Michael Jordan

Apparently, I am at this fancy restaurant to meet and interview Michael Jordan.

I don’t realize this until after I enter the restaurant, when Michael Jordan whizzes past me at the door and says, “Have you tried the ribs here? They’re <makes sizzling noise> amazing!”  I finally remember that, oh yes, I’m supposed to interview Michael Jordan, although I have no idea why and for what publication, but it doesn’t matter because my brain is now consumed with the question, “How did he manage to make that sizzling sound? It was so realistic!”

We sit at a table, and I take out my notebook and pen, praying that I actually have some questions prepared. I don’t. Michael Jordan is picking his teeth and looking around as if he is desperate to be somewhere else. At the table adjacent to us are a man and woman, both dressed in suits; my brain’s idea of sports writers. They are vultures, and immediately set their sights on Michael Jordan, and on ruining my interview. I begin to say, “Thanks for agreeing to do this interview with me, Michael Jordan” when the lady sports writer gets up, lunges across our table (over me) and gives him her card, “Hey, Mike, great to see you out and about”.

‘Out and about’? What does she mean by that? Why wouldn’t he be out and about? Is it because he’s old? Well, that’s quite offensive, isn’t it. Wait… could he have been sick? I don’t remember seeing anything in the news about him being sick. I would have heard about that. God, I’m so bad at this, what am I even doing here! I don’t even watch basketball! Wait… what? No!  <glances at Michael Jordan> Look at him! He looks totally fine. She’s just trying to throw me off. I struggle to regain composure.

“Psshhh, these journalists….. It’s because I look so young, they think I’m a kid, that’s why…… <clears throat> Anyway! like I was saying, thank you so much for taking the time to speak to me…” As I scramble to find an angle of his life that hasn’t been covered ad nauseum to ask him about. I’m also desperately trying not to call him Michael Jackson, which makes no sense. I know he’s not Michael Jackson, I know who Michael Jordan is, I know that these two characters couldn’t be more different, and yet every time I say “Michael”,  “Jackson” tries to slide its way out of my mouth.

Meanwhile, Michael Jordan is flipping through the menu with a wildly uninterested look on his face. I panic. “Would you like something to drink?” No answer; I begin my pitch. “<clears throat> So, everyone knows your legendary career, you’re an icon. But what I think people really want to know is what comes after the legend, what is Michael J–ordan doing now that he’s retired?” Pause for effect, although even I’m not convinced that this is in any way interesting. I’m starting to wonder who trusted me with this job.

A smile slowly spreads across Michael Jordan’s face, as if impressed that I would come up with such a fresh angle to discuss. I am shocked, but relieved, and also wow I had no idea Michael Jordan had such low standards for quality but what the hell, I’ll take it! Now infinitely more confident, I uncap my pen and assume the position of “journalist”. I open my mouth to ask the first question, when I hear my name being called from across the room. I turn around to where the voice is coming from:

Sara, Sara goomi alsa3a 7 w nus illa khamsa”        (Sara, wake up it’s 7:25)

Eyes pop open. Drool all up and through the pillow. “OH CRAP!”

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