Catch A Falling Star

Catch a falling star and put it in your pocket, save it for a rainy
day. So the song goes and it's playing quietly in the background as I
pull up a barstool and signal my intent to the already busy barman.
Eventually he ambles over, and asks what he can get me. I reply that he
can get me a beer, and none of that light stuff. On hearing my English
accent, we exchange pleasantries about my country and I enlighten him
geographically as to the location of Newcastle in relation to London
whilst he pours and serves my beer. As I go on with my nice day, I note
that it is difficult to have a quiet beer in New York as an Englishman.
Just as you think you have finally found somewhere to spend a few hours
getting thoroughly pissed out of your mind, there inevitably will be
someone checking you out. Perhaps I should be more grateful of the
company. A faint voice to my right asks where I am from and, as I am
about to respond I turn to see who is addressing me. I recognise her
instantly but try to not let it show by not looking directly into her
eyes, despite their beauty.
"Are you from London?" She continues to speak softly.
"No, Bristol, it's about 140 miles west."
"I know where Bristol is."
The woman sitting next to me is, in my eyes, barely older than a girl.
She has been in movies since she was a child and now she is in her mid
twenties it is a shock to see that she is so young. I can feel her gaze
on me as I stare straight ahead.
"You here for the first time?" She smokes her question.
"No. In my previous life I was an albatross and I used to fly over the
seven seas, settling on ships and pissing off sailors and fishermen,
until one shot me down. How about you?"
She laughed and stubbed out her cigarette.
"Ah I see. In my previous life," she fans her arms behind herself, "I
was a beautiful peacock and I would strut around the grounds of one of
your old English country houses, until the tourists came and stole my
wonderful feathers, one by one. I froze to death."
I smile, introduce myself and reach out my hand, which she briefly and
gently shakes. There is a pause as if she is trying to establish
whether I recognise her or not. She makes the assumption that I do
not.
"I'm Millie, nice to meet you." My pretence is maintained.
"Hello Millie, would you like another drink?"
"Why not? I'll have a beer with you Mr Albatross."

Before I go on I will say that I do not mean to be anything other than
pleasant to Millie. I know we all have had conversations with our male
friends at one time or another about who would do what in a situation
like this. Most of us would, more than likely, either be too shy to
flirt outrageously or try too hard. All agree that these chances do not
come round very often so you have got to have a go, surely? I'm not
saying that this has not entered my mind but I have read about some of
Millie's problems that she has endured throughout her short life.
Raised in the South by a father who beat her black then blacker until
she ran away at the age of ten to California. She was picked up and
raised by a new age gay couple who liked nothing more than the odd
heroin party. Fortunately they encouraged her education and her acting
career and by the age of twelve she had appeared in her first movie.
The movie grossed $100 million and she would never have to work again.
Being out of her mind on booze and coke she didn't, not until she was
22. Alongside two trips to the altar there have been the trips to
rehab, the trips to various police precincts, the narcotic trips, and
the trips to the therapist. So please forgive my reservations at this
point in my relationship with Millie for not wanting to get
involved.

She tries the, "Have we met?" line and I insist that we have not. She
asks me what I do and I tell her that I tell her that I am a writer,
and not a journalist.
"Thank you Jesus."
"What do you do then Millie?" Let's get it out of the way.
"I'm an actress."
"Really, here in New York? Broadway and all that?"
"No, not really, movies mostly. You might have seen some of then?"
Millie reels off a few of her lesser-known titles, all of which I have
seen incidentally, but I shake my head and turn my lip. I try to appear
neither impressed nor or overly interested.
"I'm not really a film enthusiast to be honest. Books and radio are my
thing." I tell her and she seems amazed that people like me still
exist.
"You mean you don't watch movies?"
"Not often, may be at Christmas with the family. Someone has to write
all the books that become your movies I'm afraid."
She laughs and says that she has never thought of it like that. As she
talks about her life, it's apparent that the differences between my
world and hers are enormous. Her naivety is as charming as it is
difficult to converse with and my instinct is to take this alien child
by the hand and show her what is real, what is good, what is bad, what
is artificial, and how much a quart of milk costs. We are several beers
through several of her lousy movie plots and by now I want to give in
and tell her that I know who she is and what I think of her work but I
cannot. Millie has not stopped talking about herself for the last hour
and whilst some of it is interesting (I fill in the gaps when she talks
of Bruce, George, Jennifer and Brad), frankly she is boring the
bollocks off me. Perhaps she senses this between the few breaths she
allows herself, but she stops herself and asks me about my books. I
proceed to tell her, uneasily at first but with growing enthusiasm and
before long I am the one boring the tits of her. I stop dead.
"You're lonely aren't you?" There is a long silence and we stare
unmoving at each other before she moves from her stool towards me and
clasps both hands over mine on the bar.
"So very..."
"Do you want to catch a movie?" I interrupt her.
"Do you think you could catch a falling star?"
"I think I just did."

I just hope my pockets are big enough.

I take the small alien child called Millie by the hand and lead her out
into the rain.