Celebrityishness.

I was nineteen when celebrity hit me like a gale force wind. This was long before the celebrity worship and reality TV crap that pervades the world today.

To be sure, celebrities have always been adored and treated like otherworldly beings. Even when I was really young, I thought the idea of screaming at someone or jumping up and down at them like a crazed fan at a concert was pathetic and ridiculous. Even if I admired a person for their talent, it would never occur to me to claw at, cry, or act desperate towards them if I got close to them. My natural reaction was to probably want to shake their hand and tell them how much I respected their work. But that’s because I don’t worship people readily. Never have. And because, to me, people are people.

And, as my brother Rich says, “Even Angelina Jolie poops.” For real.

In any event, at one time, celebrity did impact my life. Considerably. And without warning. In the summer of 1991.

My roommate and I went to go rent a movie at the local movie rental place in Vineyard Haven. I’d been out running and I was sweaty and wearing a pair of faded dark green with white writing Proctor Academy shorts and an oversized t-shirt. We scoured the racks of old movies and, for whatever reason, (I’m pretty sure our other roommate Maisley requested it, she liked the classics which was a good thing) we rented a Marilyn Monroe classic. I honestly don’t remember. What I do remember is the movie: Some Like it Hot.

In the aisles of the tiny store, we suddenly saw the statuesque, tourquoise suit-wearing, Carly Simon. She was so stunning and so self-possessed in that movie star quality that you can’t quite put into words. Something ethereal, yet immediate. Goddess-like and accessible all at once.  It wasn’t until she was in line behind me, though, that I dared speak.

Because we caught eyes. And she just looked so strangely familiar. And she clearly knew I knew who she was.

“I just have to tell you,” I said, making my voice bigger with each word, pulling myself as much as I could out of my nineteen-year old shyness, “I’ve been told my entire life that I look like you.”

In the theatrical way that I later tried to mimic because it was so compelling and dramatic in this genuine way, she didn’t say a word, but instead she let her left hand soar to her heart, as if her body itself had been possessed by my words and she broke into that broad, unmistakable, famous smile.

“Really? I’m so flattered.”

I considered my roommate, paying for our video rental, looking for a shared experience. But she was oblivious.  She didn’t even notice. Nothing wrong with her, not at all, but she was likely stoned, actually. Just ready for some hummus and filafel back at the house. And some leftover Black Dog cookies. The broken ones that Maisley was lucky enough to bring home to us.

“No. I’m flattered,” I said to her in return, smiling my very own signature toothy grin.

And then, in a moment, a thing that changed my life forever, this beautiful introduction occurred, an event that left an imprint that would tread the road of my brain for all time.

“I’d like you to meet my son,” she said, gesturing behind her.

I followed her hands.

“Ben.”

And there he was.

I had to turn almost all the way around to see him standing there – and there he was -  all 6 feet 4 inches of him and his big blue puppy dog eyes. We shook hands. He bowed his head graciously, and smiled.  A sweet underbite smile, eyes as blue as blue ever was, and he said in an almost Southern accent, “Pleased to meet you.” That’s when I knew. This was the Southern charm, the consummate gentleman behavior, he learned from his father, James Taylor.

to be continued