They’d never starred in movies or appeared in Broadway hits.
Reality TV went on without them. Were they notoriously rich?
They were not. And yet wherever they were spotted,
paths inevitably cleared: gawkers would amass on either side
to watch them glamorously glide down their own thoroughfares.
Their onlookers felt honored: proud to be a crowd around
celebrities like these! “Weren’t you the bartender who killed
the mobster at the picnic in the last Scorsese pic?”
“Weren’t you the lady they were hunting down in Tarantino’s
‘Bloody Love’”? They smiled, as if down from above, flicked
ashes off their Marlboros – smoking was cliché, passé, archaic
but a cigarette remained the perfect prop that it had been
for Paul Henreid and Bette Davis. “We never talk about
ourselves, our lives are private,” they confided. Served by their
reserve, they were ever more adored. Wherever they went
next, they were again adored, and then adored some more.