My Extremely Depressing Imaginary Conversation with Steven Spielberg

Most people’s imaginary conversations with huge personalities usually turn out to be amazing and everything they ever imagined it could be. For me, jaded Pauly D in Hollywood, this is how mine happened to turn out:

—

Steven Spielberg opens the doors to the conference room at Dreamworks SKG. I am there, or was there on the couch until it took too long for him to show up. I, instead, got up and started to eat handfuls of peanuts from the table in the corner of the room. The opened door, startles me.

Me: (Turning, with mouth full) Uff, hi Miffa Speelbufth…

Spielberg: Paul Davidson, right?

I spit out the remaining peanuts from my mouth – they go all over the floor. But at least my mouth is clear now.

Me: Sorry, SOR-RY! Yes, it’s me!

Spielberg: You like peanuts?

Me: Uh, I was hungry.

Spielberg: Very hungry, apparently.

Me: Well, don’t you like peanuts?

Spielberg: Cashews more than peanuts, but if I’m up a creek without a paddle, peanuts will do just fine.

I laugh. Spielberg made a pun. Well, maybe not a pun, but a joke. Does he joke that often? Didn’t think so. Maybe he feels really comfortable with me.

Me: Ha ha ha. Funny!

Spielberg: You think?

It’s obviously a test. What does everyone he meets with say to this? They all probably agree it was funny.

Me: Actually, I didn’t find that funny at all. I was just being polite.

A loooooong bit of silence. Then-

Spielberg: That was extremely rude. My father, god rest his soul, wrote that joke.

Mayday! Mayday! Mayday!

Me: Oh.

Spielberg: Yes. Oh.

I grab another handful of peanuts, shove them in my mouth. Spielberg just sort of smirks at me, nods a bit, then turns around and leaves the room. Never to return.

I finish the peanuts, then get in my car and drive home.

—

With my lack of censoring of my own thoughts, this is probably exactly how it would have gone down. Good to know. Now I can troubleshoot and over obsess this moment until I’ve removed any references to peanuts completely.

And then, I will be ready for the real thing.

—

In other news, I have determined to a 99% probability that I am allergic to the dressing that The Cheesecake Factory puts on their Southern Fried Chicken Salad. Hallelujah!