Whoa! James Franco Saved My Life!

Is it just me or is this economy kicking everyone’s ass and since America hates writers and loves clowns, I auditioned for Cirque du Soleil but didn’t get in because they had "filled the spot."  It all came down to pushups and standing on my toes for more than an hour.  And this is even before the little outfits.

So, bumming, walking home through the West Village wishing I lived here and had a dog.  The weather is great but that still doesn’t stop a garbage truck from honking its horn as it makes its way right at me.  I close my eyes for impact and get it but not from the truck but from a guy who lifts me off the street and onto the sidewalk.  I mean. LIFTS me.  Like Superman or one of those feminists outdoorswomen who don’t like men but will save a life now and then before drinking lake water.

“You all right man?” the young guy says.  I nod, wiping off my thrift store pants which now have a hole and recognize my savior as actor, writer, painter, poet, middle-linebacker, etc. James Franco.  I thank him profusely and wipe off the leftover pee from my pants leg as Franco politely looks the other way.  The guy has manners and is taller than I think, which is short. 

We start walking and I ask if I can repay him somehow, like for instance, giving him one of my screenplays to read.  He says "you don't have to," but offers to buy me tea at this organic tea-only café owned by a famous musician who doesn’t eat meat or drink alcohol and talks in little "beeps."  I’m yawning already but it’s Franco and I’ll just order one of those teas that’s looks like coffee.

We get to the place and just my luck, it’s Hot Water and Lemon Wedges Week.  Only.  We sit down are soon surrounded by big jugs of hot water and lemon wedges.  “It’ll clean you out,” Franco says and so I drink.  Anyway, tea was fine and Franco offers to walk me home or at least to my subway.  I tell him I spotted some saffron at the café  and it was more expensive than gold bars and Franco says you can’t make risotto with gold bars and this placates me. 

Then a fire broke out.

“Looks like a three-alarm,” Franco said, stripping to the waist.  I figure he’s going to put on a fireman’s outfit but he just stays that way.   I start to also strip to the waist but someone yells “Think of the children!”   Before I can say “food stamps,” Franco is up the ladder and into a second floor apartment.  He returns about a minute later, soot-encrusted, and asks "what were you saying?"  I mention the screenplay again and he laughs.  

I see my subway a couple blocks up but then a guy has a heart attack or something.  Franco crouches over the guy and says something gentle.  Then pulls open the guy's shirt and takes his pulse at the neck.  "Can I do anything?" I ask.  He says I can walk and drink tea and not to feel so bad.  Franco pumps the guy's chest as a crowd gathers.  iPhones light up light like fireflies.  I tell the people to give us some air but no one moves.  Franco smiles and says "please," and suddenly it's like we're alone on the fifty yard line at Giants Stadium.   "Acute myocardial infarction," Franco says.  He starts to cut open the guy's chest and I turn away.  Later, hands covered in blood, Franco barks "sponge!" and I give him my screenplay, the first ten pages of which he stuffs in the guy's chest.  At least I got it in his hands. 

 We stop at my subway and shake hands.  I tell Franco that he's amazing and I'll always be a fan. 
He asks where I got the leather wrist band and I say Target.  He says he likes that place too.  I give him my cell number and email and he gives me his.  He walks away, waving and smiling and I look at his number and it says 1-800-AT&T.