Oscar Worthy

When I lived in New York, I left my office building one night just a little after 5pm.  I had plans to go see an author speak uptown, but the event wasn't to start until 7pm.  With time to kill, I wandered into the nearest Starbucks, settling into a corner table with a decaf latte and my book.  Not ten minutes after I'd arrived, an older man sat down at the table directly in front of me, facing me.  He made a passing comment about the weather, how cold it was outside.  I looked up from my book quickly, once I realized he was actually speaking to me and did the half-smile and nod gesture, before returning to my book.  I suppose that slight nod was the only invitation he needed, for he immediately struck up a conversation with me across our two tables.  We spoke about New York a little bit, I sort of recall him asking about the book I was reading.  It was either late February or early March, right around the time of Hollywood's Award Season and the Oscars had either just occurred or were slated to soon, within a matter of days.  He and I talked a bit about the current films out there, what was nominated, and what we'd seen.  Eventually, our chit chat wound down; we both returned our focus to our respective tables, our books.

There was something that begged me to keep watching him out of the corner of my eye though.  It wasn't quite intrigue, at least not in the sense we usually mean.  I suppose, in an unexpected way, I found him oddly compelling.  He wasn't dressed particularly well, both his clothes and his briefcase had seen better days.  His graying hair was slightly disheveled.  I watched him take sheets of paper out of his worn briefcase, noted how intensely he was reading whatever was in front of him on those pages. While a little odd, he certainly didn't strike me as off his rocker, only in New York crazy by any stretch.  And yet, there was something - I couldn't quite pinpoint it - that was a tiny bit off.  Eventually, I grew weary of playing the staring but not getting caught while staring game and turned my attention completely back to my book and tepid latte.  It wasn't until I heard the chair opposite me at my own table move across the tiled floor that I looked up and found him directly in front of me.

"Listen."  he said, leaning closer, as if in confidence.  "What if I told you that I was currently working on the film that was sure to be an Oscar winner next year?"

Oh.  Here we go, I thought, mentally rolling my eyes into the back of my head.

"I know what you're thinking," he continued.  "But I'm telling you, it is a winner.  We're in casting right now.  And what if we were to get you to play the lead?!"

Confused, I stammered a moment, trying to process what he was saying.  (I mean, there was a side of me that instantly sat up a little straighter.  Who doesn't want to win an Oscar, right?) "Oh, well, I'm not an actress.  I don't have any training." I explained.

"That's alright!  We want a nobody, someone undiscovered."

"Well, I don't think I'm the right person.  Sorry.  But thank you.  Really. "  Suddenly nervous, I began gathering up my gloves, my purse, my coat.  "It was nice talking to you.  And good luck with that movie."

I made my way to the door and out into the frenzy that is Times Square, shaking my head.  I remember texting my then boyfriend at the time, explaining that I was pretty sure a crazy man had just tried to cast me in a movie!  We laughed about it of course, he and I.  We texted a few funny things back and forth about the "film" before I hopped on the subway, on my way to the Barnes and Noble where the author was to speak.  We never mentioned it again.

****** 

18 out of 24 was my count last night, my tally of how my guesses did against the winners on Hollywood's biggest night.   Of course I never saw that New York man again, no matter how often I stopped into that particular Starbucks after work.  Almost every fiber in my body knows, whether he truly did have the next great script in his possession or not, that his talk was just that.  Talk.  I remember thinking, even as he told me how they'd be walking the red carpet next year, that it is almost logistically impossible to cast, shoot, edit, promote, and sell a film in 365 days. 

But I'd be lying if I told you that I didn't look for him during every Oscar telecast, that I have, in an offhanded, nonchalant sort of way watched for him every year since our random initial meeting.  I wonder if he is out there among the Hollywood producing royalty, making decisions and calling shots about "the guaranteed next big thing."  Or if, like most of us, he is camped out on his sofa, tuning in to see which actors and actresses will take home the golden statue, measuring his own opinion against that of the Academy's.

They say you shouldn't come to Hollywood without a dream.  There's a little part of me that hopes he wasn't a crazy odd-ball man, after all.  That perhaps he really did have the script that was going to bring Hollywood to its knees with its depth and beauty.  I hope, wherever he is, that he did actually make it to Hollywood with that dream.  And that maybe, just maybe, I'll see him next year on the ballot of nominees.