An Encounter with a Star
Some time in the early 1980s I went into a notions shop in the Garment District in Manhattan. Two counters crammed with buttons and tapes and embroidered patches stood opposite one another the length of the small shop. The walls were filled from counter-height to ceiling with decorative and glittery items to sew onto or decorate with. There were only three people beside me in the long, narrow space.
The three people were having a conference. The man behind the counter was obviously the owner and he was holding up patches one by one while his customers, a woman and a tall man, discussed them with him.
I looked around and saw that there were several people in the back of the store. They were they were looking at the customers near me in the front and whispering. Since they had no coats, I decided they were employees and turned to look again at the people they were watching.
The woman was leading the conversation. She had medium-length wild grey hair that stood out all over her head in frantic curls. She was slim and something about her stance was familiar. I listened to what she was saying:
“Do you remember? I had nothing to wear for the Oscars last year, nothing at all, and so I got out an old navy blazer and sewed this kind of decorated tape along the lapels and down the front and then finally covered the blazer all over — I mean, just covered it — with all kinds and sizes of these patches; the shinier the better. See that gold one right there, that’s the type I used.”
With that, she pointed at a large embroidered emblem on the pegboard display wall. Now, she didn’t point, the way an ordinary person points — holding up the hand, elbow bent next to the body, finger extended — no, this woman dramatically stretched out her whole arm, fingers together until the last moment, and then unleashed a long index finger at the emblem. It was a real stage point and I immediately recognized Carol Channing.
Oh my, I thought, isn’t she wonderful. Even in this little store she is her dramatic self and what fun she is. Did she notice me staring at her?
I debated going up to her and saying, “Miss Channing, I have loved you all my life.” No, that wouldn’t do for a woman who could be the same age as she or even older, to make such a declaration. While I was planning various other things to say, she and her companion made a purchase and began to walk out. It was the moment then, for me to speak, and I’ve turned the scene over in my memory ever since.
I still think about it every so often — repeating the possibles in my head. I could have said, “Miss Channing, I believe I saw you in a summer one woman show in Albany. At least, I think you were the only one on stage, if there was someone else in the show, they were eclipsed by your glamour.” No, too effusive, leave off that last sentence even if true.
Or I could have said, “You were great in ‘Gentlemen Prefer Blondes,’ you stole the show.” But she was the show, wasn’t she, at least as I remember it, it could have been written for her.
Or perhaps I could just have extended my hand (or better yet, made a little bow in recognition), and said, “How do you do, Miss Channing, my name is…” No, my name would have been of no interest to her unless I had a program for her to sign and probably not even then.
So I guess it may have been better and more polite to simply admire her as I did and hope she had some idea she was recognized by a fan even if her hair was gray and she had no makeup. Perhaps famous people, even effusive actors like Carol Channing, enjoy being ordinary shoppers once in a while. She didn’t intend that great arm gesture — which was second nature to her — as a signature move to draw attention. Carol Channing could only act ordinary if a role demanded it.