2005-02-15 - 9:33 a.m.
The Lightning Bolt
I met the most amazing man yesterday. Yes. I really did. And I barely slept last night because of it—you know how that works, when your mind thinks up all these scenarios and runs away with itself, and you just can’t rest? That was me. Trouble is, I will probably never see this man again. Oh, I know that if it’s meant to be it will be, and that he knows where to find me, but does he even want to find me?
But I get ahead of things.
Yesterday was an OK day. I got a call back about an interview, and they asked me to come in on Wednesday (yay!). I was planning to go to see a guy I have a crush on play in his band yesterday evening (which I did, more on that later). But at about 3:55 pm, as I was getting ready to go on my break, my feet were hurting and I was feeling lazy and I just didn’t want to do anything. Oh, and it rained all day. Then this guy walks near the desk. Totally unremarkable except for his left arm, which was in a sling. He was just… normal. Dark hair, dark eyes, average height, whatever. I asked him if he needed help, he said no, fine. Two minutes later he comes up to me and says, “Actually, I do need help. I’m an author, and when I was in here two weeks ago you didn’t have my book, and now you do, and I was wondering if I could sign it.” Sure, I said, and asked if he’d be physically able to sign with his arm like that. I made some comment about how at least it’s his left hand, unless he’s left-handed. Yes, he said, he’s left-handed. D’oh! We laughed. He showed me his book. I’ve been meaning to read it, and I told him so. I asked how he broke his arm. He told me about falling in an airport on his book tour. Poor guy.
But as we were talking, my mind was racing. I had seen this book before, and wondered about the author, because he has an oddly nerdy name, and I had always pictured him as some short Woody Allen-esque New Yorker with glasses. Nope. Tall. Handsome. Australian. Sexiest accent ever. He told me his second novel was being made into a movie in Australia. I told him I used to watch tons of Australian film, and we both loved The Year My Voice Broke. We both think Australian film is dying, and we both blame Russell Crowe, Nicole Kidman and Naomi Watts for it. He’s working on a new project, he said, with this Irish actor. I said, “Oh, wow, yeah—I was watching [one of his movies] last night!” “Oh really?” “Yes. And you tell [him] that when I was 14, I saw him on Broadway and waited outside the stage door for an autograph, and he used my pen to sign everyone’s Playbills, and I still have it.” He laughed. “You have excellent taste,” he said. “Better taste at 14 than I have now, at 40.” Sigh. I asked about his book. He told me.
Then customers (silly customers!) kept approaching me and asking me questions. He said, “I won’t keep you anymore. Thanks.” He was off to find a book for a friend. Then he stuck out his right hand (the unbroken one) and with this very serious look, said his name. I shook it, after a pause, and told him mine. As I walked away, I said, “Have fun on your tour!” and he said, “You know, I’m based half the time in New York,” and I said, “Well, then, I’ll see you next time you come in the store.”
I spent the rest of the day in a giddy haze. Nothing else mattered. I’m still reeling. This man: nice, charming, attractive, seemingly good sense of humor, amazingly intelligent, successful, a little older and—wait for it, peoples!—Jewish. Oh, and presumably single. (Or gay, but BAH.) I want to talk to him all day. I want to sit in front of a fire on a rainy day with this man and just enjoy his presence. It was so… weird. There was a little movie-star-hero-worship going on there (I mean, come on—successful hot author with movie deal!), but more than that, I liked him. He was real. He was in front of me, and I touched him, and he laughed at my lame jokes and looked me in the eye and told me I had good taste.
But, of course, I think about the things I didn’t do. I didn’t ask for his number. I didn’t say anything like, “I would love to continue this conversation.” I didn’t take off my name tag and go to a corner with him so we could speak without interruption. What else didn’t I do? Oh, tons of things, some stupid, some meaningless, that might have said, “Come back! See me again! Talk to me some more!” For all I know, this man thinks I’m some pleasant kid working at the Barnes and Noble. Or, worse, a college student. I wanted to cry, “I’m 26! I’m Jewish! I’m lovely! Take me to dinner!” But I didn’t. I didn’t say, “Here’s my email address; write me and let me know how Paris looks in late February.”
I tried to find an email address for him last night, and I couldn’t. Just an author contact through his US publisher, so I can send him a card and he may or may not get it in a few weeks (of course, I could send him a get-well card and ask how his arm is and maybe not look too stalkerish), but that’s it. He might never come back to the store. He might have completely forgotten about our moment, except in stories he tells at dinner parties. And I will probably never see him again.
But my G-d, would I love to see him again.
* * *
Oh, right, the band. Well, well, well. I went. I shlepped to the Lower East Side after being on my feet all day. I got there, the band was setting up. My lovely friend Danielle showed up about halfway through the set. Then afterwards, I yelled and the work crush smiled and noticed I was there, then I went to another part of the bar and gave him a hug. Then his (identical twin and smokin’ hot) brother mistook me for someone else and rubbed my shoulder, and we had a nice laugh and an introduction. Then another guy in the band did the SAME THING. Awesome. I got hugs from cute boys, because they were all, “Well, since I’ve already touched you, let’s hug anyway!” It was sweet. I told work crush to join us for a beer. Which he did.
WITH HIS GIRLFRIEND.
Gentlemen, take heed: IF YOU HAVE A GIRLFRIEND, PARTICULARLY IF YOU LIVE WITH HER, MENTION IT AT LEAST CASUALLY AND AT LEAST ONCE IN SEVERAL CONVERSATIONS WITH SOMEONE OF THE OPPOSITE SEX WHO IS LOOKING AT YOU “LIKE THAT”! OK? Got it? Good. You know what else sucks? She’s an airhead, and not a very nice one. And Danielle, who loves everyone, noticed it. Hee.
