We were set to meet on the first floor of the Strand. I was a bit nervous, as he had been quite a big thing in the 80s, and I quietly wondered to myself if my shoes would make me tall enough to have some sort of eye-contact. What would we talk about, I thought to myself, as I impatiently rifled through books as if they would magically exude inspiration. Nothing. My brain was going a mile a minute. Jeff, would I call him Jeff? Of course. Would he be as nervous as I? Well, that was his trademark. Maybe I would start off breezily and then dig deep in search of the answers that were plaguing me, where, oh where have you been all these years?! Why do most people remember you from Vibes and not for such stellar work as The Fly or Igby Goes Down? Keeping it light would have to go for starters.
He walked in, nonchalantly looking around, but squinting, his eyes darting back and forth nervously searching for me. We shook hands and I noticed a warm, dry hand, folding into mine. Why had I imagined his hands to be cold and clammy? We browsed among the books, he commented on the lack of diversity among the staff, I complained about the lack of diversity among the art books: the tired Degas, the long suffering Munch. Yadda, yadda, yadda.
We walked along Broadway and even though it was mid October, a frigid breeze caught us both by surprise, so we hid in a cafe’ not far from New York University, where he had his speaking engagement later on that evening. I let him order something warm for me as I rushed to make it to the bathroom before the cackling freshmen would make me fight for it.
The conversation was surprisingly intense. I asked what his talk would be about and he rambled on about the “biz” and not fitting in, and being typecast as the tall nervous, goofy looking one. I loved listening to his warm, rich tones. He changed the subject back to art and we waxed philosophical on the value of art in today’s society. It was suddenly dark and he had to go. We exchanged phone numbers, each promising we would call and knowing full well that the extemporaneous quality of the date would be unrepeatable. After all, as Heraclitus once pronounced: “You cannot step in the same river twice,” this, would be a one-time date.
(Jeff Goldblum)