Name-Droppin'

           Oh, yes, I remember that night well. That was the night I took Hannah Montana home. Not the Hannah Montana, of course, but the actress who played her on television, you know, the guy who sang Achy Breaky Heart’s daughter. 

           I was in Kansas City, Kansas—not to be mistaken with the much larger and much more pretentious Kansas City, Missouri, just across the state line—enjoying a drink at a bar called “The Hitching Post.” Or was it “The Hole in the Wall”? Either way, it doesn’t really matter. I was on my third, or was it my fifth, bottle of Schlitz when that son of a bitch walked through the door. I couldn’t believe my eyes. I mean, what the hell was he doing in a place like this?  

            I was hoping he wouldn’t recognize me. I mean, how could he? We were a thousand or more miles from our hometown. I was twenty years older and a hundred pounds lighter than the last time we had seen each other at our high school graduation. There was no way he was going to recognize me. And then I heard those words: “Pat Walcock? “Fat” Pat Walcock, is that you?”

            I turned my head to find Jordan Prescott saddled right up next to my stool. And damn if he didn’t look great. He was the star quarterback/homecoming king/class president/ prom king of our senior class, and somehow, in the two decades since I’d seen him last, he had gotten taller, more muscular, his teeth whiter, his skin tanner, and hair thicker. “Pat Walcock—that is you!”

            “Jordan Prescott,” I said as he clasped my hand firmly and gave it a good shake, “how’ve you been.”

            “Great,” he replied. “No. Never mind. Better than great. How about you?”

            “Never been better.”

            “I can’t believe it’s really you,” he said. “Please, let me buy you a drink.”

            “No. Let me buy you a drink. I insist.”

            “Thanks.” He waved the bartender over. “I’ll have two fingers of Johnny Walker Blue Label, neat, please.”

            Fingers? Neat? I didn’t know what any of that even meant, but I played along like I did. “Make that two,” I said.

            The bartender poured us our drinks and set them down in front of us. When he said, “That’ll be a hundred dollars,” I nearly choked on my drink. I nonchalantly slid my debit card across the bar, knowing that I had just spent one-fifth of all the money I had.

            “So what the hell are you doing in Kansas City?” Jordan wanted to know.

            I couldn’t admit that I lived here now, with my mother, in a trailer park, so I quickly turned the question on him. “I was about to ask you the same damn question.”

            “Business,” he said. “My firm is buying up a bunch of small businesses, mostly to liquidate inventory, layoff employees, and use the losses for tax write-off purposes.” I had no idea what he was talking about. “And you?”

            “Also business,” I replied.

            “Oh yeah, what kind of business are you in?”

            I needed to come up with something quick. I shifted my eyes around the room until they landed on an old television sitting in the corner. On it, an old movie from the 90’s was playing: To Wong Fu, Thanks for Everything, something something… “I’m in the film industry,” I said. “I’m actually here scouting out locations for a new movie.”

            “Really? Wow! That’s absolutely fascinating. What’s the movie about? Who’s going to be in it? Anybody I’ve heard of?”

            I couldn’t believe it! Jordan Prescott—the Jordan Prescott—was intrigued by me. “Ever heard of Mark Ruffalo?”

            “Mark Ruffalo? Of course I’ve heard of Mark Ruffalo.”

            “Well, he’s playing a down on his luck guy in Kansas City. Lives in a trailer park. With his mother.”

            “And?”

            “And what?”

            “What happens? What’s the plot?”

            “He runs into an old adversary at a bar and…well, I don’t want to give anything away.”

            “What’s it called?”

            “Ruffalo’s Revenge.”

            “Wait a second. Mark Ruffalo is starring in a movie called Ruffalo’s Revenge?”

            “It’s meta.”

            A confused, suspicious look took over Jordan’s face. “So, you know a lot of movie stars, do you?”

“Don’t know if I would use the words “a lot,” but yeah, I get around. Lifted weights with Lou Ferrigno last week, if that tells you anything.”

Jordan’s look of suspicion immediately morphed into a fierce look of competition. “So, dig this,” he said, “I played golf with John Stamos a couple of months ago. He’s an old friend of one of the firm’s partners. Shoots a seven handicap.”

            “Oh yeah,” I replied. “I sold weed to Patrick Duffy once.”

            Suddenly, it was on.

            “I had dinner with Maria Shriver.”

            “I did cocaine with Courtney Love.”

            “Went bowling with David Hasselhoff.”

            “Played euchre with Bob Ueker.”

            By this point it didn’t even matter who was saying what.

            “Went six rounds with Mickey Rourke.”

            “Rode on a rollercoaster next to Mark Paul Gosselaar.”

            “Did improve with Parker Posey.”

            “Rode a tandem bicycle with the bassist from Bel Biv DeVoe.”

            “Roller-skated with the guy who played “Bull” on Night Court.”

            “Roller-bladed with Patrick Swayze’s brother, Don.”

            “Went skydiving with two-thirds of Tony Toni Tone.”

            “Played catch with Donovan McNabb.”

            “Threw a Frisbee with Don Cheadle.”

            “Played Twister with the Olsen Twins.”

            “Oh yeah, well, I fucked Hannah Montana!”

            And that was the one that left Jordan speechless. After finishing his two fingers of Johnny Walker, he finally found some words. “You’re going to stand there and tell me that you fucked Hannah Montana? The daughter of the guy who sang Achy Breaky Heart?”

            “That’s what I said, isn’t it?”

            “Prove it.”

            “Prove it?” I laughed. “Now, how the hell can I prove it?”

            “She just walked through the door.”

            I turned my head and couldn’t believe my eyes: Hannah fucking Montana had just walked through the door. What were the fucking chances? Well, I did the only thing a man could do in this situation: I finished my two fingers of Johnny Walker, slammed the glass on the bar, and walked across the room towards her. I did have a reputation to keep after all. As I got within a few feet of her, I realized that she wasn’t Hannah Montana after all, but rather just some buck toothed girl with a boy’s haircut. I quickly recognized that from a distance, most of the girls in the bar— and most of the girls in Kansas City, Kansas for that matter — looked strikingly similar to Hannah Montana. “Excuse me,” I said to the Hannah Montana lookalike, “this might seem like a strange request, but I will give you two-hundred dollars if you simply smile, grab my hand, and walk out of this bar with me right now. After we get outside, you can go wherever you want. You’ll never see me again.”

            “Is this a joke?”

            “No joke. Just trying to win a friendly bet with my friend across the room.” I turned around and waved at Jordan.

            “I’ll do it for four-hundred.”

            “There’s an ATM next door,” I said as I led her out the front door.

            I withdrew the last four hundred dollars to my name and handed it to the girl before she disappeared into the night. I was flat broke, but it didn’t matter, because for the rest of his life, even though chances were that I’d never see him again, Jordan Prescott would believe that “Fat” Pat Walcock was a better man than he, and you can’t put a price tag on something like that.