It's been one of those ridiculously wrong days: I overslept, so there was no time to shave my legs. I have PMS, my hair looks hideous, and I HATE every article of clothing in my suitcase. What the hell was I thinking when I packed it yesterday? YOU know---one of THOSE days.

I'm a newly-hired photographer for Stark Horizons magazine. I was supposed to accompany Sharon, one of our journalists, on an interview with Johnny Depp this morning, to do a photo layout afterward---my FIRST photo layout with this top-notch magazine---but when I showed up at her motel room in Orlando, she was puking her guts out with either the flu or food poisoning. With her head hung over the toilet and between God-awful retching sounds that made me gag, she begged me to go ahead and do BOTH the photography and the interview.

I'm nervous about it. Really nervous. You see, Sharon's tracked him all over the freakin' globe and finally caught up with him at an historic old hotel in Mt. Dora, Florida. And the interview is scheduled to begin in one hour. And the drive there will take at LEAST one hour. And I've never conducted an interview in my life. I've never even LISTENED to anyone conduct an interview. But Sharon begs me…it means so much to her, scoring an interview with Johnny Depp, and she's worked so hard to get it. So I manage to drive my unfamiliar rental car on unfamiliar roads, simultaneously reviewing her biographical notes on Johnny Depp without killing anyone along the way. Oh, AND applying mascara, lipstick and blush.

With five different cameras slung over my shoulders and Sharon's tape recorder in hand, I knock on the door of C-1 at the appointed time. Okay, okay, so I was 10 minutes late. Big deal. I knock again. No response. I find myself mentally checking…it WAS supposed to be at 10 AM, right? I WAS supposed to meet him at his room, right? Today IS Tuesday, the 20th, right? I AM Melinda Wallace, right? I start rummaging through my purse for my cell phone to call Sharon, then decide to give it one more knock and, just as I raise my hand, someone behind me quietly says, "You lookin' for me?" I damned near drop the tape recorder as I turn and come face-to-face with Johnny Depp.

I'm not a huge fan of his or anything. I mean, I don't follow his career, or read interviews about him, or visit websites in his honor, but I've seen most of his movies and he's a great actor and he's certainly eye candy. But seeing Johnny Depp in a movie, or seeing his photograph, is NOTHING like seeing him in person. Trust me on that one. He is grinning a killer grin, looking me square in the eyes, and I'm reduced to blithering idiot status in a fraction of a second.

"Yes! Hi!" I manage to say with way too much exuberance, hoping like hell that I don't have lipstick on my teeth. Thankfully, he pulls out his room card and commences to open the door, and I kid myself into thinking that he doesn't notice the furious blush that has crept up my neck to my face, making my eyes feel as though they're bulging out of their sockets. I don't dare look at him as he holds the door open for me to enter. Instead, I fuss with my cameras, head down, as I walk into his hotel room.

"So, you're the photographer," he states matter-of-factly. "Where's Sharon?"

"Uh, well…she's not going to make it, Mr. Depp…she's not feeling well." I decide to spare him the gory details of Sharon's illness, and I still can't force myself to look him steadily in the eyes…my eyes are darting all around, trying to look anywhere BUT in his eyes, and I'm trying to act like I do this interview shit all the time. "My name's Mel…Melinda, actually, but Mel's a nickname."

He stands there, motionless, looking at me for a long time, eyebrows furrowed. He's irritated, no doubt about it. "How are we supposed to do this interview, then?"

"Uh, well…" Suddenly there's no air in my lungs with which to finish my sentence, and I hear myself sharply drawing a breath to continue. "I've got a tape recorder here, and I'm also a journalist." (And I'm also a freakin' LIAR, I think to myself.) "So rather than canceling the interview, Sharon was hoping you'd consent to letting ME conduct the interview and also get some shots." I finally feel composed enough to hold his gaze for longer than one second. His knotted eyebrows relax, and a look of puzzled amusement replaces the frown as he scratches his head, a brown cigarette seemingly glued between his long fingers, his ebony eyes glued on mine, and a smile playing at his mouth. "Okay, let's get started, then," he agrees as he moves toward a comfortable-looking couch in his very swank hotel suite. "Want something to drink? Coffee? Something stronger?"

"No, thank you," I reply as he pours himself a cup of coffee and sits down. I choose the chair opposite him. No way can I sit on the couch NEXT to him. No freakin' way. "Just get him talking," Sharon had said to me, "and it'll be easy." Right. As easy as natural childbirth.

