How I Ended Up In Tom Hanks' Convertible
Jen, eloquent as usual.
“Of course!” Tom replied. “And as a thank you for not sueing, you are coordially invited to my house for a mini-tour right after the event.”
Jen squealed louder than the pigs in the movie “Babe” at this new development. “We’d love to, Tom!”
The charity event ended before I was able to say anything in reponse to anything that happened in the past hour. But Jen seemed to know what to do, because before I could counter her plans with the idea that we could indeed be rich if we took advantage of this golden opportunity to sue one of the richest actors, we were back in the rental car following Tom Hanks to his mansion.
When did I change from flip-flops into high heels?
Then we were there. Standing in the foyer, face-to-face with a smiling Tom Hanks and a frowning security guard.
As the personal house tour commenced, I was able to find my voice and ask appropriate questions, including if celebrities kept Tylenol in their bathroom cabinets.
But the tour was a short one, as Tom had an important dinner and hadn’t planned on showing off his house to two random poor girls.
“Frank will show you out. It was very nice to meet you.” Tom smiled as he motioned to the still frowning security guard and walked towards his shiny, rich person convertible.
That’s when I noticed the slightly sandy, white volleyball with a lengthy, black message written in sharpie peeking out from the back seat of the car.
My message. From Tom. Not just a hastily signed name. A personal message from Tom to me.
Panic slowly rose in my chest as I watched him climb in his car, start the ingnition, and put the car into gear.
The sudden rememberance of California seat belt laws gave me just enough time to suddenly bolt towards the car. As I lept towards the back seat, I saw Tom’s startled eyes in the rearview mirror and heard the brakes squeal as the car came to a sudden stop.
Everything was quiet, well, except for the cursing security guard, as my left shoulder slammed into the back of Tom’s seat, and my feet flew off the pavement and up into the air, awkwardly catapulting me into the back of the car.
Tom looked at me, confused.
“My-my volleyball!” I stammered as I remembered yet again why I usually don’t wear skirts.
I guess Jen’s not the only eloquent speaker.
And that is the story of how I landed upside-down in the back of a convertible driven by Tom Hanks.
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