I told my agent that I’m not interested in talking to the press.
His response: “I’m glad that talking doesn’t interest you, because if you don’t talk now, pretty soon no one will want you to talk at all. At least not onscreen opposite a leading lady for the ten mil you got for your last film!” He stopped screaming for a split second and said, relatively calmly, “Did you wear the pink tie I sent over?”
I laughed. “So we’re embracing the gay angle now? You want me to wear a pink tie?”
“No!” he yelled. “I mean yes. Yes, it’s October first, breast cancer awareness month—I told you this, the whole cast is wearing them.” I had totally forgotten. He continued, “Are you looking to give the press more evidence that you don’t like breasts? You are to walk into that premiere with a woman on your arm and a pink tie around your neck or so help me god you will never work in this town or the other town again!” He hung up.
I looked out the window at the street sign—63rd and Lexington, just a few blocks away from hundreds of ties. I alerted the driver. “Sir, I need to stop at Bloomingdale’s to pick up a pink tie.”
I entered the store at around six-thirty, with only half an hour to go until the premiere. My plan was, I would walk down the red carpet at the last minute, alone, and avoid an inquisition from reporters. As I reached the tie counter my phone rang again. This time it was my publicist, Albert. He comes across much tougher on the phone than in person. Face-to-face he’s a bit of a mush.
Our conversation unfolded like the setup for a meet-cute in an eighties romantic comedy script.
ME:?Albert, what took you so long?
ALBERT:?I spoke to Hank. I’ve been waiting for you to come to your senses.
ME:?What senses? I stand at no comment.
ALBERT:?No comment means you’re gay.
ME:?So? You’re gay.
ALBERT:?That’s correct, but you’re not. If you were, I would be your biggest cheerleader. But you’re not.
ME:?Did I ever tell you that my brother’s gay?
ALBERT:?The first day I met you.
ME:?Oh, sorry about that. Well, anyway, how would it look to him if I made a big deal of denying that I was gay?
ALBERT:?It would look like you’re not gay.
ME:?I think it would hurt his feelings.
ALBERT:?You’re being ridiculous, Stanley.
He always calls me Stanley when he is very serious about something. He thinks it grounds me. It doesn’t.
ME:?Don’t you appreciate my attempt at solidarity?
ALBERT:?What solidarity? You’re not gay! Go solidate somewhere else and leave your brother and me be.
ME:?I don’t think solidate is a word. Hold on, I’m getting a pink tie.
ALBERT:?A pink tie? Is that a joke? Are you trying to kill me?
I put the phone on the counter and asked the saleswoman, whose name tag read Lillian, for a pink tie. She was an older black woman with beautiful silver hair who looked eerily like my third-grade teacher, Mrs. Glass. It was clear that she had already recognized me and had been listening to every word of my conversation. She was slightly giddy, the way some people are when they see a famous person.
I had no idea what kind of fan she was: the kind who would keep her mouth shut, completely containing her excitement; the kind who would say, “I hope you don’t mind me saying, but I loved you in Bridge and Tunnel” (my last movie, in which I played a one-eyed serial killer, so it’s odd for people to say they loved me in it). Maybe she was the kind who would ask for a selfie with me, which I doubted; there must be some kind of rule in the Bloomingdale’s employee handbook against that. Or maybe she was the kind who mistakes her familiarity with me as one that goes both ways. This is more common than you might think. It’s amazing how many fans will chat you up as if you know them as well as they think they know you.
Albert had not adhered to my request to hold on and was now shouting, a very non-Albert thing to do. He was so loud he might as well have been on speakerphone. The eighties rom-com continued.
ALBERT:?Stanley, buy a masculine tie!
I laughed for the first time in two days. I picked up the phone for a second.
ME:?I’m supposed to buy a pink tie. You and Hank really need to communicate better.
ALBERT:?Please, Stanley, you need to bring a girl. I will bring one for you.
ME:?I don’t mind you picking out my tie, but a girl? Forget it.
LILLIAN:?I know the perfect girl for you.
Bingo. Lillian was the familiar kind. The kind who thinks my public and private personas are one. She thinks from watching me on The Tonight Show and reading about me in People magazine that she knows me well enough to fix me up. Albert heard her as well. He shouted.
ALBERT:?Who’s that?
ME:?The lady who’s selling me the tie.
I looked at her name tag again.
ME:?Lillian.
ALBERT:?Take the girl too, Stanley. Take the girl.
ME:?Albert, this is nuts!