Mad Atoms

Through the usual web of connections, I recently ended up at the SAG Awards after-party. After about my fifth free Grey Goose and cranberry, I turned around and bumped into Joey Fatone. At least, I thought it was Joey Fatone.  

“Heyyyy!” I exclaimed. “Joey Fatone!”

He laughed. “No, my name’s Frank.”

“Really?”

“Yes, really. But I get that all the time.” 

As a rule, I’m terribly terrible at recognizing celebrities (And given that I stand about 6 foot in heels, my line of sight tends to pass right over them.). Frank was so casual that I believed he must have been telling the truth. Also, it was nearing the end of the night and, honestly, the only people who hang out at such after parties until closing time are sketchy old men and young-n’-stuggling-types who need every free drink they can get.  For example, me.

“Whoa, you really do look like him – “ I began, and then stopped myself when I realized that maybe not everyone wants to look like Joey Fatone.

 “Um… so…  uh… where are you from?” 

“New York originally,” Frank said, “But I moved to LA from Florida.” 

“Oh! Oh! I’m from Kentucky!” I exclaimed, and then emitted some sort of tipsy woo-girl-esqe, “Woooo! Yay southern people!” 

“I don’t know if Florida is the south.” Frank said frankly. “But, you know what? The Kentucky Derby is my favorite thing in the world.” 

“Me tooooo!” I exclaimed (Not true. Brunch is my favorite thing in the world. But I do enjoy a good Derby.) “Infield or outfield?” I asked, wondering if we had perhaps crossed drunken paths before. But then, when he casually replied “Oh, I have a box,” I realized there was perhaps more to Frank than met the eye. And hey, I can always use a new rich friend.  

With visions of mint juleps dancing in my head, I began to gush to Frank about Lucky Panda, the racing horse my family owned a quarter of when I was growing up. I told him about my collection of derby hats that I have never worn to the actual derby.

And just as I was about to demonstrate my own imagined jockey stance, a very small, very bald man in a dark suit came up and stood between Frank and I. Handing me a business card, I honestly thought he hip-bumped my newfound equestrian-loving friend away. 

“Joey has to leave now,” he murmured. 

As he walked away, I was straight-up bummed that I’d missed my chance to have a derby-box-holding bestie. But, the next morning, looking through my photos, I was pleasantly surprised to see that finally, I have something quasi-interesting to write about.