So, last night was the greatest night of my "professional" life, ever. Period. Done. If I didn't need health insurance, I'd quit now. As I'd told you ladies weeks ago, Steve Cohen (the magician) was scheduled to perform a charity show, at The Action Center To End World Hunger. The even more magical aspect, however, was the fact that the event was being sponsored by the other Steve Cohen who, while not a magician by trade, makes the world a more magical place by simply existing. For both reasons, though mostly the latter, I obviously had to make it my business to be there.
In truth, I was slightly nervous that THE SC wasn't going to show, because a) he's obviously very busy and b) knowing that the girl who shared his highness's playing cards with the world was going to be there might scare a person off. While waiting outside for a friend, I noticed two burly looking men who just sort of emanated a "we work for a guy you don't want to fuck with" vibe. I've been briefed that Stevie has a driver/bodyguard (who carries a gun), so I sidled to one of them and casually asked if he was there with you know who. He responded that he was in fact there with SC, but SC "the magician." So this guy was on his game. At first I didn't buy it because really? Magicians need bodyguards? But he kept on insisting he does all the security for the magic shows and then actually asked me, "Wait so there's another Steve Cohen coming tonight? What does that one do?" And because this man is clearly a professional, and I an imbecile, I was sufficiently convinced that he really didn't work for *our* Steve, and proceeded to say, "Oh, he's, um, this hedge fund manager. I like to write about him." Then he asks for my name and casually asks where I work. And I can see a mental note being made, and start to freak out inside that I've made a mistake in failing to use my undercover alias, Tess Devlin, but my friend arrives, so I shake it off, figure the guy does work for the magician SC and we go inside.
We're standing at the bar when I'm informed by an organizer that Steve's security team has concerns about my presence. This upsets me because hot DAMN the bodyguard took me for a ride and I didn't even know it, which is some next level hustler shit. (Also, his bodyguard carries a gun. I do not.) And then. And THEN. A tap on the shoulder. I turn around. "Are you Bess," THE MAN WHO IS THE ONLY REASON I WRITE ABOUT THIS INDUSTRY ASKS? Uh, yeah I am!
He was not swathed in his favorite fabric, which was admittedly disappointing but this girls, was every stalker's dream come true. Now that my own personal Everest has been summited, I'm really at a loss for what to do with myself. Naturally I think the next logical step would be the writing the authorized biography of a certain someone, or successfully lobbying for just *one* ride on the Zamboni. If you're reading, no pressure! Just think about it. Okay, I'm done.