Meeting Steve Martin
And then there’s the time I met Steve Martin. I admit, I was a bit apprehensive as I drew near to him, especially since he was getting a complimentary nose hair trimming in the make up department at Macy’s. But I did, I walked right to him. I planned to stay until he acknowledged me, however, he stood up immediately. It could have been because he was taught from an early age that a gentleman stood when a lady approached, or it may have been because my feet were clad in three-inch heels. Of course, I made certain that when I stopped walking I put one of those fashion spikes directly into his foot and bore down with every ounce of strength I could gather without breaking a sweat.
“How do you do Mr. Martin?” I said with all the charm of someone much more charming than myself while shattering at least two of his toes with my Mary Jane style attention getters. “My name is Barbie Angell.”
He looked at me with tears cascading down his cheeks, certainly due to his delight at meeting me, and said, “Please, call me Steve. My white hair should not automatically facilitate the title of ‘mister’.”
“Oh no,” I replied, “I was merely using a formal greeting because of your position, not your presumed age.”
“And what position would that be? Actor? Writer? Musician? Very wealthy man?” He asked with just a touch of skepticism.
“No, I would have to say, upright.”
“Upright?” He inquired in a voice which implied he hoped he may have developed an inner ear infection and had merely misunderstood my words.
“Yes, upright.” I repeated firmly.
“So if I had still been sitting in the nose hair clipping chair when we made our introductions, you might have called me ‘Steve’?” He inquired tentatively, as if waiting for the other Mary Jane to pounce.
“No, I think that would have been too formal a setting still. Nose hair clipping is really not a private enough matter to drop the proper formalities of an introduction.”
“What would be private enough?” He asked with a look that suggested he really wished he had thought about his question prior to it falling from his mouth.
“Well,” I said, “I think that if I were at your house, having just arrived as the guest of a guest at a cocktail party and one of the guests remembered he had read somewhere that you owned the most magnificent oil painting of Dr. Phil and Elvis Presley deep in discussion at a small tea house in Europe. At that point, being the girl that I am, I would of course suggest to the entire group that we look for this painting while we are waiting for you to return from wherever you went 20 minutes before this conversation turned to classic American artwork.”
Mr. Martin stared at me with an indescribable look on his face, so I continued.
“And so, I would lead the rest of the party through the house and we would search the rooms for the previously mentioned masterpiece. If at some point I opened a door and found you naked on the floor with a bottle of gin and a large jar of green olives, I might lean down and whisper, ‘Steve, my name is Barbie and I’ve only just arrived. Would you mind terribly if your guests and I shared your olives?’ Naturally I would say all of this in a very non formal way.”
I pause for effect before continuing with what I’m certain was a thrilling bit of fiction.
“Of course you, Mr. Martin, would be in a different position in this scenario. You would be lying on your back with your legs at a bizarre and apparently uncomfortable looking angle in the air above you. You would proceed to ignore my request and inform me that the olives were essential to what you were doing. You would explain that you were trying to determine what sort of cocktails you should serve at your party. Having decided upon a very dry martini and being a dedicated actor, you felt you really couldn’t serve one to your guests unless you thoroughly understood what a dry martini was. Therefore, you had poured gin on yourself and were at that moment determining which appendage should serve as the swizzle stick, when I led the other guests into the room.”
“Speaking frankly Mr. Martin, I don’t particularly like martinis, so I don’t know for certain that serving them would have been the best course of action in this story. “
That is what happened when I met Steve Martin. I find it odd that I haven’t seen any novellas or humorous pieces written by him regarding our encounter. I do know I did make a strong impact on him. He took the time to learn my middle name before having me served with restraining order paperwork. Not only am I not allowed to go to his house to eat any of his olives or see any of his artwork, I am also barred from Macy’s for life.
Written by Barbie Dockstader Angell.