L.M.G. (First Draft)
© 2003 Anne Hedonia
I didn’t realize I was smiling so much.
I am walking toward my car up a side street in
This morning I went to meet a man who is on a TV show, a new
addition to a long-running hit. Julie and I both possess the necessaries:
Julie was from
Besides, acting the giggly stalker would ruin my other, more important goal. More important, but less conscious.
I wipe the dew from the Polaroid and shake it lightly, the universal, useless gesture of those impatient for more detail.
We got to the park at
As we scanned for signs of production, I could never remember seeing a park in this other-worldly way, everything muted by mist and scarce daylight, a few ghostly people jogging by or walking dogs. They were so healthy and early-morning brave, oblivious to our purposes of mild, uninvited obsession. They were having a John Denver morning, while we were the Stones.
Today was my first day making contact with this actor. His character on the show is not a popular one – long-time fans are actually chagrined at the intrusion – and our mission today was partly a show of underdog support. Partly – I mean, our real reasons are best left to our shrinks. I know that for me, the attraction was quick, complex and more than a little Freudian. There is only so much of it I can talk about with others. There is only so much of it I can let myself think.
I just know that when his character appeared, the show suddenly leapt to the forefront of my interest in a way it had ceased to previously. I was immediately, quietly rooting for the new guy, and was almost giddy as his character proved himself able, intelligent, honest and kind. He was as gentle inside as he was flinty outside, and he wore every hurt eloquently, in eyes too blue to be believed. His physical attractiveness was slow to present itself to me, but once it did it seemed flawless. His virtual presence created a mysterious, happy-awful ache and soothed it at the same time.
But only to a point. Because there was only so much to be had of him, there on the TV – the ache I felt demanded more.
I hasten to point out: I have a quite serviceable grip on reality. I realize people are not who they play - I know actors from characters. I actually even write some of the words that go into actors’/characters’ mouths – I’m sometimes the puppet master pulling their strings. I realize that this man lives in reality, and reasoned ahead of time that meeting him would be, at best, a friendly chance to interact, after which I would go back to my life and he to his. It would not remedy whatever fundamental lack I felt in my life. I was likely, in fact, to feel let down afterward, when this intellectual truth became experience.
I still wanted to go.
I run my eyes down the photographed image of my outfit for the day: a big, favorite nubbly sweater, brown pants and my fake "leather" jacket. I’m still baffled by my own lack of self-criticism – actually, I’ve felt strangely confident all morning that I looked okay, my numerous, "unforgivable" figure flaws hidden.
I remember the outfits on the security guards we approached earlier: big black windbreakers, tall white letters spelling out "SECURITY" on the back, draped over short, round Hispanic homies. Our policy with them could be called "pummel them with politeness" – we always resolved to be nothing but up-front, honest and cheerful. It brought out the friendliness in them, the "hey I just work here they don’t tell me nothing" vibe. They pointed out figures of higher authority, smiled, shrugged and let us pass.
The crew was still setting up equipment, making a TV set out of thin air, which unfortunately meant the actors wouldn’t be there for quite a while. We looked for the location manager, a petite brunette woman whose name I knew from paying attention on another set run Julie and I tried, when we showed up at a reasonable hour of the afternoon and missed the actors by seconds. I had never actually spoken to her, but when it came to getting permission to stand around, we knew it was her to ask. We approached the woman as she conferred with someone else, and I was charged with getting her attention. I called her name once, then louder, and she glanced around, confused, then squinted at us with this half-alarmed, half-bewildered, last-straw look. It was a look of "How do you know my name? How in hell do fans find out this shit?"
We made our inquiries brief: where could we stand and watch and be safely out of the way? She pointed to an area with a low wall to sit on and we retreated there at once.
We sat there for the next hour, in a state of expectant tedium.
We made small talk, as I’d known Julie for a short time and met Stacy only that morning. Julie and I had met online and reconvened in real life (or as online folk notate it, "RL") solely for the purpose we were up to right then – going to location shoots to appreciate this particular actor. In the short time I’d known her, I’d learned Julie was possessed of an unfailingly bubbly disposition which often veered into hyperactivity. This tendency also coincidentally made her the worst driver on Earth – she drove on our first trip together, and in one afternoon hit a gas pump, a cement block wall, and came within centimeters of slamming into a bus. She happily spazzed out at the idea of meeting her many TV idols – all of whom were underdogs and barely-knowns – but became uncannily calm, polished and gracious in their presences. I always thought her ideas for gestures and gifts when she went to these shoots would be embarrassing or just too much, but in practice they always worked out perfectly, genuinely charming our targets and making friends. I had to remind myself to trust her, at this point in our acquaintance, but trust her I did. Stacy was another online friend of Julie’s. Julie worked at conversing with both her and me, generally separately. It was too early to socialize.
I sat under my umbrella, not wanting my hair to frizz in the mist. I kept taking a cheap, ancient, disposable camera out of my coat pocket and then putting it back; I’d grabbed it as a second thought from its place on my dusty bookshelf. I disdained asking for autographs, but as I needed to use up the roll anyway I thought a picture might be nice. I had no idea how said pictures might come out, though. The camera was supposedly for "distance" shots and the edges of the cardboard were soft and white from age and abuse.
