People say it’s possible to meet every celebrity you’d ever want to in LA. The reality is more that you’ll catch a glimpse of them grabbing a coffee at Peet’s or cutting you off in their convertibles—or that you’ll meet a friend of a friend of a friend who once applied to work as their nanny.
Since coming to LA from Canada, I‘ve had tons of celeb sightings. And in my first year here, I found it a real kick. I remember driving up to a gas station in Beverly Hills and seeing Kelsey Grammer pumping gas. He smiled and waved as if he were the attendant getting ready to clean my windows, and I was so flustered I drove off before pumping the gas I’d already paid for.
In this city of lost angels, the quest for fame can boarder on the ludicrous. I’ve seen a guy driving around LA in a car covered with signs promoting his acting, complete with a giant yellow chicken head festooned to the roof. I can’t speak to his acting abilities, but I admire his chutzpah. I figure he must not resemble anyone famous, or he would have already parlayed his mug for cash as so many celebrity look-a-likes have done. Like the Tom Cruise doppelganger I encountered leaning out of the window of his black Lexus SUV in a Santa Monica parking lot. He was sporting those trademark black shades and that—be still my heart!—unmistakably sparkling smile. “Hi,” he said, “What do you do?” “I- I-I’m a writer,” I stammered. “Of course you are,” he said, “And I’m…” And then there was a giant pause as if he were waiting for me to announce the obvious. Like a lamb to the slaughter, I did just that. “You’re not Tom Cruise, are you?” He smiled happily and said, “I get that a lot.”
I agreed to meet for coffee a few days later. I had an uneasy feeling as I popped quarters into the meter, but he was already waiting for me under a little parasol, his smile as lit-up as a film set. From the moment I sat down, he started talking non-stop about himself. God, I thought, I hope the real Tom Cruise isn’t this way. As I listened to him drone on in endless boring waves of narcissistic “I-I-I’s,” I imagined his lips morphing into a giant oceanic maw and swallowing LA whole. I was snapped out of my sci-fi B-movie delirium by the waiter asking, “More coffee?” I said no with such quiet force the coffee cups rattled, momentarily rendering the pseudo-Cruise blessedly mute. His smile, though, kept right on beaming.
The hour was almost up on the meter, but I had to get a look under those shades. I asked, and he hesitated, then complied. His eyes were sallow, shrunken and lifeless. It was as though his real self, hidden from the light of day for eons, had been distorted from trying so hard to look like someone else. I’m sure my face told the whole story. “That’s why I wear these glasses,” he said sadly, his smile faltering. I felt horrible. When I got back to my car, I had a ticket for overstaying my welcome. Served me right—I should have left his image undisturbed. It wouldn’t have cost him his fragile hold on his dignity and it wouldn’t have cost me $38 to the city of Santa Monica.
I took a writing course from a man in West Hollywood, an old friend of Jack Nicholson’s. One night I had a dream about Jack (listen, when you dream about Jack Nicholson, you get to call him ‘Jack’). There I was, standing on the side of the road reading a book about character development, when a big old car with a rumble seat rode up beside me, its engine idling. I looked up and there was Jack in his black shades, smoking a cigar. He took one look at me and said, “Get in.” I hopped into the car and he said, “What are ya reading?” When I told him, he laughed and said, “Forget the book! Just talk to me!” The book flew out of my hands as he slammed on the gas and we sped away, kicking up gravel and dust in our wake. A friend of mine worked a party recently where Jack was on the guest list. She promised she’d tell him the dream. He never showed.
Funny thing about living in LA so long, you start to look like a celebrity without even trying. A homeless man stumbled out of a 7-11 one night, spotted me in the passenger seat of my friend’s parked car and crowed, “Sharon Stone!” I’d heard that once before from a man who claimed to know Sharon. I told him, “Yeah, but she’s thinner and richer.” “Yeah, but you’re nicer,” he said.
Lately, the comparisons have been, well, curious. A man I dated briefly last year announced, “From a certain angle, you look a little like Walter Mondale.” It was such an unexpected comparison that all I could do was laugh.
Christiane Schull is a freelance writer who looks nothing like Walter Mondale. Her cousin is a Saturday Night Live alumna and film actor.