november's entry for Dear X.
an open letter to al pacino
i cried the night i met you, and you at least owe me dinner and drinks for that.
i'd seen you in some movies, but was blown away when i saw Glengarry Glen Ross. D and i had gone to see something silly, and i theatre-hopped to see GGR. D ducked out, so i went by myself. from the minute i walked into this film, my jaw was on the floor. there aren't even words to describe how much i loved each and every performance, and especially yours. sitting in that restaurant for hours, slowly reeling in the naive jonathan pryce, looking smolderingly sexy, keeping control of everything as your co-workers fall apart and melt in the rain... i wanted to be your cocktail waitress, just so i could get close enough to touch your collar.
then i went to work at American Rep. lots of 'stars' came and went, and you discover pretty quickly working in theatre that they're just people who happen to be a little more recognizable. and then we hosted a showing of 'Looking for Richard', one of your pet projects. it was still a work in progress, and it was wonderful to hear you talk about the process.
i had managed to snag a poster of Glengarry Glen Ross; my friend at the video store had set it aside for me. i had originally wanted it as a gift for my brother the salesman, hoping he might think it was neat. when i found out you were going to be in town, it seemed perfect - i'd work the showing, bring the poster and ask you to sign it. no problem.
oh, but al... do you have this affect on all women? the reception was crowded, because everyone wanted to meet you. you were lost in the middle of the throng. it took nearly half an hour to get close to you. and then you looked at me. and i fell apart.
it's not that you're crushingly handsome, or intimidatingly tall; in fact, we're about the same height, and you were slouching around in some lived-in sweater. but your eyes... you looked at me, and i felt like the proverbial deer in the headlights. you waited, for just a second, to see if i actually knew how to say my own name, let alone articulate a thought. and then you were gone, on to the next person. i only had a new york minute to ask you for an autograph, and it blew right by me.
i was mortified, and ran out of the theatre. hot, embarrassed tears coursing down my face, i found a pay phone, and choked out that i needed a ride home. the rest of the night was miserable, as i kept kicking myself for melting, wishing i had been swallowed up by the floor rather than look the mute idiot.
so there, you bum. i think you owe me at least an egg cream for that.