Just when I thought my budding friendship with The Celebrity was taking on a normal, just-like-any-other-neighborhood-pals hue, she went and said the following: “Do you want to come and get a prenatal massage with me? There’s a spa in SoHo who will do it for free, so that InStyle will give them a mention in some upcoming ‘prenatal pampering’ spread.” I’d certainly heard of the spa she named.

We were at our usual hangout, the adorable sandwich and smoothie place. I was there working, and she’d just dropped by and stopped, with a purpose that was now apparent, at my table. Because I was sitting and she was standing, I was practically nose-to-nose with her belly.

Normally, if The Celebrity were to say something like this, something that highlighted her celebrity in a way that could make our bond seem less like a normal, just-like-any-other-neighborhood-pals friendship and more like a famous person/lowly hanger-on type of thing, I would have bristled. But she was talking about a free massage at a chi-chi SoHo spa, the kind of place usually paired with the names Uma and Gwyneth. And I am not a looker of gift horses in their mouths.

Instead, I wondered if Uma and Gwyneth took their friends along with them too. I also wondered something else, so I squinted at The Celebrity and said, “Are you sure they’ll give you two free massages?” I hoped my tone of skepticism and over-itness would compensate for any sense of hanger-on or cheapness.

“I’m sure,” she said. “I already had my publicist check,” she added with a wink.

“Well, okay then,” I said, pointing my palms upward in a gesture that said, “why not?”

“Great,” she beamed. “Come on,” she said, waving her hand. “Let’s go.”

“Right now?” I asked. She nodded.

Given her habit of starting up a chat with me while my laptop was open, I had already suspected The Celebrity had little understanding or respect for normal people’s – or at least for this normal person’s – work. But this drop-everything-and-come-with-me attitude was taking the lack of boundaries a few steps further.

Then again, maybe she was just being fun and spontaneous. “I’m kind of in the middle of stuff here,” I said, motioning towards my laptop. “Could we maybe go in an hour?”

“I don’t think so,” she said, shaking her head. “We’re supposed to be getting a full half-day of treatments.”

I shut my laptop. Work could wait, but there was one thing that couldn’t. “I just need to quickly check in with my contractor,” I told The Celebrity as we left the cafe.

Our Caribbean contractor, Bobby, was hard at work on a storage unit for the baby’s room. Originally, we’d asked him to build a simple closet. But, after completing some other small projects around the apartment, he’d come up with the idea of a dresser and changing-table combo unit that he’d design himself. Johnny, our landlord, who had recommended Bobby to us in the first place, had taken to calling the piece Bobby’s “masterpiece,” as in, “Bobby’s hard at work on his masterpiece,” which Johnny would know, since Bobby was using an empty retail space in one of Johnny’s other buildings as his workshop.

“Your contractor works in a pet store?” The Celebrity asked as we approached the place, whose sign still read “Carroll Gardens Pets.”

“It’s not a pet store anymore,” I said. Rather than explaining Bobby and Johnny and the whole connection, I shook my head and said, “It’s a long story.”

Soon enough, we were standing in front of the former pet store. Its shades were pulled down so the inside wasn’t visible. There was nothing in the windows, save a beat-up old sign that read “Closed.” I rapped on the beat-up wood frame of the door. When there was no answer, I leaned my ear in and heard the sound of a saw buzzing. “Bobby?” I called out when the buzz died down. I knocked on the glass for good measure.

“One moment,” his thickly accented voice rang out.A few seconds later, he appeared in the doorway, stray woodchips stuck to his beard.

“Just wanted to see how things were coming,” I said.

“Very good, very good,” Bobby smiled.

“Well, great, then,” I said. “So, if you don’t need me for anything, I’m gonna be in Manhattan this afternoon …”

“Yes, yes,” he said. “Go to Manhattan. Not a problem.”

“Well, great,” I said. I turned to The Celebrity and said, “Looks like we can go then.”

“Great,” she said. “I’m just going to duck in to the deli next door to pick up a Vitamin water. Then we can catch ourselves a cab.”

“Sounds like a plan,” I said. As she dashed off, I turned back to Bobby. He had a peculiar look on his face.

“Is that that lady from that TV show?” he asked, tilting his head.

“Yep,” I said. “She’s an actress.” Who knew Bobby was an HBO fan?

“Oh, Lord,” he said, slapping his thigh. “You and that TV lady are friends?”

“Yeah,” I said. It was true, after all. “She lives in the neighborhood.”

“I can’t believe this, man.” He was laughing. “Ever since I figured out how to get free HBO, my wife has been watching that program. She’ll never believe I saw this lady today.” He looked at me with a glint in his eye. “You think you can get me her autograph, man?”

Could there be anything more lowly hanger-on-like than asking The Celebrity for her autograph? Then again, it was for a man at work on his masterpiece for me.

“I’ll see what I can do,” I told him.

The Brooklyn Chronicles, a work of fiction, appears each Friday. Previous installments are available at www.nysun.com/archive_chronicles.php. The author can be reached at kschwartz@nysun.com.