“I have a cousin who’s a big fan of yours,” he says. “Would you mind signing a couple of things for him?”
I can feel my face growing warm. I can only imagine how red it must be right now.
I’ve given autographs before, but it’s always been as a cute, kitschy thing, like a headshot for one of my nieces or something. This is the first time anyone’s seriously asked me for my autograph.
I guess I did give a lot of autographs to the sci-fi crowd when I played a role with a particularly plunging neckline, but I’d hardly call that a result of adulation. Most of them didn’t even know my real name and just kept calling me Dr. Tchaikovsky or Mistress Death Head or whoever I happened to be in that particular film.
“Sure,” I tell him.
As Damian reaches into his bag for the items he wants me to sign for his cousin, the waiter arrives at our table.
“I’m glad to see that your companion is here,” the waiter, Nolan, says. “Are you two ready to order?”
“Actually, I haven’t really had a chance to peruse the menu,” Damian says. “Would you mind giving us a few more minutes?”
“Well, we have already been holding this table for—wait,” the waiter stops. “You’re Damian Jones, aren’t you?”
Damian smiles.
“I’m very sorry, sir,” he says. “Take as much time as you need.”
Just to make sure that what I think is happening is actually happening, I look toward the people in the front still waiting for a table. They’re still looking over at my table, but now they’re nudging each other and taking pictures on their cell phones.
Yep. Nobody recognized me.
To them, I was, at first, just a woman sitting in a restaurant, keeping them from a table. Now, I’m the woman sitting in a restaurant with Damian Jones, though, and everyone seems to be interested.
It takes about that long for me to look down at the table at what Damian brought me to sign for his cousin.
“Let’s see,” I say, picking up each of the three items, one at a time, “a partially-used tube of toothpaste, a pair of scissors, and a condom.”
“Yeah,” he says. “My cousin collects all sorts of things.”
“Your cousin collects tubes of toothpaste?” I ask.
“Actually, no,” Damian says. “He doesn’t actually collect any of those. I just picked these because I thought they would be hilarious to give to him.”
“But you still want me to sign all of this?” I ask.
“Yeah,” he says, “if you wouldn’t mind.”
I look down.
Okay, the little boost I was feeling a few minutes ago is now completely gone, and replacing it is the question of whether or not I’m really so hard up when it comes to getting recognized that I’m willing to sign the first three things Damian Jones happened to grab on his way out of the house.
Maybe I could just use this moment as an anecdote for when I’m on The Tonight Show, if they ever call. I don’t know. I think I’d be too embarrassed.
I swallow any impression I had of my own dignity and ask Damian if he has a pen.
He pulls a Sharpie from the inside pocket of his jacket and hands it over to me.
“Just walk around with that, do you?” I ask.
“You never know when it’s going to come in handy,” he says.
The thing about Damian Jones isn’t that I dislike him for the little games he plays, or that I think he’s an egocentric jerk. No, there’s a much different reason why I’ve got this feeling in the pit of my stomach, and it’s only chance and proximity that it’s directed toward him at all.
Still, that feeling remains.