The Book of Denzel

Harold McAllister wasn’t your average movie buff. No, Harold didn’t just like movies—he lived them. And more specifically, he lived Denzel Washington movies.

It started out innocently enough. A casual Friday night watching Training Day turned into a full weekend Denzel marathon. Then came the quotes. At first, they were sprinkled into conversations for effect.

“King Kong ain’t got nothin’ on me!” he’d declare at work while trying to fix the office printer.

“I’m leaving here with something,” he’d mutter at the grocery store checkout when the self-checkout overcharged him.

But soon, things spiraled.

Harold found himself structuring his life around Denzel’s filmography. He took up boxing after The Hurricane, started casually referring to his morning jog as The Equalizer Training Program, and—perhaps most concerning—began speaking with an authoritative, slow-and-steady delivery that made every interaction feel like a monologue from Malcolm X.

“Harold,” his best friend Jerry sighed one evening, watching Harold wipe down his TV screen reverently after a Glory rewatch, “I think you have a problem.”

Harold scoffed. “A problem? My only problem is that the world doesn’t appreciate the man enough. Do you know how many awards he should have won? Do you?!”

Jerry rubbed his temples. “I knew this was getting bad when you started making everyone call you ‘Harold Washington’ at work.”

Harold waved a dismissive hand. “It commands respect.”

“It confuses HR.”

But Harold wasn’t concerned. Not yet. Not until the incident at the Denzel Washington Fan Convention.

Yes, such a thing existed. And yes, Harold had waited six months for it. It was the Super Bowl of his existence.

The convention center was packed with fellow enthusiasts, all sporting their best Denzel-inspired attire. Some came dressed as American Gangster Frank Lucas, others as Remember the Titans Coach Boone. Harold, in his infinite wisdom, had opted for a full-blown Book of Eli look—worn-out trench coat, makeshift survival backpack, and (much to security’s horror) an actual machete.

“Sir, you can’t bring that in here,” a security guard deadpanned.

“But Eli needs it,” Harold protested.

“We don’t care.”

Harold huffed but reluctantly surrendered the weapon, making a mental note to write a strongly worded letter to the organizers. How can one celebrate the Denzel experience without full commitment?

Inside, the event was everything he dreamed. There were panels, trivia contests, and even a life-sized cardboard cutout of Denzel himself. Harold wept.

But then he saw it—the crown jewel.

A private auction.

The item? A napkin from a restaurant Denzel had once allegedly eaten at.

Harold needed it.

The bidding started at a ridiculous $50. But Harold wasn’t playing games. His hand shot up immediately.

“$500!”

Gasps rippled through the crowd. Someone else countered with $600.

Harold narrowed his eyes. “$1,000.”

The rival bidder—a woman in a Man on Fire t-shirt—glared at him. “$1,500.”

Harold clenched his fists. “$2,000.”

A hush fell.

Jerry, who had begrudgingly tagged along, nearly choked on his overpriced convention soda. “HAROLD. THAT IS RENT MONEY.”

Harold didn’t blink.

The woman sighed and backed down.

The napkin was his.

—

The high from his victory lasted all of three days, right up until his landlord knocked on his door.

“Harold,” Mr. Jenkins said flatly. “Where’s your rent?”

Harold, seated at his kitchen table, clutched the napkin protectively.

“You wouldn’t understand,” he whispered.

Mr. Jenkins, a man with exactly zero patience, exhaled through his nose. “You spent it, didn’t you?”

“Technically, I invested it.”

“In what?”

Harold held up the fragile, framed napkin. “Greatness.”

Mr. Jenkins stared at him for a long time. Then, in an act of sheer survival instinct, Harold did the unthinkable—he channeled his inner Denzel.

He straightened his posture, lowered his voice, and fixed his landlord with a piercing stare.

“Mr. Jenkins,” he began, exuding Glory-level gravitas, “let me ask you something… do you believe in destiny?”

Jenkins frowned. “What?”

“Do you?”

“I—”

Harold leaned forward. “Because I do. And I believe that sometimes, a man is called to make sacrifices for a higher purpose. For some, that purpose is family. For others? Revolution. For me?” He tapped the framed napkin. “This.”

A long silence followed.

Then, Mr. Jenkins turned around and left.

“Wait, does that mean I can stay?” Harold called after him.

No response.

Harold took it as a yes.

—

Unfortunately, the universe didn’t seem to agree.

Within a week, Harold was officially evicted.

Jerry, ever the saint, let him crash on his couch. “This is rock bottom, buddy.”

Harold shook his head. “No, rock bottom is when they wouldn’t let me bring my machete into the convention.”

Jerry sighed. “Listen, you need help. I love Denzel as much as the next guy, but you’ve got to let this go.”

Harold gasped. “LET IT GO? Would you tell Michael Jordan to put down the basketball? Would you tell Shakespeare to stop writing?!”

“Yes, if Shakespeare got kicked out of his apartment for spending his rent on napkins.”

Harold huffed. “I just need to regroup.”

Jerry rubbed his temples. “Man, what’s your plan?”

Harold thought for a moment. Then—

“I’ll meet him.”

Jerry choked. “Meet who?”

Harold’s eyes burned with determination. “Denzel.”

Jerry’s soul left his body.

—

It took exactly one Google search and three hours of questionable decision-making, but Harold found himself outside a film set rumored to be hosting the man himself.

Security was tight. Cameras were everywhere.

But Harold was a fan. And a fan always finds a way.

With the precision of Inside Man Denzel, Harold slipped past the first set of barriers. He ducked behind trailers, mimicking the stealth skills he had honed from watching The Equalizer too many times.

And then—there he was.

Denzel Washington.

Seated in a chair, casually reviewing his script.

Harold’s breath caught.

The legend.

Harold stepped forward, heart pounding. “Mr. Washington,” he began, voice trembling. “It’s an honor.”

Denzel looked up. Calm. Controlled. Pure, effortless charisma radiated from him.

“Hey there, son,” he said, raising a brow. “You supposed to be here?”

Harold hesitated. Then, channeling every ounce of Denzel energy within him, he straightened his spine.

“I believe,” he said, voice steady, “that we all have a destiny. And mine? Was to be here. Right now. With you.”

Silence.

Then—

Denzel smiled.

Not a big one, but enough.

Security tackled Harold to the ground.

—

Two days later, Jerry bailed him out of jail.

As they walked out, Jerry shook his head. “Well, was it worth it?”

Harold, despite the bruises, despite the shame, despite the restraining order, grinned.

“I made him smile.”

Jerry groaned. “I give up.”

As they got into the car, Harold leaned back and muttered, “King Kong ain’t got nothin’ on me.”

Jerry nearly drove off the road.