to wear, you get to keep!”

He waves his hand toward you and takes in your jeans and sweater. Finally, he looks at your shoes. You squirm slightly under his gaze, and one of the women has to ask you to keep still. You wonder if Tony can tell that your shoes are new, or how uncomfortable you are in them.

“Do I have to change?” You’d picked out that outfit in the morning specifically to appear on the show. “I think I look pretty good.”

The women stop brushing you to hear his answer.

After a pause, Tony finally cracks a wide grin. “You look great. Of course, yes, wear this.” He gestures toward your clothes. “But we must, must,
must
find you a hat!”

AN HOUR LATER,
Tony declares you “camera ready.” Your shoes are shined, your outfit is fluffed, and your face is satisfactory to him. Angelica introduces you to a parade of people, including Emily Knapp, a perky woman dressed completely in black, who is the show’s stage manager.

“She’ll tell you when to go on,” Angelica explains. “This is Aaron, our head cameraman.” She brings up a heavyset man in his fifties. “If his camera is aimed at you, it doesn’t necessarily mean it’s recording, just that it could be. So try to look at it.”

Finally Angelica helps you out of the makeup chair. You thank Tony and his assistants and follow Angelica, Emily, and Aaron back into the studio.

Angelica checks her watch. “And he’s here in three . . . two . . . one . . .”

The wide elevator doors slide open and America’s quintessential funnyman and favorite talk-show host steps out. Now, if you thought
you
were a big deal stepping out of that elevator and into a crowd of crew members that immediately soaked you up, it’s nothing compared to this, with the crowd, doubled in size, clapping enthusiastically for Mr. Jimmy Fallon. Clearly, he’s the real deal, the star.

Jimmy has drawn himself up to his full six-foot stance and claps with the crew. “Great job, everybody!” he exclaims. “I’m so excited for the show tonight, how about you?” He clasps his hands together and scans his eyes over the horde of people. Jimmy’s chocolate-brown hair is already combed and gelled, and his skin is flushed and full of color. He’s already put on a black suit and a skinny black tie. He looks exactly like he does on television, only less like a 2-D cartoon, and now the childlike gleam in his eye actually matches the excitement you feel stirring around the studio.