I pack shelves at the supermarket after 8pm because the rates are better. The extra money is sure handy — Mom's having her second mastectomy, Dad's still looking for a job after he was retrenched at the steel plant, and Sis really needs an oxygen tent for her asthma. Anyway, I like packing. There's great satisfaction in putting the goods in the right place for the customers.
“Can you help me find the dill pickles?” a voice behind me asks.
“Yes, ma'am,” I say, turning around. “Dill pickles, aisle five, on the left.” I stop, amazed. “Hey, aren't you . . .?”
She wrinkles her adorable nose. “Yeah, but even superstars need supermarkets, and I sure do need those dill pickles.”
Wow. Jennifer Love Hewitt in the flesh. She's totally gorgeous.
“You'd better get down from that ladder before you fall off,” she giggles. “I wouldn't want to be the cause of an injury to such a cute guy.”
Wow. Alyssa Milano thinks I'm cute? Me? I'm just your average high school student—6ft3in, with broad swimmer's shoulders, a tight butt, and a regulation 9in cock.
“I just don't meet any real guys any more,” she sighs. “In show business all the men are show ponies or gay. Without my collection of dildos I'd be in a sorry state.”
Wow. Is Jessica Alba really saying she's horny?
“I can't stay out late,” I tell her. “I have to collect Mom from the hospital first thing in the morning.”
Natalie Portman grins at me gratefully. “I'll pick you up outside.”
Sure enough, when I finish my shift at 10pm, there she is —Christina Ricci, standing beside her red Maserati 3200 GT. She flicks the keys at me. “Here,” she says. “You drive.”
Not telling the rest. But she's a really nice person.