My underarm deodorant is failing. Time to try a different brand. I disengage myself from my cameras and manage to get them safely to the floor without too much clatter. Johnny is just sitting there smoking his cigarette, still looking amused. Yes, AMUSED. I'd like to know what's so blasted funny, because my sense of humor has gone to hell in a handbasket this morning. "Okay, Mr. Depp, I'm ready," I stammer as I prepare to press the "record" button on Sharon's tape recorder.

"It's Johnny, please," he grins at me as he settles back and puts his left ankle up on his right knee.

"Okay, JOHNNY," I manage with a terrified smile as I look him in the eyes. And then I go blank. Totally brain dead. Paralyzed. I'm certain that I look like a deer in the headlights of a car. And Johnny figures it out. He wasn't born yesterday. He KNOWS I've never done this, and he thinks it's funny. He chuckles. And then the unthinkable happens: Tears well up in my eyes. It's just one of those moments when it all catches up …you know, the proverbial straw. And my composure dissolves, and I lower my head, and I'm afraid I'm going to let loose with a God-awful wail, so I hold my breath, and instead of a wail, a squeak finds life in my larynx and echoes off the walls of the hotel room as a tear splashes onto my silk skirt.

"Oh my God," I hear him say, "you're having a really bad day!"

Well, THAT clinches it…all it takes is a little display of sympathy, and I erupt into a full-fledged crying jag. In front of Johnny Depp. I'm gonna lose my job. I've already lost my composure. Somebody shoot me, please. Or at least give me a Kleenex. Fucking PMS! I'll NEVER vote for a woman as President!

The ensuing moments are blurry. I feel a wad of tissues thrust into my hand. I feel an arm around me. I cry, and cry, and cry. It's been building up for weeks. The move to a new city, the new job, my mother's rapidly declining health. I should've watched a sad movie last night and bawled my eyes out then. But what good is hindsight at this juncture? About as useful as tits on a bull.

So, the interview doesn't happen, and neither does the photography shoot. Instead, Johnny gets me to talking about myself, and it pours out of me like Morton salt. He listens attentively, empathetically, consolingly…asking questions at the appropriate time, fixing me a stiff drink, replenishing tissues without asking. I keep apologizing, and he keeps poo-pooing me and urging me on. It really doesn't take much. I NEED to get it out, you know? I've left every friend, every relative, and relocated to a new city and a new job. I've talked to no one on a heart-to-heart basis for WEEKS. And I haven't had a man in my life in MONTHS. Every ounce of resolve has dissolved, and I'm reduced to a freakin' fragile female. This is worse than A Nightmare on Elm Street.

I'm still greatly embarrassed, but finally composed. The allotted time for the interview and photo shoot has elapsed, and Johnny has somewhere to go, someone to meet, something to do. "But lookit," he says, "Have dinner with me tonight at the Goblin Market just off Donnelly Street in Mt. Dora, at around 8 PM, and we'll try the interview after dinner, okay?"

Are my ears deceiving me? A second chance? "Sure!" I manage to croak. "That'd be great, Johnny! Thank you!" And then I'm in the rental car headed back to Orlando, wondering what magic I can perform to reduce the puffiness around my eyes before 8 PM tonight.

Whatever that woman at the drug store sold me, worked. After checking on Sharon (stable but prostrate and no way could she go with me tonight, thank God!), I stretch out on the lumpy bed in my motel room for an hour with these cucumber thingies over my eyes. Voila! I look good! And after a shower, a shave, and a shampoo, and a dash out to a local clothing store for a new dress, I look DAMNED good! At 8 PM on the dot, I'm at the Goblin Market in Mt. Dora, ready to meet my prince. No, I mean I'm feeling professional and ready to conduct the interview and get some photos. After dinner, of course.

He's late. He's terribly late. It's now 9:00 PM and my hopes are fading faster than a speeding bullet. I'm about to throw in the towel when he comes walking up, apologizing profusely for keeping me waiting. It seems he fell into one of those deep, trance-like sleeps after he'd concluded his business this afternoon. Of course! We all do that! Don't we?

He looks gorgeous. Abso-fucking-lutely gorgeous. He glows. I swear it! He GLOWS! His eyes sparkle. His teeth shine. He's da bomb. I'm hooked. Hell, I'm in the net. I'm in the BOAT. God-willing, I'm his DINNER. Desert?

At least I'm at his table, eating dinner. Johnny Depp. If my friends could see me now. On second thought, forget that shit. I want him all to myself!

