Seeking a celebrity

Estimated reading time: 3 minutes, 7 seconds

Looking out on a sea of lights under a blazing moon nearly full, his country’s greatest city silently calm from above, but racing nonetheless just before midnight. This was to be the enduring impression, the lasting memory The Guy would savor of his maiden trip to New York.

It was 10:45 p.m. and the last elevator to the top of the Empire State Building would leave in 45 minutes. It was an elevator he had intended to be on.

And he would have been, had he not heard from a gathering of gawkers that Samuel S. Schooner was about to make a brief appearance outside the grand-opening of the Clair de Lune New York, a way-cool night spot talked up as the merd nouveau.

Judging by the budding spectacle, Mr. Schooner would have to be quite the breath taker, The Guy supposes.
“I know him from that movie about the future where people’s thoughts are tried in court,” says one guy in a red jacket. “He’s the young appellate lawyer. The young one. You’ve seen the movie.”

The Guy sheepishly shakes his head.

“Aw you’ve seen it,” the man demands before returning to his Sam Schooner lookout, losing interest in the conversation.

The Guy eavesdrops two young fashionistas, likely on a break from their quest to hook up.

“He’s the one going out with that redhead from Saturday Night Live,” says one of duo. “The one with the glasses. She’s hilarious . . . really, really hilarious.”

The Guy stands with his hands in the pockets of a jacket he picked up on clearance. It only takes eye contact for people to spill their pent up excitement.

“You know he’s got that instructional dance video!” says a woman toting three kids.

“I didn’t know that,” The Guy says, choosing to indulge her.

“Yeah. He’s the one who choreographed all of NSYNC’s videos. My kids just love ’em.”

“The videos or the choreographer?” The Guy asks.

The woman thinks for a moment, harder than The Guy intends for her.

“Both, I guess,” she says. “Yeah, definitely both.

“They love Sam Schooner. What a great role model. He’s so fit . . . and handsome. Don’t you think?” she says as she grabs The Guy’s arm and playfully jostles it.

He looks at her round face and estimates her to be in her early 40s. He imagines her 15 years and 45 pounds earlier and hypothesizes that she was once something of a vixen.

As more of the curious linger, the crowd begins to swell like liquid backing up in a clogged funnel.
“What’s everyone waiting for?” asks a man dressed for casual Friday.
“Sam Schooner is supposed to be coming,” The Guy says.
“Oh I’ve heard of him,” Casual Friday replies, staking out a spot.
As he stands in the crowd, The Guy thinks of the Empire State Building. Everyone knows someone who’s been there, that is, if they haven’t been there themselves. They’ve at least seen the pictures from the top. Who wants to hear about it from another person?

But think about how many can say they’ve seen Sam Schooner. There’s probably less than 100 people in the world who have seen him, not including his maids and nannies and family.
As they wait, the crowd swells, the buzz grows. Everyone trades stories of celebrities they had seen. That guy from Lynyrd Skynyrd on a plane, Malcolm Jamal Warner at a restaurant, Hal Sparks shopping.

These are the types of stories people want to hear, The Guy confirms. A brush with fame, a close encounter with a superstar.

Samuel Schooner finally arrives. He and his entourage walk just 15 feet away, creating a feeling one part nervous, two parts excitement. Just the rush The Guy expected.

Once home, The Guy searches the Internet to see who Samuel S. Schooner is.
He looks to see who he gave his final New York night for.