I'm going to pretend he's still 39 and single like in the good old days of Jurassic Park.
One time I wrote this funny little thing about meeting Benedict Cumberbatch on a plane. It was fun to write. I got into a conversation about Jurassic Park and Jeff Goldblum the other day and then couldn't stop thinking about how much I love Jeff Goldblum.
I mean.
He is wonderful.
And this is how I'm going to meet him. I mean, meet his 39 year old single self.
I closed my eyes and breathed in
deeply twice before opening the door.
I didn’t want to be at this party.
Kristen had invited me, and I knew I couldn’t really say no. I hadn’t been out to a party in months, and, as
Kristen kept reminding me, I needed to get back out there.
I just really didn’t feel like it.
But I had told myself to suck it
up, picked out my cutest but comfy outfit, actually managed to make my hair
work and look halfway descent, and even put on a little makeup.
I felt pretty.
But what I really wanted to feel was my down blanket against my skin as I cuddled up in bed with another season
of Parks And Recreation.
Instead, I plastered on a smile and
dutifully remarked on the gossip of the hour and who was going to be in what
movie and who was dating who and all the other trivial things people seemed to
always want to talk about at parties like this.
After twenty minutes of making the
rounds, saying hello to all the right people and getting introduced to a few
who would forget my name the minute I walked away, I finally managed to
make it over to the bar, grab a water bottle and a plate of pretzels and
veggies with dip, and looked around for an escape route.
Spotting a rather large plant in the
far corner of the room next to some stairs, I made my way over and perched a
little behind the plant, enjoying my snacks and people watching. This felt
like the correct way to attend a party in my book.
“Well, I hate you.”
I was jerked out of my people
watching doze at the abrupt comment and looked to my right, ready to make a
snarky remark back, when I stopped with my mouth hanging open.
Standing before me with a cocky smile
playing on his lips was Jeff Goldblum.
“Um, pardon?” I finally managed to
get out after the initial celebrity shock subsided.
“You’ve found the perfect party spot.
Next to the plant, no one can see you really but you can see everyone. It’s
like the introverts’ paradise, and I hate you for stealing it from me. Finding
the perfect hiding place at parties is my thing, and I’m not going to let some
gorgeous girl steal that from me.”
“Dear oh dear,” I began, gathering my wits around me once again. “Whatever are we to do about this conundrum?”
“Have any suggestions?” The cocky
smile was still playing on his lips.
“We could fight to the death for it, I
suppose.”
“Oh that’s, that’s a great
suggestion,” he said, stepping a little closer. “Uh, we could do that. But
might I, might I suggest one other thing we could try.”
“Go on then.”
He stepped even closer, sticking out
his hand for her to shake. “Jeff.”
“Meagan,” I answered, smiling broadly
at him. “So I guess this means we’re sharing the space, now that we’re on a
first name basis and all.”
“That was my general idea, yeah.”
“Smart one, Goldblum.”
He looked down at his glass, his cocky
smile replaced with a chuckle. “I don’t remember giving out last names.”
I went perfectly still, realizing I had just given myself away. “And I was going to try and be so suave and
not give myself away as a crazy fangirl,” I said nervously, trying to salvage
the conversation as best I could.
“No worries, Bateman,” he replied,
taking a sip of his drink before turning to look at me, the cocky smile
returning.
“Not you too?” I joked, trying to
stay calm.
Jeff Goldblum had just admitted to knowing who I was before
meeting me. I tried to keep my hands from shaking as I raised my own
glass to my lips.
“I admit it,” he said, bowing in front
of me dramatically. “I am a crazy fangirl who saw your work One Mississippi and then went back and
watched, uh, basically everything else you’ve ever done. In one weekend.
Because I couldn’t seem to stop myself.”
“How, how, how far back did you go?” I asked, feeling herself beginning to sweat.
“When you wrote for season five of Evening At Nine far back,” he answered.
Not only was Jeff Goldblum, Jeff
Goldblum of all people, a fan of mine, he was the kind of fan that watched my old horrible movies and shows. I closed her eyes and breathed deeply again.
“The dedicated kind,” I finally
responded, still trying my best to play it cool.
“Go big or go home, right?”
I felt myself blush a little and
looked down at my glass.
“So listen,” Jeff continued, “now that
we’ve got the awkwardness out of the way, how about we sit in the shadows and
gab about actual meaningful things, like the meaning of life and how you felt
about the new season of Sherlock,
like two normal introverts.”
I smiled broadly. “I think that
sounds just about perfect.”
