just say hello angelica
How do you feel when you’re alone? Are you self-aware and painfully aware that you are friendly? Can you imagine people wondering why you’re standing there alone? Do your attempts to appear like a thoughtful, independent professional, rather than a walk-in wonder, come across as contrived and make you cringe? Perhaps the following true stories will change the way you deal with awkward moments.
On the eve of my twelfth birthday, while on a glorious Florida vacation, my older brother Jim watched me at the local teen club staring at my toes and writhing in conscious agony. Unfortunately, I was completely ignored by the rest of the merry group of children.
He asked, “What’s up, Fatsinello?” (He was so skinny that calling me Fat was a big brother joke.) Ha ha.
With a sigh, I replied, “Nothing.”
Jim, with his usual insight, said, “Go find the loneliest person in the room, walk up to them and say ‘Hello’.” He nodded to a girl sipping a Coke at a distant table.
“Go say hi,” he ordered.
The walk to their table was thrilling in anticipation of total public humiliation, as my three brothers had prepared it a million times before for their comedic entertainment.
The girl stared at me like a startled rabbit and twisted her stiff head. She surprised me a bit, “Hello.”
Like a double rainbow after a dark storm, her smile was beautiful. His shoulders dropped, he laughed and said that he didn’t know anyone here. I looked back at Jim, who had his smug I told you so expression, but he seemed pleased too. The girl and I were the best of friends during my vacation in Florida, and thanks to her, I had a lot of fun. With a friend by my side, I came to life, I was more fun, more daring, I danced in the club and even let myself be semi-hypnotized by the visiting magician.
I had another chance to try the “Just say hello” technique. She was working for Emmy Award winner Alexander Singer as his assistant at a Directors Dialogue held at the Los Angeles Directors Guild. My job was to help out during meetings and nervously invite directors, including Warren Beatty, to attend meetings. I also received a special benefit: a single ticket to a workshop on the Queen Mary ocean liner.
I arrived at seven in the morning hoping to be discovered by a ship full of directors. I listened to several lectures and watched some movies and then all the attendees gathered in the great hall for lunch. Most of the people were men and seemed to know each other well. They quickly grouped together and filled the tables. I felt self-conscious and a bit like the last one standing during the musical chairs. Then, I saw a pretty woman sitting alone at a table near the podium and I remembered “Just say hello”. She was looking at her place and seemed lost in her private thoughts.
“Hello,” I offered.
As if awake, she looked at me. She was exotically beautiful and her silky black hair moved when she turned her head. Her slight smile was welcoming and gave me permission to join her. After thirty minutes I had fully recovered from my “last man standing” crisis and she and I chatted easily and intimately as only two strangers often can. She began to reveal to me her concern for her sick father and she spoke of “Jack” several times. I nodded sympathetically, still faking my way since I had no real connection to anyone in the room.
The guest speaker was then introduced and walked slowly to the podium. He was wearing a navy blue velvet tracksuit and looked frail and bony. He talked about his father, Walter, and a lifetime of experiences making movies. Many times, John Houston stopped to cough and try to catch his breath. But he would get up and start over. The audience hung on his every word and the applause was deafening followed quickly by a standing ovation. Mr. Houston waved goodbye and ran away from the crowd of directors who crowded around him to touch his tall frame or shake his trembling hand.
“Come on, let’s get out of here,” my new friend said.
I followed her tall, slender figure down the long corridors deep into the Queen Mary’s private flats, away from the noise and crowds with no idea where we were going. He opened the door to a finely decorated stateroom, where our speaker, John Houston, was sitting on the couch, his jacket unbuttoned to reveal a thin white T-shirt. I instantly knew who he had been talking about for the last hour. Simultaneously, I broke the toe of my high heel and stumbled into the cabin. Always ready to make a grand entrance, I have learned to laugh easily and be amused by my embarrassing moments. We all laughed together as I picked up my broken heel.
“Give it to me,” said the deep, gravelly voice.
Mr. Houston extended his large hand towards my shoe. Here I am, in John Huston’s cabin with his beautiful daughter Anjelica and the greatest director of our time fiddling with my shoe. He coughed harder and longer now that he was in private rooms. Anjelica’s face showed all the emotions of concern, adoration and anguish as her father gasped for breath. I wondered briefly what an elegant lady like this saw in Jack Nicholson, knowing little about him at the time except her bad press and her sadness that even mentioning her name caused him. The older Houston would quickly regroup after his cough, start taunting us, train, alternate critical comments with funny, hard jabs in a way that we laughed it off and just enjoyed it. I was missing the workshop, but I could have cared less. Surprisingly, after several knocks on the coffee table, John Houston even fixed my shoe. Eventually, Mr. Houston said that he needed to rest and Anjelica whispered that he would see me later.
I joined the group of directors and media in the next workshop. What would any of them give to be invited into the private world of superstar Anjelica Houston and her famous father? To this day, I’m surprised it was. No director discovered me that day, but I discovered a fascinating man and his daughter. I also learned that when shyness or feelings of self-consciousness threaten to overwhelm you, just say “Hello” and a whole new world can open up to you.
(wireimage.com)