The Goblin Market turns out to be a quaint little place with surprisingly excellent food. The smoking section is outside, and the area is romantically-lighted, completely surrounded by brick and rock walls, with three adequately-spaced tables and lots of greenery. Very private, very cozy, and very expensive, by my standards. Thankfully, it's springtime in Florida, and the weather is as perfect as the restaurant and Johnny Depp's company.

And his company IS perfect. Who knew? I'd always chalked him up as one of those bad-boy, temperamental actors. In preparation for the interview, I'd hastily read some stories---nice to look at, BUT---but I was WRONG! This is a really nice man! A tad on the shy side, but incredibly sweet and polite. And intelligent! And FUNNY! And romantic! VERY romantic! You don't want to hear about dinner, do you? What we ate, what we talked about? You want me to get to the GOOD part, right? Okay, that's what I figured.

After dinner, we go to his hotel room, which is a short and pleasant walk from the restaurant. It's time for the interview. What? You don't even want to hear about the interview? Well, suffice it to say that HE conducts the interview on his behalf. And it's a damned decent interview, if you ask me.

Then comes the photo shoot. And here, I'm in my element. But I will say this: Johnny comes up with some very innovative ideas, and we collaborate and shoot some really imaginative stuff. This is not going to be one of those run-of-the-mill "pose for me" shoots. Au contraire! This is ART, baby! I'm gonna be really PROUD of this shoot! This is incredible stuff! And I'm gonna be a sought-after photographer! I can hardly wait to get these things developed! Wait 'till you see the one with his shirt off!

All too soon, any professional reasons for sharing space are exhausted. The interview's on tape; the shoot's in the can. Time to go. I'm reluctantly gathering up my cameras and equipment, stuffing things here and there. Johnny's quiet, smoking his hundredth cigarette, sipping on cognac, watching me pack up my gear. It's all ready to go now, and I stand up to bid him adieu. He rises, approaches me, moves up very close, and holds something up next to my temple. Something small, that he's holding in his fingers.

"Wow! That's amazing!" he says softly, those dark eyes sparkling as they shift from my eyes to whatever he's holding in his fingers. "What's amazing?" I offer back weakly. "This stone, it's the exact color of your eyes! And it even has a speck…a FRECKLE…just like the freckle in your right eye!" With that, he proudly holds a small stone in front of my eyes for viewing. It's polished jade. I look up at him questioningly. "I saw it in a store today, and it reminded me of you…your beautiful green eyes," he fairly whispers.

I don't dare breathe as he slowly tucks the stone into his pocket, then raises his hand to my cheek and brushes it lightly with the backs of his fingers. Extending his forefinger, he lightly touches my lips. I close my eyes. His forefinger is gently, tenderly, slowly, sensually tracing the outline of my lips. A finger kiss. I open my eyes again, and his eyes are studying my lips, his mouth slightly open, a smoldering look on his beautiful face. Then he looks into my eyes and moves even closer. I can see the slight scarring on his cheek from that childish gasoline-blowing stunt in his youth. I can smell him, too…a distinct scent that vaguely reminds me of the one and only man who ever really turned me on. Not cologne, but his own natural, manly, sexy scent. Slowly---agonizingly slowly---his lips move closer. He pauses, his eyes almost closed but not quite, his mouth open slightly but not quite touching mine. I feel his warm breath, and the scent of him fills my nostrils and releases serotonin somewhere in the recesses of my brain. My hand moves up to his hair. He moistens his lips, and then our mouths are joined. His lips are soft and full, and he kisses exactly the way I like it.

It's as if we're suspended in time and space…the world disappears, the room disappears…there is only me and him…his hand on my cheek, my hand in his hair, our bodies touching lightly, our lips causing our bodies to want more. His kisses gradually become more intense, and I certainly don't resist. His arms are around me now, pulling me against him. I can feel my breasts crushed against his chest. I can feel his manhood pressing against my stomach. His hands slip down my back and support my ass as he lifts and pulls me against him and I stand on my toes. And now his swollen manhood is pressed against my pubis, and we both moan as a jolt of sexual pleasure travels through our bodies. Our kisses have grown frenzied, our bodies urgently seeking oneness through our clothing.

"I want more of you," he whispers in my ear. "I want all of you, Mel." And I willingly give him all…all night. And he gives ME all. And that's all I'm gonna say.

THE END
Return to Fan Fiction page

Return to Depp home page