Miss Mabel had just left on her daily walk around the block when I started picking through some of the old clothes we wanted to sell at our upcoming garage sale. I was putting ten- and twenty-five-cent stickers on t-shirts I'd piled on the bed when I heard the front door open. I stepped into the hallway and said, "Miss Mabel?"

Before I knew what was happening, I'd been tackled. Keeping my arms pinned to the floor beside my head, Citizen Jim said, "Do I look like a girl to you? What're you doing? I promised Lulu Whippy five bucks and a copy of Big Top Pee Wee to ride me here on her bike, and not so you could HIDE from me once I got here!"

"I wasn't hiding—I was just pricing things for the garage sale we're having before we move," I said.

He released me before yanking me up by one arm. "Well, I just came by to tell you I'm gonna have a star on the Hollywood Walk of Fame," he told me. "And it's funny you should say you're having a garage sale."

"Oh really?"

"Oooooh REEEAAALLEEEEE?" Jim moaned, mocking me. "Yes, really. Because I'm here to ask you for some money."

"What kind of loan do you need?" I asked, reaching into my pocket. I figured he'd probably hit me up for the five dollars he owed Lulu Whippy and then fly into a rage when I told him I didn't have an extra copy of Big Top Pee Wee just lying around for him to take, as well.

"I need me some $15,000 real fast," he said.

I grabbed my stomach and began howling with laughter.

Clutching a handful of my hair and giving it a yank, he said, "HEY! I'm on a deadline here, so quit laughing and get started on your garage sale. I'll come back and pick up the check in a week or so."

He then turned around and started walking toward the front door.

"Hold up, Hercules!" I said. "Even after we sell the futon, the bookcases, the 13-inch TV and the microwave, we'll still only make a few hundred dollars."

Citizen Jim's face fell. "But that's not enough. You know good and well I need $14,600 more than that!" he shouted.

"Forget you! If I actually had the kind of money you want, I wouldn't give it to you without some explanation of what it's for," I said.

"Fifteen grand is not a lot of money, first of all," he said, then rushed over to where I stood and put me in a headlock. "And second of all, I already told you: it's for my star on the Walk of Fame. Those bastards at the Hollywood Chamber of Commerce want their setup and maintenance fee paid upfront, or they won't even consider me!"

I shook my head sadly. "You are so full of it," I said.

"Your MOUTH is gonna be so full of my FIST if you don't shut up and help me," Jim said.

"I guess this is yet another hair-brained scheme you've cooked up to get yourself a date with some celebrity bimbo," I said.

"Nah. A date with any kind of bimbo would be a fringe benefit, but I figured a star on the Walk of Fame would help me get a book deal. Think how it would impress someone looking at my manuscript if I could say, 'In addition to experience as a newspaper delivery person, and several book reviews to my credit, I have my own star on the Hollywood Walk of Fame.'"

I shrugged. "I guess. Maybe. I don't know," I said, covering my face in case Jim slapped me.

Instead, he just just threw his arms in the air, exasperated. "You don't know! Do you realize how many so-called 'A-list talents' can't even say they have stars on the Walk of Fame? We're talking Clint Eastwood! Oprah Winfrey! Charlotte Rae!" he exclaimed, touching a finger for each name he called out. Driving a thumb into his chest, he said, "When I get my star, I'll be a hot commodity, and that's a FACT OF LIFE, Missy!"

"Jim, you can only get a star if you're in the entertainment industry," I said. "You've got to be a big deal in radio, TV, films, recording or live performances. You qualify as a star in zero of those five categories."

Jim turned red and started circling around me. "Zero? You wanna talk about zero? If some no-talent bastard like David Spade or a walking crash test dummy like Ryan Seacrest can get a star, I sure as hell think I'd pass muster, too," he said.

I just stared at him.

He crossed his arms over his chest and tapped his foot. "Look," he said, "I've been doing some research on this."

"That's good. I'm glad you finally figured out how to work Google," I said. I was pushing it. I knew this.

He advanced on me. "Here's the deal: Don Knotts? TWO STARS! Tennessee Ernie Ford? THREE! Even Scatman Crothers and Woody Woodpecker have one star apiece!" he yelled, his face now half an inch from mine.

I pushed him away and said, "Listen, it's a neat idea, but—"

"YOU listen! I've got something 98 percent of those losers on the Walk will never have: IDEAS!" he shouted. "That's right. I may not be a well-groomed illusionist like David Crapperfield, or a recording legend like Wacko Jacko, but I'm just as good as—no, let me tell you: I'm better than any of those dunderheads!"

"I know, I know," I said, taking a step backward.

"That's right! I've got IDEAS! I'm an IDEA MAN!"

"All right, okay," I said, backing farther away from him. "You're the idea man. I get it."

By this time, though, Citizen Jim was on a tangent like black on a rotten banana.

Pacing with his hands clasped behind his back, he continued. "An actor reads lines written by someone else, based on another someone else's IDEAS! Same with most singers and that tripe you hear on the radio. I've got more ideas in my EARLOBE than any of those Hollywood big shots have in their whole EARS! I mean, Mickey Rooney has four stars, but I bet he could never come up with anything like the Jubilee Bell or Roadrunner Farm."

I stayed silent. Nothing I said at that point would have made any difference.

"So here," he said, handing me an envelope. "The application for my nomination's in there. You fill it out, and I'll send it with that check you'll be giving me after your garage sale. The deadline's next month, so don't dilly dally around like you do with everything else."

"Jim—"

He drew his hand back, biting his bottom lip. "And on that form, they'll ask if I'll be able to attend the ceremony. If you put an X beside 'maybe' or 'not sure,' I'll be disconsidered and then I'll kick your ASS! All that Walk of Fame crap is sponsored by the Hollywood Chamber of Commerce, and they want to make sure tourists and the press get every last bit of the spectacle they've grown accustomed to when a talented person is recognized by the city."

"All right," I said.

"And when we get done with all this, I want to start working on getting my hand prints and footprints in the ce-ment at Grauman's Chinese Theater," he said. "If the star gets me a book deal, I oughta be able to sell me some movie rights from the Grauman's-thing. And they've got an empty spot where I'd just LOVE to be immortalized, right beside Dick Van Dyke. I mean, let's face it—I know you'd come to see it if I was beside that goofball."

"Look, I love you. But I need to get back to pricing our stuff."

He pointed at the microwave. "That right there oughta bring you about $7,000. And I bet you could get a pretty penny for your Underdog lunch box. Plus, you've got all those pencils on your desk you could sell in a bundle with your electric pencil sharpener. Hell, why not pull all the stops and just hang a banner that says, 'Everything Must Go'?"

I nodded. "You're right," I said. "Thanks for the suggestions."

He tapped his temple and said, "See? IDEAS! And I've got MILLIONS of 'em!"

I waved him out the door, then tossed his application for the Hollywood Walk of Fame on the pile of useless things we'd be taking to the Goodwill.

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