I walk out of the building I work in, and I pass a cluster of huddled lawyers and corporate executives who all work in the same building as I do. I pretend that they all work for me, and that they stop their conversation to ask me how I am doing and if I would like to join them for lunch. I pretend that I say no thank you, but that I would, however, love to join them on Thursday, right after I close the Bonacue deal. I walk past them and pretend that I have a car today, but that I have decided to walk to lunch instead so that I can help stop global warming. I then walk two blocks down the road and am forced to make a decision: I pretend that I am forced to decide between the best Chinese restaurant in Los Angeles and a five-star French cafe where I have twelve waiters to wait on me and they serve ridiculously small food portions. I choose the cafe, since there are two beautiful blondes sitting at one of the tables outside. I have the mind of a sixteen-year old, I realize. I walk into the cafe, and a man stands at the register to ring up my order. He has a slight french accent, and I pretend that he is a top-rated chef, and that there are five other chefs behind the counter who are all waiting for me to decide so that they can begin preparing whatever I wish to eat that day. I ask the man which panini is the best. He recommends none of them specifically, saying that they are all very tasty and filling. I order the fresh tomato and mozzerella with spinach, since I told my father I would eat healthier, and then I add a dollar to the tip jar and pretend that I make millions and can tip people with hundred dollar bills instead of singles. I walk outside to my table, which is next to the beautiful blond women, and I pretend that they are talking about me. Almost immediately as I pretend this, they get up and leave, probably late to return to their shifts at the beauty salon a few doors down. Left alone, I decide to text my sister about the photos she requested from me. I pull out my phone and pretend it is an iPhone, and that it can do anything and everything I could ever possibly imagine - ever. "There's an app for that," I say to myself as I think about the idea of my phone being able to transcribe my thoughts into a text message. I reason that communication will be much quicker and more efficient when that becomes reality. The cashier comes outside and lays down my food in front of me. I pretend that he is honored to serve me. I take a bite, and then think about the idea of being famous. I pretend that everyone who passes me is gawking at me and taking my photo with their camera-phones, and that people in their cars are rubbernecking to see what I ordered and why I decided to eat at such a crummy, overpriced street cafe when I could have had the best Chinese food in Los Angeles just down the road. I eat slowly, pretending that the panini I am eating is actually warm, and that the water I am drinking is Fuji instead of tap. As I chew my food, I pretend that I am realizing the way to finally cure cancer, and that the world will soon have the pills dispersed to everyone who stands in need. I pretend that curing cancer is as simple as taking some pill, and that the pill's dispersion to the world is a simple matter of paying the overnight shipping charges to Fed-Ex. The cashier comes outside to wipe another table and asks how everything is tasting. "Fine," I say, adding that the panini is one of the best I've had. I pretend that statement implies that I've actually been to France, and that this panini beats even the real French paninis I had while I studied there for a year. I finish my food and get up to leave. As I walk away, I turn back to read the sidewalk sign the cafe has stood up to show visitors they are open for lunch. "Câfe Desuigne," it reads. I pretend that I can actually pronounce that correctly. Then I pretend, once again, that I am famous, and that I have just signed a photograph of myself for the cafe owner, and that the he is hanging it up hurriedly so that his other customers will be able to see that, believe it or not,
Andrew Stratford just walked in and ordered a fresh tomato, mozerella, and spinach panini from his restaurant. I pretend that he renamed that panini as the Stratford Panini, and that it is the newest addition to his menu.
"Stratford Panini - $12.99."
And then I pretend that it is the most-often ordered dish on the menu, because everyone enjoys its clever combination of ingredients so much. As I continue down the sidewalk, I smile to myself because I haven't had this good of a lunch hour in what feels like a very long time.
