“Could you make it to Jerry? He couldn’t come today. He’s having chemo. But he’s been your biggest fan since he was knee-high. We showed him the movies when he was three. JERRY. With a J, yes, that’s right. And could you write, ‘May the Force be with you’? You have no idea what this would mean to him. When I told him you were going to be here he cried . . . Thank you so much. He absolutely worships Star Wars.
“I just can’t believe it’s you. If someone told me back when I first saw the first episode, if someone had said, ‘One day you’re gonna meet Princess Leia face-to-face,’ I just wouldn’ta . . . I woulda thought you was making fun of me, ya know? Back then . . . agghh, I am so sorry, a grown woman standing here cryin’ like a baby, you must think I’m plumb loco . . . No, that’s okay, I’ve gotten to where it doesn’t bother me as much what people think of me. I mean, it still hurts but not so much so’s I’m useless.
“And part of that’s ’cause of you. Princess Leia was such a huge inspiration to me. I thought, if I could grow up and be even just a little like you! ’Cause a little of you looked like a big ole lot to me. And then when I grew up, or got older, whichever, and I was on the express checkout line reading the magazine while I was waitin’ for the people with twenty items when you’re not supposed to have more than a dozen, so while I’m waitin’ I’m flippin’ through this magazine and I come across this picture of you. I might not’ve known it was you, except there was a picture of you in the slave outfit on the opposite page.
“So I start reading, and I swear I came to think that my finding that magazine with you in it was no accident. I don’t know if you put much . . . you know, I doubt you believe in God or whatnot, ’cause I’ve always heard that celebrities are . . . You do? . . . Oh, well, whatever you wanna call Him or It or . . .
“Look at me, here I am just rattlin’ off at the mouth when you have so many other people waiting, I’ll just shut my trap and let you get to them, but before I do, could I ask you one last little favor? A picture? I mean, how many times does somebody find themselves standing with . . . I’m sorry, I get to talking, I’m just so thrilled and so nervous to meet you. Wait’ll I tell Ira down at the blood bank, he said I’d probably never . . .
“My camera? It’s in my purse. I think, I HOPE! Wouldn’t that be . . . as my mom used to say, wouldn’t that beat all? I wish she were still alive. She passed right when the first Star Wars came out. I remember at her wake my cousins were talking about this crazy-sounding movie that had just opened that Wednesday. Amazing, isn’t it?
“At first it was just super hard for me, and if it hadn’t been for Star Wars, I swear I don’t know if I would’ve made it. It was like, God took my mom home to Him and He led me to Star Wars. He gave me you and Luke and Han, and somehow that was enough. I don’t mean ‘enough’ like having Star Wars was like having my mom back to life and stitchin’ one of her crazy embroideries or . . . or . . . That makes her sound like some kinda Betty Crocker–type mom and that’s something she just absolutely sure as shit, ’scuse my French, wasn’t. She was a lotta things, my mom—my brother could tell you. He’d a been here but he couldn’t get off work. Me and him, we used to follow my mom without her knowin’ to make sure she was, well, that she’d keep outta trouble ’n’ such . . . I’m sorry, what? . . . Oh, Ben. That’s my brother’s name, Ben. Like Ben Kenobi, only not, ’cause like I said she died before she coulda seen it. That’s one regret I have. I don’t like focusing on regretting things much, but I truly believe that if my mom coulda seen you guys’s movies she . . . Well, no use cryin’ over spilt people.
“How’s your mom these days? I was sorry to hear about your dad. Did you and he ever . . . Picture? Oh yes, please. Is there someone who could take it so we’re both in it? Otherwise people won’t believe me when I . . . Oh, would you? Aren’t you sweet! You just press here after you get it all framed right . . . Okay, now, one sec . . . Is there any way you could put your arm around me? You can say no, I just had to . . . Aren’t you sweet? I will never ever forget this day, even without the picture . . . Okay, are we framed in the center? You sure? Okay, hold real still . . . Cheese!”
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the word “autograph” comes to us originally from the Greek autos, “self,” and graphos, “written”: self-written. As it is popularly used, it refers to a famous person’s signature. The hobby of collecting autographs—the practice of hoarding such mementos, which are often wrenched enthusiastically (if not savagely) from the hands of “celebrities”—is known as philography (or occasionally, “unpleasant”).
Some of the more sought-after signers are, in no particular order, presidents, military heroes, sports icons, actors, singers, artists, religious and social leaders, scientists, astronauts, authors, and Kardashians.
So. A keepsake, coaxed or inveigled from a celebrity by someone eagerly radiant, glowing with the recognition of a familiar face. A face as familiar as the closest of friends or family, and yet this familiarity is completely one-sided.
I grew up watching my mother signing autographs, writing her name on smiling photos of herself, or on pieces of blank paper hopefully held out to her by the outstretched arms of strangers who loved her. Her fans. The Oxford English Dictionary says the word “fan” derives, quite apparently, from the word “fanatic,” which means “marked by excessive enthusiasm and often intense uncritical devotion.”
The entirety of what Debbie Reynolds knew of her fans is that they seriously appreciated her talents. They invested tiny pieces of their souls in her. When my father dumped her for Elizabeth Taylor, leaving her squirming sadly in the world’s spotlight with two bewildered toddlers, they shared her pain.
That sort of familiarity bred quite the opposite of contempt, though something equally charged. In a way she belonged to the world, and while most of the portion of it that appreciated her was content to do so at a distance, the true fans seemed to want to assert a kind of ownership by coyly requesting, or pitifully pleading, or aggressively demanding, that she provide them with their coveted token, proof to all and for all time, in the pre-selfie era, of an encounter! An up-close brush with one of the cinematically anointed!
I would stand loyally at my mother’s side, watching as these memento-seeking well-wishers (MSW2s) gushed and giggled in her presence. From just outside her dazzle of limelight, I watched as she scribbled her lovely signature on the pictures, records, and magazines—many of their covers blaring “news” of the scandal she’d been subjected to—that were sometimes desperately held out to her.
“And what’s your name? Oh, what a lovely name! So unusual! Do you spell it with a ‘y’ or an ‘ie’?” “I had an Aunt Betty once. I loved her very much.” “Yes, but only if you take the picture very quickly. As you can see, I’m with my daughter . . .”
“Your daughter?!!” these devotees would exclaim, briefly wrenching their eyes toward me. “That’s right! You have a daughter! Oh, my goodness, I didn’t realize she’d gotten so big, and a beauty like her mama!”
I’d frown and look away. This wasn’t supposed to happen. I was there as an observer, not the observed. A witness to the world’s mysteries. The archaeologist, not the pit. I’d blush and tuck my chin toward my chest as the focus abruptly shifted to me, caught off guard, in the act.
“Isn’t she precious?”
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i can’t remember exactly when I started referring to signing autographs for money as a celebrity lap dance, but I’m sure it didn’t take me long to come up with it. It’s lap dancing without cash being placed in any underwear, and there’s no pole—or is the pole represented by the pen?