NONFICTION | Andrew Quintana Molly and Me

NONFICTION

Molly and Me

By Andrew Quintana

How do I know approaching a celebrity you see on the street can lead to great things? Because I, as a proud denizen of the city of Los Angeles, have had many a famous-person encounter. “So, there was this one time,” the story always begins: Well, really, I swear I’m not lying, I have pictures to prove it… There was this one time, I took a walk in my LA neighborhood to grab a Vanilla Blended drink from my local Coffee Bean: who should I see but comedian, actress, philanthropist, and mother of probably two amazing children Molly Shannon, fighting with her husband — an abstract artist, I later gathered by stalking his Instagram. I stopped on a bench; I sat down; I took out my phone, sweaty and disoriented from my brisk stroll, and snapped the picture, trying to look as sneaky as possible about it. I had no idea I was about to enter into a 20-minute photoshoot with this woman — and not at my request, but hers!

This part of the city was no-man’s land West LA, between Brentwood, the leafy, expensive suburb, and Sawtelle, home of my favorite Ramen spot and bonsai nursery. Once, during my time there, I noticed a homeless man at the 7-11 sitting in my Tommy Bahama beach chair, which had been stolen from the trunk of my car only two days before. I shrugged my shoulders about the theft; I guess this was my contribution to help the homeless crisis in Los Angeles. I usually feel bad about saying I

have no money to homeless people who ask me for money while I hold my $5 coffee in my hand. Accepting this little theft felt like paying it forward. I waved at him. I told him I hoped he was having a good day.

I thought back to this as I wondered what this legend of comedy was doing, haunting my strange neck of the woods. Is this where her specialized podiatrist to treat her unusually sized bunions works?! Didn’t she have a backyard veranda to eat her baked chicken under, cooked, of course, with herbs from her garden?

You’re probably thinking around this time of the story, if you are an LA Native: no, Andrew, I beg you, do not go up to her, this isn’t done. Well, the thing is, LA native, I didn’t grow up in Los Angeles like you or my husband (the reason I’m in this town) did. I’m a Cuban from Miami who worked in a New York job as a literary agent assistant / ghostwriter, and got depressed for so many reasons, both real and completely imagined, which I won’t get into. (Maybe when I write that celebrity memoir one day I’ll tell you all the reasons I was depressed in my twenties!)

Well, when the opportunity came to move to Los Angeles for my husband’s job in entertainment reporting — “We don’t have to move here if you don’t want to,” my husband reminded — I screamed. I told him to shut up and stop pretending that I had some separate identity outside our relationship and wasn’t totally codependent on his career and talent for my sense of self. I was ready to leave behind my publishing career with the drop of a hat: I’d work retail at a plant shop at a mall! I’d go back to graduate school! I’d see a therapist and blame some outside force on my low self-esteem! Let’s just do LA now!

I was ready for my LA fantasy. Beach day trips and Palm Springs getaways and being able to hide from the abominable

human race from the safety of my air-conditioned car, which his company moved across the country. I felt important and special that his company paid to ship my car to Los Angeles, even though our move from New York had nothing to do with me: I felt like Lady Macbeth, manically encouraging him to “kill it” at whatever cost. “Screw your courage to the sticking place and you shall not fail!”

As much as I do love him, sometimes I wish I could exist in LA without him as my own separate entity: he doesn’t understand, as someone who’s totally self-assured in his identity, that celebrity encounters can be life-changing opportunities. Get this: He thinks approaching a celebrity — like I did with Molly Shannon that day at the Coffee Bean — in their native habitat (read, the city we share) is a sin. I see where he inherited his disdain for tourists like me who hunt celebrities like zoo animals: his grandmother, a classy Beverly Hills woman who lives in a condo with panoramic views of Los Angeles and particularly hates wet stains on her wooden furniture.

One evening over dinner, she told a story about how she inwardly scoffed at a “tourist” for going up to Friends actress Lisa Kudrow while she was shopping for clothes. “I would never do that,” she said as a point of pride, and, having lived in Los Angeles already for five years, I can attest that it’s a common attitude held among the natives.

I’ll admit, I was self-conscious about approaching Molly Shannon. One of the most important things to remember when greeting a celebrity is that this happens to them a lot; they are not seeing you, but the culmination of all their experiences sitting for press junkets and having to answer stupid questions while some spotlight hits them intensely: “What does this role truly mean to you?” “How did you relate to the character?” “Who do you think should play the next Spiderman?” They

are hounded for selfies by people who only want to boost their social media by appearing next to someone important. “Can we take a picture?” “Can we take a picture?” “Can we take a picture?”

In order to get the most out of my encounters, I follow the Frances McDormand rule. She has an idiosyncratic stance when approached by fans for a picture. Instead of scrunching up beside some stranger for a fake smile, she’ll engage someone in a brief conversation. “I’m not an actor because I want my picture taken,” she has said. “I’m an actor because I want to be part of the human exchange.” So — if she has time — she’ll try to engage in a human exchange with those people in binoculars on the tour bus who pay to be driven to the outskirts of celebrity mansions. But no selfies!

I follow that rule and another one to make my celebrity encounter as life-changing and meaningful as possible: I try to compliment a favorably reviewed project of theirs that didn’t get a lot of eyes on it. Celebrities love to be seen for what they can do; they typically sense when a lifetime of rejection and ennui is being projected on them. So, usually, I bring up a critically acclaimed title to distract from my own jittery demeanor.

