Free But Enough About Me by Jancee Dunn

drop her off at her Los Angeles home before continuing on to my hotel. As she said her good-byes, she told me that she had paid for the limo for the rest of the evening, so if I wanted to go somewhere, I should feel free.
    â€œI’m starving,” I admitted to the driver, a large, easygoing guy named Rodney.
    He laughed. “Didn’t you just eat?”
    â€œI never really eat at interviews,” I said. “Are you hungry, by chance?”
    â€œI am, actually,” he said.
    â€œI could go for a cheeseburger. Or maybe some barbecue.” After an interview, I always liked to treat myself to something hi-cal. I had planned to get an ice-cream sundae from room service.
    â€œI know of a great barbecue place,” he said, brightening. “But it’s not in a part of town that you would consider nice.”
    â€œI’ll treat if you take me,” I replied. Off we went, Rodney and I. He was amazed to see how much pulled pork I could put away.
    I was jolted back to the present tense when the driver stomped the brakes once again. Jitters. Jitters. After the fretting part, the self-chastisement. Christ, it’s not a medical procedure. It’s just a profile. How about some perspective? And how about not praying to Jesus with a request to put some celebrity in a good mood, when clearly He has more pressing problems? Plus, remember your pledge that you would only pray to thank Him for your good health and wonderful life, so as to get on His good side, and save up a prayer coupon for only the big stuff.
    This is inevitably followed by an out-of-body feeling. How on earth did I get this job? Clearly, I’m not at all qualified. But who is? What are the qualifications? I’m from Jersey, for Christ’s sake. Although isn’t everyone from Jersey? Is Long Island really that different? Is Philly? The driver stomped the brakes again. “You’re foot-sick!” he screamed to no one.
    As the car finally rolled up to Madonna’s office, I had the familiar panicky feeling of wanting to leap out and just sprint down the street. Well, what if I did? What would happen? Would the world end? No, it would not. I lookedat my watch. Oh, Lord, we’re twenty minutes early. Don’t be late, the record company person told me. Apparently Madonna, ever the professional, did not tolerate tardiness and had even canceled interviews because of it.
    I had to go to the bathroom. My hands! Ugh, they were like soft, moist frogs. I had to do something—otherwise she would shake my hand, be repulsed, and the interview would be over before it started. The more I concentrated on them, the wetter they would be. For the love of Pete, think of something else! Something! Else!
    I wondered if I should wait in the car. Yes. It’s better than hanging around some lobby, pretending to examine the prints on the wall. Plus, I might faint. She was just too famous. A sitcom star, that I could handle. This was something else entirely. “Sir?” I said. “I’m just going to wait here for a few minutes, if you don’t mind.”
    One staring eye, meshed with veins, was visible in the rearview mirror. Why wouldn’t he turn around?
    â€œOn second thought, I’m going in.” I walked into the lobby, which had a large photo of Madonna’s eyes on the wall. All the men in the office were sleekly trendy, the women less so. The receptionist told me to take a seat. In my head I went over my questions, which I had memorized. If you consult a list of questions, it tends to break the momentum and your chat will be less conversational. You want to at least create the illusion that you are simply two friends or associates having a nice little confab. Although, as I reminded myself, I had to remember to start off with questions about her album. Always, always lead with queries about the person’s project, the reason why they are granting the interview. If the questions are not