* * *
“I mean, I think if you have a great,
original idea at 17, that’s fantastic and you should at least write a synopsis
down, but if you’re going to write an entire trilogy about it, perhaps wait
until you’re out of college and get life a little bit more, otherwise it seems
like you’re doomed to just steal ideas from other authors and directors to fill
in the gaps of your story.”
I finished my rant with a long
breath, realizing I hadn’t come up for air in awhile. I looked over at
Jeff, and blushed at the smile on his face.
He looked ridiculously happy sitting
there listening to me go on about teenage science fiction authors, as if
nothing in the world was better than this for him.
“I’m sorry,” I began apologetically.
“I’ve been rambling and ranting for a long time. You can just knock me off my
soap box now.”
“No, no, please,” Jeff said quickly.
“Stay up there as long as you want. I like it.”
“You like listening to a crazy woman rave
about things in life that annoy her?” I joked.
“I just like listening to anything you
want to say,” Jeff replied softly. “I think you could read the dictionary to me
and I would be mesmorized.”
I tried not to blush for the
hundredth time that night. “Well that’s because the dictionary is actually
quite fascinating.”
“I think you’re quite fascinating,”
Jeff said seriously.
I tried to shrug him off, but inside I was screaming. Jeff Goldblum, foxy Jeff Goldblum, thought I was
fascinating.
I looked down at my watch and
realized we had been talking for close to two hours. “Huh.”
“What?”
“Oh,” I replied, not realizing I had spoken out loud. “It’s just, I didn’t really want to come tonight, so I
promised myself if I stayed for an hour, I could go home, curl up with my
favourite season of Parks And Recreation and the frozen yogurt in the freezer.
And I see I’ve successfully been here for approximately two and a half hours.
That also deserves popcorn and Starbursts with that frozen yogurt.”
Jeff laughed before responding. “I’m
proud of you for your overachieving interactions. You definitely deserve an
award for talking with me for so long.”
“Not at all,” I replied seriously.
“In fact, I rather thing talking with you is the reward.”
Jeff just smiled at the comment,
looking at his own drink with a blush. “So listen,” he said after a moment’s
pause. “What would you say if I got your number and wanted to hang out with you
later this week? I’m thinking about asking, but I want to make sure you like
this idea first. If you don’t, then I’m not going to ask, you know. This is all
hypothetical, so don’t get any ideas.”
I looked down myself, willing
myself to stay calm and act suave and sophisticated. “Well, hypothetically
speaking you know, I’d be pretty stoked to hang out with you. Hypothetically.
Don’t get any ideas.”
“So if I handed you my phone and asked
you to put your number in it…” Jeff reached into his pocket and pulled out his
phone.
I grinned before reaching over and
talking his phone, creating a new contact and typing in my number before
calling myself, handing him back his phone, and pulling out my own. “Now it’s
official, we have each other’s numbers. No going back now, Goldblum.”
Jeff just smiled at her.
“So,” I said, standing up. “I’ve
been able to keep myself from too many embarrassing comments and conversations
the past two hours, but I feel my chances are slim to none at continuing that
streak the longer I stay, and I want to leave on a high note.”
“Got to get home to that marathon,”
Jeff joked, standing up himself.
“It was positively delightful meeting
you, Mr. Goldblum,” I said, putting out my hand for him to shake.
“It was indescribably wonderful
meeting you, Miss Bateman,” Jeff replied, taking my hand in his and bringing
it to his lips. He was rewarded by a laugh from me.
“I look forward to your phone call in
two days.”
“Two?” Jeff asked, confused.
“I know the rule is three days, for
whatever reason,” I answered. “But seeing as how we both appear to be a
little bit eager to be best friends, I have a feeling you might skip that extra
day.”
“You are overestimating my level of
patience,” Jeff said with a chuckle. “You should probably expect one of those
sappy goodnight texts about how much I loved meeting you and how I already miss
the sound of your voice.”
“Ooh, that’s a good line,” I said,
mock-serious.
“I thought so.”
We stood smiling at each other for a
moment, Jeff still holding onto my hand. Finally, he pulled me closer by my hand and kissed my cheek. “It really was perfect meeting you.”
“Same to you,” I whispered, still
smiling.
My smile didn’t leave the entire
ride home, or as I showered or crawled into bed for my marathon.
And
it certainly didn’t leave as my phone lit up just before I turned out the
lights to go to sleep.
I don’t know if I ever mentioned this, but I
didn’t want to go to that party tonight either. I was thinking about rewarding
myself when I got home too if I made it an hour or two. But I think I found my
reward at the party.
My smile broadened as I turned out my light, snuggling down in my blankets,
reading and re-reading the text until I fell asleep.
Yep.
Yep.
That's how it's gonna happen.
No comments:
Post a Comment