The rules being set, now let me reset the scene of how this Molly Shannon shoot came to be: I’m sitting on a bus bench, flashing a quick selfie with her in the far background, simply for proof that this event did, indeed, happen. I notice her husband walked away. Here was my chance! Molly Shannon was standing there like a doe, no coffee in hand, alone. Maybe I’d join her in line! I looked back at my photo and caught, only in retrospect, that this exchange with her husband had been tense: uh oh, I thought. I had to be less stalkery. She probably thought I was waiting for her. I thought I’d try to pretend like I just recognized her on purpose, but the celebrity is used to having eyes on them

at all times. So, I decided to be radically honest, greet her like Oliver Twist does the scary man for more porridge, and just tell her I loved her work. Then I’d be on my way: I’d play the role of the forgettable fan. I’d sacrifice this moment of radical self-love because, maybe, it was the right thing to do.

I inched closer like some safari scientist afraid my specimen would pounce at the sight of me: cautious. “I’m so sorry,” I began. “I don’t want a picture. I know how many gays come up to you to tell you how incredible you are. I just wanted to tell you how much I loved your new movie where you play the mom who dies from cancer. You were incredible! Also, that speech you gave at the Independent Spirit Awards was so full of joy and it really lifted my spirits up. And Enlightened is my favorite show of all time and you rocked in it…” or something close to that is what I said. The celebrity craves details about what they are complimented for.

She replied something like, “I’m sorry, I’m not used to encountering fans like this…” while wiping tears from her eyes. “I just had this fight with my husband… this never happens…”

“Don’t worry about it, I can just go…” I insisted, hoping perhaps this moment of vulnerability could be used to my advantage and I could perhaps be her confidante! Instead, she replied, “Do you want to take a picture?”

This surprised me: Suddenly everything I ever believed about the LA rule — you never approach a celebrity — was flipped on its head. The celebrity asking to take a picture with me?! “You really don’t have to if you don’t want to…” “I’m happy to,” she said, as if she also meant to add it would really cheer her up. The day was especially windy: I only know this because in the pictures we ended up taking the winnowing wind blew up her hair like a stalk of corn in a yellow field. After taking five pictures, she insisted we take more pictures inside: I

let her take the lead.

Then, sensing her willingness, I asked if we could do “best friend” style photos: “Yes!” she said, and we ended up taking hugging pictures, pursed lip pictures, “we’ve just shared the biggest laugh” pictures, Molly Shannon judging my choices pictures… After that, though, we attempted to have a normal human conversation. “And what do you do?” she asked me, which was a question I hated. I had no idea what it was I did, except work at a plant store and follow my boyfriend to Hollywood parties as a plus one, which, actually, for quite a few Angelenos, truly is a career. I responded nonchalantly by saying I worked at a plant store — trying to conjure up this image of myself as a down-to-earth guy totally happy spending his days sticking thermometers into houseplants and monitoring the amount of moisture in their soil — which made me feel suddenly naked and exposed.

So, I responded loudly, “AND MY HUSBAND works right here, at the building for Entertainment Weekly. He interviews everyone.” (This was pre-Vanity Fair.) I wished I could take back those words, but I couldn’t help feeling like suddenly every other poser she’d ever encountered at a Hollywood party, clinging to that sense of belonging to the celebrity superstructure of Los Angeles that made me feel forgettable. She said she had to go. I don’t think me saying my husband worked as an entertainment reporter triggered her saying that, but in my memories, it feels like suddenly after saying that she was in a big hurry. Then, as if I was having some out of body experience, I blurted out, “I’m positive he’s going to be interviewing you soon,” and I can’t honestly say I remember what she said after that, but I play it back in my mind as, “I bet,” as she walked to the parking lot to drive home. For all she knew, I could have been some guy just made absolutely bonkers from living in Los Angeles for too long:

“It wouldn’t even be professional to mention you,” my husband clarified, “if I even ever really did interview Molly Shannon.” (Update: he did for the White Lotus.) The embarrassment and the humiliation felt palpable on all sides. I’m such a fucking poser, I thought.

Eh, fine, the high of the Molly Shannon photoshoot was incredible: I texted the pictures to my husband which caused everyone in his office to gather around them. “Everyone wants to know how you got these…” he texted back. I even texted the pictures to my high school bully who was now a famous actor in fucking Los Angeles. I cringed. I couldn’t take it back. I’m crazy!!! I finally realized. Like, actually, really, undeniably crazy. I did that. And I even exaggerated how close we were.

I wanted him to know I belonged to this town, like I owned this town. I felt, like celebrities probably do every day, that espresso shot to the brain which made me feel a jolt: wait… do you mean to say… people are talking about me?!? The espresso shot that also makes you feel sick to your stomach.

I posted the Molly Pics on Instagram. All the gays from life rallied in the comments. My family back in Miami believing I was friends with Molly Shannon and somehow “a part of Hollywood.” But this wasn’t my town. I had ended up talking about my boyfriend to Molly Shannon in that last sentence and not myself: as if I had no identity my own. What was wrong with me? Why was I so afraid to even wonder who I might be outside all this hullabaloo?

Who was I, I wondered afterwards, sipping my iced coffee. I had a lot of work to do on myself, I realized, if I wanted my own star to shine bright.