"Jennifer Brown?" the slightly harried lady with the clipboard asks.
My three best friends and I are in New York City celebrating my sweet 16. The tickets to Biloxi Blues and the post-show dessert at Sardi’s were a gift from my parents. The lady with a clipboard was not on the itinerary.
"Yes, that's me.”
"Great. Matthew would like to meet you after the show," she says, fingers wrapped around the plastic clipboard, Bic ballpoint sticking out of a tightly clenched fist. "Wait here after curtain and I'll take you down."
The mind screams, "Wait, what? Matthew Broderick wants to see moi?" while the lips and the southern upbringing say demurely "Of course. How lovely."
The inflated ego of my sixteen-year-old self cuts to a lonely, oft misunderstood thespian genius, peeking out from behind the Neil Simon Theater's massive velvet curtains. He spots young, yet cultivated-beyond-her-years me and decides to take a chance with a captivating stranger! Mind you, this is War-Games-geek-hero, youngest-Tony-award-winner-ever Matthew Broderick, not famous movie star, Bueller-anyone-Bueller Matthew Broderick. And ever since the coke bottle specs gave way to contact lenses and my tall, awkward frame started to "fill out", as my grandmother said, heads have been known to turn. There was that slightly niggling matter of clipboard lady calling me by name—are seats assigned by name?—but I do the sensible, delusional thing and stick with my love-at-first-sight theory.
As the lights dim, I dream of my future New York City self, clutching Matthew's elbow as he hails a cab, converting to cultural Judaism (i.e., subscribing to the New York Times and debating intellectual issues over Chinese take-out on Christmas) and ya da da-di-da, ya da da-di-da start spreadin’ the news...
Matthew, as Neil Simon’s alter ego Eugene, did not disappoint. We laughed, we cried, the entire audience firmly in the palm of his sweaty hands. It was my palms that started to sweat when the curtain went down. “Maybe he’ll join us at Sardi’s?” we swoon, thrilled with the notion of waltzing into the Broadway institution with a caricature from that hallowed wall. We try to remain calm and cultured as the seats empty. Aspiring actress Cathy practices questions on “craft”, Georgia peach Caroline is all giggly and true blue Amy makes sure my bra straps and eyeliner behave.
On the way down the dusty backstage stairs, clipboard lady says how thrilled Matthew was to receive my letter. Letter? I think, From me? “Of course. How lovely,” I stammer. Cathy keeps a running backstage commentary as we walk the halls; Caroline stumbles over the ropes and cables; Amy whispers, “What letter?” as she tugs at my hemline.
A quick knock, the door opens. Matthew is visibly wrecked, as is to be expected with his 8-performance-a-week schedule. We collectively melt when he flashes that impish smile. After polite introductions, Cathy is off, quoting Stanislavski. And there, out of the corner of my eye, I see it. A letter leaning against the mirror with “Dear Matthew” in what looks like my mother’s hand. Next to it is a photo. Of me. In the very same black velvet and green satin dress I have on. This. Very. Moment. He sees what I see and has the good manners to pretend he doesn’t. He answers Cathy’s questions and makes polite inquiries about my future plans, but it’s impossible to hear over the protest in my head: “I HAVE LOADS OF DRESSES. AN ENTIRE WALK-IN CLOSET FULL!” Audibly, I say “Of course. How lovely.” Apropos of nothing.
Clipboard lady brings us to the stage door where mom and dad are waiting – all smiles and expectant eyes. “Can you believe what your old mom did?” she says, proud as punch. “Of course. How lovely,” I reply as I lean in for the hug. A Tony-worthy performance, if I may say so myself. Later, sipping my Shirley Temple at Sardi’s, I cycle all seven stages of grief. No more birthing city-savvy Broderick babies. No more bagel crumbs on the Sunday Arts section. Scores of present and future dresses he will never see.
Maybe he doesn’t even like girls who are into fashion.