It’s always a strange thing seeing someone famous in person. I haven’t seen many - Conan O’Brien, Jon Lovitz, N*Sync (that one was by accident, I swear - wrong place at the wrong time). I think there are others. One thing that such encounters always have in common is, the celebrity’s height is never what you expect. Conan O’Brien, for example, is freaking gigantic when he’s standing right next to you.
My old college roommate, Alex, filled me in, Monday afternoon, that Kevin Smith would be making an appearance at the Jay and Silent Bob’s Secret Stash in Red Bank to sign stuff, chat, and generally schmooze. I was working at the time, so I asked Alex to call me at work when he got to Kevin and then hand him the phone. By the time I was leaving work at 7:15, however, Alex still had not gotten that far, and so he convinced me to drive out to Red Bank, sealing his grip over my will by offering cutsies.
I am wont to exaggeration at times, but please understand that I need not channel my font of hyperbole when I say that I have never seen so many people wearing T-shirts in one place in my life. I was the only person there in line with a collar. I stuck out like a ten-foot penis amongst a crowd of puppies. As if to ensure that I did not fit in, I elected to speak to strangers in an English accent for the evening. I just wanted to see if I was any good at it, really, and judging by how easily I was able to convince people that I was from Essex and had lived in the East End for a couple years (to explain the slight Cockney twang my fake accent had), I seemed to be ready for the big time.
Alex and his wife, Michelle, had been waiting there for about nine hours when I arrived. I was there for another three before Kevin himself took a walk outside to see how many people were left. Upon seeing the 500-odd people still behind me, his shoulders dropped right out of their sockets, and he exasperatedly said, “Fucking come on” - Kevin Smith said fuck right next to me! - while in the background, countless camera flashes went off. The poor guy looked like he really needed some sleep; I didn’t have the heart to take a picture myself. As if to thank me for my discretion, he met my eye and gave me a look that, to me, said, “Can you believe them?” I peed a little.
A moment later, Kevin got onto a police car’s bullhorn and addressed the crowd. “Guys,” he began, “It’s fucking midnight. Do you really want to stay? Because we’re not going to be done until 5 at this rate.” Everyone agreed: Yes, sir, we want to meet you, touch you, smell your perspiration. Deny us not this paradise. And so, sticking to his pledge to remain at the Stash until every last man, woman, and child had been sent through, Kevin plodded back inside to resume his post. “You’re a real trooper,” Alex reminded him as he passed, to which Kevin responded with a glance of appreciation. Alex peed a little.
Alex was right in his assessment. I don’t imagine anyone else would have gone to such trouble for his fans. I know I wouldn’t have. I would have either asked them all to come back the next day, or just ducked out of the back door, never to be seen again.
The original plan was for people to be let into the store in groups of four or five to get their stuff signed, buy more stuff, take pictures, and chat Kevin up for a few minutes. But with 500 people left to go and the odds of getting a worthwhile night’s sleep rapidly square-rooting, the plan changed to a swift, single-file line for autographs and, if you were lucky, a photo. This was, of course, a little disappointing, but we accepted it, because we were all pretty tired, too.
An hour later, I was standing face to face with the man himself as he signed my copies of Clerks and Dogma. “Dude, you look exhausted,” I said to him, because he did. “I feel bad for you.”
“Yeah man, I’ve been up since, like, 5,” he told me (this seems to be contradicted a bit by his blog, though, so I dunno). “How long were you waiting?” he asked.
My heart jumped a little bit. I couldn’t tell him the truth, that I had showed up at 9 and had cut to almost the front of the line. “Er,” I stammered, “Well, we did the waiting in shifts, so I was only there for about five hours total.”
“Ah, so you know how I feel,” he said, referring to my comment about his exhausted demeanor, and indicating that he had bought it and appreciated the sentiment.
He handed me my DVDs, and I told him to get some sleep soon. Distracted by the guilt arising from telling a baldfaced lie to Kevin Smith’s tired face, I forgot to shake his hand.
He came up to about my chin.
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