A long, two-story professional building and its reflective windows–the kind you can see out of but not into–cast a perfect reflection of my car as I slipped into a space in the near empty narrow parking lot. It served as a perfect mirror to check my lipstick and hair. It was unexpectedly warm as I stepped out of my car and began walking to my destination: not in an office inside the building, but towards a grassy field to its left.
A series of colorful directors chairs lined the edge of the field, and dotted in between those, vanilla-canvased tents provided shade from the invasion of too bright a sun. It was just before noon.
I scanned the mini army of people, sitting and standing and scurrying to get their jobs done, looking for the familiar face. I finally saw him, Mel Gibson, laughing infectiously and obviously making sport of those around him. It was the camaraderie of friends, not a pedestalled superior.
He saw me, his old friend (having met in another place and time, a story for next time) and motioned for me to join this circle of friends, co-workers.
Smiling, I walked over to greet him, excited for this collaboration. Having recently decided to return to work in public relations and freelance writing, I had been specifically requested by Mel to promote his next film (title yet to be determined, a police comedy of all things!).
Confident in my ability to deliver a substantive campaign, nerves were surprisingly (and probably blissfully ignorantly) calm.
And then I met the producer, who seemed oddly out of place in his black suit, starched white shirt, flamboyantly prismatic tie, and shoes shined so bright, if he stepped just a little bit closer to me, would've told him whether I "wore boxers or briefs", metaphorically speaking.
I should've worn pants.
He was slightly irritated, insistent he had scheduled our meeting at an earlier time; I was equally certain we hadn't. He pulled out his Blackberry (not an iPhone), and began scrolling through our email correspondence to prove his position (I could tell he was going to be a fun one to work with), when he received a call. As he discussed business, we continued walking back towards the parking lot, where we were met by the crew who were catering lunch, already setting up more tents and tables.
With them was a man known only as The Candy Man; he had an orange trash bag, the type I typically associate with roadside trash pick up by minimum security convicts, and it was stuffed with every kind of chocolate bar I could recall–not miniatures or fun size, full size versions of Twix, Snickers, 3 Musketeers, M&Ms (plain and peanut), Mounds, Almond Joys, Milky Ways, Butterfingers, Kit Kats, Hershey Bars, Whatchamacallits and Baby Ruths–and I thought "This is sooo Hollywood, only actors would 'need' the indulgence of a candy man." It was a primary-colored rainbow vat of guilty chocolatey pleasure.
Producer-guy was wrapping up his phone call so we could get to the business of promotional strategy about the time I was reaching for the Baby Ruth with my name on it, when I heard someone say, "Robin, wanna go to breakfast? It's been a long time since we've done that…"
And I'll be dayemed, if it wasn't my husband, nudging me awake from one of the most fun, memorable, wishable dreams I've had in a long, long time!