Today is the day to sleep 14 hours.

So many Zulkey.com events this week...

47

Three months later, Lillibet was having a 10:30 a.m. lunch with George at a men's club in Washington DC. George still shoveled piles of fried calamari, chicken, cheese and dough into his mouth, but now that he had been begged to join the Capitol Circle Club, he could do it in a private atmosphere without any idiot gapers gawking at him. He even struck a deal with the manager of the club that George didn't have to wear a blazer. Actually, the conversation went something like this:

George: I don't wanna wear a blazer at this stupid club.

Manager: Excellent!

"So," said Lillibet, scratching her initials into the leather of her seat as the waiter beamed on, "What award are you up to now? Oh," she said, taking notice of the waiter. "I'll have the BLT, no bacon or tomato. And a serving of bacon on the side. So nice of you to wait for me, George."

George grunted and spilled bits of food in the crevices of his heavily wrinkled shirt. "Uh, I dunno, it begins with a P."

"Pushcart? Nobel Peace Prize?"

George shrugged and took a slug from a two liter bottle of Canfield's Chocolate Fudge soda that rested in a champagne cooler. In fact, it was the Pulitzer.

Since George returned from his sister's house, he had returned full force to writing and it came even easier to him. In the few months that followed, he had published three stories in the New Yorker, a new novel, a play, sold a screenplay and had a story picked up a s a concept for a sitcom. There were dozens of other projects that George had already forgotten about. George had been too busy to talk to anybody other than his agent and this was the first time he was able to even meet with Lillibet.

"What do you think made your writing come back?" asked Lillibet, peeling apart her sandwich and reaching for one of George's fried thingies as he slapped her away.

"Dunno," said George.

"Maybe," ruminated Lillibet, "Your writers block wouldn't go away until you started talking to the people in your life, and you wouldn't do that until you thought that they were stealing your inspiration."

George rolled his eyes, even though five months ago he thought exactly that. He was one to reflect as long as he was doing well.

Lillibet was doing well, too. She had been given a new grant and had dumped Sven. However, the only difference between her and George in terms of their cockiness and brilliance is that she was a little lonely, as only a woman can be. She put down her bacon.

"You know, George," she began. "You're doing well...I'm doing well..."

"As well as I am?" retorted George.

"I don't know," she snapped back, "I haven't had your accountant meet with mine yet. Anyway, I was going to ask, what do you think about, you know...maybe...giving it another shot?"

"Hmm." Mumbled George. He wasn't really thinking about Lillibet. He was staring at an 8-layer chocolate cake that a waiter was mincingly showing around the dining room.

Lillibet slipped her hands between his. All four of them were greasy and formed a hand sandwich.

George paused. They were interrupted by a long pair of legs encased in a tight red dress which led up to a long mane of blonde hair.

"Are you George Foreman?" the woman purred.

"Yeah."

"Hi," she said, extending her hand and ignoring Lillibet, who sneered. "My name's Alexis and I enjoy sleeping with rich literary celebrities. What do you say?"

"George?" Lillibet called to our hero, who was waddling off with Alexis in search of a coat closet. He waved back at Lillibet.

"Thanks for lunch, Lil."

The end (really.)

George Foreman section in diary archives soon to follow.