George Clooney’s the Man

I decide George Clooney is the man. Actually, he’s deciding it for me. He’s in my kitchen with a gun and he’s diabolically, yet exceedingly charmingly, commanding me to admire him. Or else.

I protest, “George, you’re already my hero. Just google your girlfriends. You don’t need to do this.”

He smiles and the reflection off the enamel blinds me. It bounces off the metallic coffee maker and shoots out the window like a laser.

He’s calm, yet malice hides in his words. Like a bottle of cyanide placed among vintage wines. “That is very kind of you, and Stacy will be pleased to hear you compliment her, but you must say it. Say, ‘you’re the man.’ I’ve already used this thing twice,” he says, shaking the gun at me. “I have fifteen guys before noon to visit and lunch with Brad at one, a facial scheduled for three o’clock.” He puts his non-gun hand up to his forehead and cringes. “Dammit, this is tough.”

I wonder if the gun is a real one, or a prop from Ocean’s Thirteen.

“Look,” I tell him. “You’ve addressed the U.N., you have a house, nay, a home, in Lake Como. Even the Italians love you.”

“You think?” He asks, a sad sparkle in his gorgeous eyes.

“Sure,” I continue, “You’re the reason every man like me that’s going gray has hope. You’re an inspiration. The modern day Bing Crosby.”

“The Rat Pack were the epicenter of cool for a generation.”


He puts the gun down on the counter. It looks heavy. I’m no gun expert, but it looks real — the realest thing I’ve probably ever seen. I can also see there are only four bullets in the chamber. I wonder if he really used two of them; or if he’s just that thorough of an actor.

He starts to laugh. “Women love confidence,” he shares. “I don’t know what came over me. I just became so…”

“Don’t worry about it. It’s done now. Have some coffee,” I suggest, emboldened, projecting swagger even. I point to the window. “That’s a coffee sky out there.”

He turns and looks at the power lines, the apartment building across the way with the crumbling staircase. “Why’s that?” Clooney asks.

I tell him, “Because it’s over your head.”

We both laugh. I pour him a cup and don’t even ask if he wants cream or sugar. I know he takes it black. Why? Because George Clooney’s the man.



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