“The donkey kicked out the coke machine,” Jesus said.
The Son of God was taking a smoke break, waiting for the elevator.
At Radio City, everyone gets his or her ten minutes, especially if you can turn water into wine. It was dress rehearsal, the day before the opening of the Christmas Spectacular and the landmark was filled with livestock and little people dressed like candy. I had already seen Santa yelling at his agent in the Grand Foyer when I went to count tablecloths in the presidential suite.
I am a temp.
For forty hours a week, I fold invitations, wrap gifts for sponsors and answer phones when strangers call to ask if the Rockettes are real. I thought I would support myself as an actress when I moved to New York. Now, at thirty, I spend the day ordering cases of sparkling water and checking to see if the camel crapped near the lockers.
“Jesus, this elevator is slow as shit.”
Huh.
I looked at the savior of mankind clutching a Marlboro and thought, Loser, you don’t even have any lines.
