"Can we have a safe word in case it all gets too much?" I said.
"We have a safe word!" Adam called out. "If he says watermelon, walk away from him. Ignore him."
"What’s our cover story?" I asked.
"Royalty?" said Adam.
"He’s a king," one of the extras alerted the others. "A European king."
"Good idea," someone called back. "Nobody knows what they look like."
Half the actors were dispatched to mingle among the tourists near the theater where they host the Oscars, about a quarter of a mile away. Their job was to spot us in stages. Then Adam yelled, “Let’s go!” and we surged forward onto Hollywood Boulevard.
For a few seconds, all is quiet, like when you’ve been horrifically injured and for a hopeful moment you feel no pain. But then the shrieking begins.
"NO TOUCHING!" shouts my fake personal assistant, LoriLee, at a passerby. The woman looks baffled, because she evidently has no intention of touching me. "Oh my God oh my God it’s him!" yells a fake fan. "It’s King Jon of Wales!"