Eventually a game began to reveal itself between the three of us: van! Vans were numerous in the area and carried crew and – more importantly, cast – to and from the set and the nearby Fox studios. Their comings and goings in the parking lot became a source of little adrenaline shots as we called out their presence and scanned their tinted windows, a constant cycle of perking up and good-naturedly deflating.
It was getting toward time to leave. If he didn’t show, the world wouldn’t end – Julie and I would just find another shoot. Although that would mean another session of arranging schedules and making time and – perhaps worst of all – anticipation. It would be so much easier if I could just meet him today.
And then I heard it:
"Van."
"Van!" Giggle.
I looked up to see a navy and silver colored minivan stopped mid-parking lot, letting out a passenger. The passenger wore a gray trench coat and suit, and carried an incongruously cheerful umbrella – fat blue and white stripes bobbing above his monotone outfit and standing out from the leaden skies. His hair was short and spiky and his features were chiseled and lean.
"It’s him," Julie announced with certainty. She’d met him once before.
It was him.
It took me a minute to be sure, but it was. He was finishing a conversation with someone in the van, which we couldn’t hear until he bellowed gleefully: "And now it’s all FUCKED UP!" in that whiskey voice of his – a voice like he’d been up all night yelling, every day of his life.
We stood as he made his way gradually toward our position, pausing to talk to various crew members. Lots of people seemed to have things to tell him, business he needed to attend. Our eyes never left him, the three of us in a row, and I’m sure we looked like gaping idiots, but Julie had said that he liked to talk to fans, that when she had met him previously he had instructed his van driver to stop right next to them, considerably short of where he’d needed to go.
At last he had exhausted his keepers – the only target left was us.
"What are you guys doin’ out here?" he called as he ambled toward us, implicitly referring to the rain and the hour.
"Waiting to see you," Julie smiled.
"You are?" He talked to us like neighborhood kids, paternal and indulgent. "Well, who are you?"
He arrived closest to me, and we introduced ourselves one at a time. He held out his hand and made firm, easy eye contact. "Bob Patrick."
I shook his hand, and couldn’t imagine anyone calling him that. I was used to his credited name – "Bob" was a name for the assistant manager at Walgreen’s, the guy who does your taxes. "Bob" was too short to support the weight of his presence.
The rest of the encounter is already becoming a flurry of snatched sensation as I near my car, a blur of details that my mind flails to engrave on itself before they’re even further gone. I slide into the driver’s seat and I place the Polaroid carefully on the passenger’s. I take a minute before starting the engine, to just sit and let it all digest.
I can’t believe I didn’t think to notice if his eyes were really that blue, all that time spent standing and looking at him, but on the next encounter I’ll notice that they’re like neon, irrationally blue, not found in nature. On this trip we all noticed the fake scar makeup on his cheekbone.
We were concerned. "What happened?"
"Ah, Doggett got shot," he said, eyeing the swirl of crew. Since his character was still walking around, apparently the bullet had just grazed.
"We gotta teach Doggett to duck," I grinned.
"So what did you think about – was it last Sunday?" he continued, as though I hadn’t spoken. He turned to a handler who had recently appeared. The man nodded, somehow knowing what his question meant. "It aired this last Sunday…yeah…" he turned back to us, nodding ominously. "...so...Mulder’s dead."
We grinned politely, told him as diplomatically as possible that we weren’t worried. What we were was "spoiled" to the gills with internet-filched info about how things would turn out – we already knew the whole rest of the season. I remembered then how new he was to TV, having been thrown into his thankless new job and compelled to hit the ground running. For actors, movies mean a lot of waiting around in trailers – TV is 20 hour days that start at dawn. It was almost the end of this season’s filming, and I was beginning to notice that under his ease he radiated weariness.
I know we talked a bit more, about something. I cracked jokes, to no reaction, then knew no other tactic but to crack some more. The subject of pictures was broached. Someone nearby was given my tattered disposable and before I could process it, the most amazing thing of the whole day happened:
His arm went over my shoulder, heavy and warm.
No one had asked or suggested he do this, least of all me. I couldn’t move. Holy God, you mean I get to touch him? And he won’t call security?? Someone who looks like him is actually touching someone who looks like me?? On PURPOSE?
The world wasn’t working like I was used to.
I instantly realized that the plastic feel of my "leather" jacket must have given away its counterfeit status on contact. Normally I was reminded of this by cracks in the collar catching my hair - it wasn’t often other people touched it. A sheepish embarrassment washed over me. I could have outed myself with a joke and taken the tension away, but it didn’t occur to me- the only time I didn’t think to crack jokes all day.
An eternity later I chanced an arm around his waist, completing the pose. I felt what a short trip it was around his lean frame. I wondered nervously what he was thinking about mine, if he was thinking about it at all. He remained impassive to the whole exchange, waiting for the shutter to click and the task to be accomplished.
He had no idea all the rules he was breaking, rules I had thought up about How Attractive People Act and who touched whom and who deigned to give attention to whom and so on. It was obvious he didn’t even know most of them. I wondered if he was keeping down distaste, or if what I perceived was actually true: that he didn’t feel any.
I couldn’t tell what he felt at all.
I wondered again how the pictures might turn out, more nervously this time. The assistant aimed and I wished I could look through the viewfinder myself, before she shot.
Julie got her picture next, but when it came to the reticent Stacy’s turn, our camera luck ran out - no more film. Expressions of disappointment all around. "Bob" didn’t accept the verdict, searched the area yet again, found his target.
"POLAROID!" he bellowed. We giggled at his volume.
Ah, I understood - the costume department takes pictures of how actors look during the day’s shoot. They had a camera nearby. A blonde man in a ball cap turned and signaled that he'd be right there.
I looked at the back of "Bob's" head. "Hey, you must have a lot of pull around here."
He didn’t turn. "Ah, I got nothin’."
We had a second to wait, and I felt it had to be time to tell him something else, something I’d considered saying before we came. It seemed now or never. I got his attention, and broached the subject into the bland, forced patience of his eyes.
"You had a moment in that episode ‘Via Negativa’, on that line ‘I’m not sure if I’m awake’? I just
wanted to tell you…I had to stop and rewind when I saw it. It was amazing. You
were just…so rattled. And it was done
so economically…"
His eyes did change on that word, "economically", in an "oh, I need to pay actual attention" way. I kept babbling: "…no histrionics, it was all just…there, in your face. And it was just…" My hands made fists in the air and I just let my wordlessness do the talking, thinking he’d get it, that it would impress him, but he didn’t respond like I wanted. I thought he looked a little embarrassed.
If this didn’t change his demeanor, I had nothing left – nothing left to make an impression, to emboss myself on his memory. I knew intellectually that he’d never met me, that he had no reason whatsoever to feel about me the way I felt about him. I didn’t come into his living room once a week and do amazing things. I had some reason to feel the way I did, but he had nothing. My brain knew this, knew this, but my emotions hadn’t heard. The imbalance of knowledge and intensity between us was palpable, a tall, slippery wall I had no tools to climb. I didn’t want to come off as a nutcase. I wanted to be "industry" blasé. And I wanted to be the most special person he’d ever met. I wanted all the validation and tenderness from him that I’d never found anywhere, and that his character seemed so qualified to give. I wanted life to change all the rules and his wife to disappear painlessly and our divergent life circumstances to magically meld.
And letting any of it show would completely blow my chances of ever talking to him again.
Ultimately, fear of this sucked all the emotion into my chest and limbs, where it raged without voice – a strange, furious urge to properly channel a tsunami.
He nodded, and said nothing for a minute, consulted with someone who came up to him. I accepted this, surrendering to becoming background. After a moment he turned back and said thoughtfully: "Well, you keep watching that ‘Via Negativa.’"
We all laughed – it was a silly thing to suggest, that I might just keep re-watching one episode.
I felt better about the way Polaroid guy aimed the camera, when he arrived, and I liked his cheery competence. Any remaining trust for my shabby camera evaporated; I had to get a shot I knew would come out well, even if it was an imposition.
"Oh, you want another one?" Just a touch of impatience, quickly banished. He posed with me again, and also with Julie. It will turn out to be exactly the right choice, as the disposable pictures were just that – disposable. The Polaroid pictures will be much better, and all will testify that he kept talking or calling to crew members the whole time, leaving strange, funny, open-mouthed poses on our mementos.
Finally we were all taken care of. "Hey, I have to go and look over some dialogue – you guys gonna stick around?"
Julie and Stacy said they would; I had to go. Before he left
Julie said something about our friends on the web, and he stopped suddenly to
ask about a few Doggett websites he’d heard about. We laughed when we heard the
names of them, all familiar to us as breathing. His lack of knowledge on the
subject was endearing; we were natives to this strange
Finally, he left. I had to as well. I said goodbye to my friends and walked back out toward my car, outwardly unmoved – I thought.
I look okay in the photo – my smile is so happy. I didn’t know I looked like that. I actually look nice. By some miracle my hair didn’t frizz and is falling just right. Next to me his face is stony, and later I will find out how uncharacteristic this is, when on subsequent meetings he is almost puppy-like, happy and eager to talk.
On two subsequent visits it will all be different. He will come to recognize us, and be refreshed by hiatus, enthusiastic and lively. He’ll surprise us by matching Julie’s gifts to him with improvised gifts back to us both. He’ll clown and talk until they have to drag him off to do something crucial.
His joke appreciation level will go way up.
It will feel less hollow and silly, impossible to justify. With subsequent visits the need to make contact will actually wane, as I’d hoped it might, instead of multiplying exponentially as it will a few days from now. Before the show has ended its run, I will cease feeling much need for his character at all. But the unnamed ache itself will not have evaporated – it will move to other characters, other shows, in and out of real life.
I wanted to be cool – I don’t think I was. I feel like I just tried to burrow through a brick wall, with predictable results. I’m frenetically trying to make it okay in my head, but I don’t know if I’ll achieve it.
But the evidence is still there. I was smiling.
I still am.
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