In these past few months, I have felt the lowest of lows. Monday night, I felt higher than I'd ever been. I met my hero.
Setup: It was a long day at work. I didn't get off until nearly nine o'clock. I called my room mate as soon as I got out, thinking I would go to the gym for a quick workout, and then meet up with her and some of her friends for a drink in celebration of her upcoming birthday. Simple enough plans for a Monday evening. For some reason, something compelled me to take my phone onto the gym floor with me, instead of leaving it in the locker as I usually do. Thank God I did.
After five minutes on the bike, I picked up my phone to check my email. Low and behold, it seems that my friend Ben had called, leaving a somewhat frantic voicemail, saying that I needed to drop whatever I was doing and get down to Second City on the double. As I listened to the voicemail, he sent a text, asking what I was doing. What the hell could be so important? I wondered. I started to text him back and he called again.
"Hello?"
"Thank God you picked up your phone! Listen, where are you right now?"
"At the gym. Why? What's going on?"
"Oh man. You have about an hour to go home and splash some water on your face and get your ass down to Second City. Stephen Fry is performing in the improv set tonight!"
Stephen Fry. Stephen Fucking Fry. For those of you who have not had the pleasure of hearing me extol the virtues of the one and only Mr. Stephen Fry, here is a quick introduction: he is a novelist, screenwriter, comedian, actor, documentary film maker, director, poet, columnist, game show host, awards show host, philanthropist, manic depression activist, world renowned wit, best friend and comedy partner of Hugh Laurie, college classmate of Emma Thompson, and so so much more. He wrote my favorite book. He stars in my favorite movie. His career is everything I want. He is the only human being I know of who, without making some sort of significant scientific discovery, has become famous for simply being intelligent.
"You're shitting me. Stephen Fry? The Stephen Fry?"
"Yes! He's here filming something for the BBC. You need to-"
"I've only been on the bike for five minutes and I don't smell. I'm on my way."
Fifteen minutes later, I am sitting on a Brown Line train, willing it to go faster, knowing I only had a very small window in which to get to Second City. I made it just in time, met Ben, grabbed a seat, and literally was able to take one great big breath before the lights went down. RedCo, one of Second City's touring companies, was on the Mainstage that night, and as they all filed on stage, I realized that Ben and I were sitting directly behind a camera man and a boom mike operator.
"Tonight, we have a very special guest who is going to perform some improv with us," said the MC, "He is the winner of a Lifetime Achievement Award from the British Comedy Awards. Please welcome Stephen Fry!"
The top of a head, sporting somewhat long, floppy, slightly graying hair emerged from one of the doorways and ducked down to allow the large frame it was attached to to enter the stage. It was him. It was really Stephen Fry. I could not believe my luck! I mean really, what are the odds that Stephen Fry would be performing on the very night when one of my friends, who just happened to know that I adored the man to the point of obsession, happened to be working at the box office, where someone happened to tell him Stephen Fry was in the audience? And further still, what are the odds that I would have just happened to get off work late, causing me to be set back an hour in my workout at the gym, so I just happened to not be covered in sweat when I answered the phone, that I just happened to bring into the gym with me? This was meant to happen. There is no other explanation.
Stephen's stint with the improvers was most interesting. Although he is a brilliant writer, Stephen's skills at the fine art of spontaneous character development are not quite as sharp as some of his other talents. His cleverness at weaving language into a beautifully confusing and educational tapestry, however, is astonishing. He was so endearingly nervous, to the point of turning away to giggle at the other performer's antics like a Japanese school girl. For a good portion of the night, the other players had to coax him into scenes, but once he was in, an amazing array of syllables would begin to tumble from his lips. To everyone's surprise, he was the first one to drop the F-bomb. Stephen has never been shy about profanity, which you might know if you've ever read one of his books.
After the set ended, I kept my eyes peeled, thinking they might break my heart and sneak him out the back way. But no. There he was, right at the side of the stage, chatting with what I assume was one of his production crew. Ben thrust a pen and a menu into my hands and shoved me in the right direction. I got up close to Stephen, made brief eye contact and smiled. He smiled back, then turned and joined the masses who were flooding out the door. I couldn't believe that no one was chasing him down…like I was. I followed him out to the bar, where he ordered a vodka and tonic, then stood peacefully by, awaiting his libation. I jumped on the moment.
"Hi," I said, extending my hand to him. He graciously shook it, strangely shielding his right arm (I later learned this was because he had severely broken it while filming in Brazil a few months ago). His hands, though massive, were soft, and his grip was delicate. "I am such a big fan of yours," I began to babble, an insufferably sycophantic grin spreading all the way across my face and ending at the back of my head, "I have read all of your books. I've seen all of your movies. I was even watching episodes of QI this morning on YouTube."
"Oh, thank you. How kind of you. I'm so sorry that that is the only way for you to see them," he said in that gorgeously dulcet baritone of his. One of Stephen's many claims to fame is having been the narrator of the Harry Potter books in his native England, and as he spoke, I flashed back to a certain summer when I had downloaded some of those narrations. If you get a chance, give them a listen. His character voices are simply amazing.
"My friend called me earlier-we're both interns here-and told me you were going to be here and I just had to come and see you."
"How very kind. You intern here, you say? What do you do?"
Oh my God, Stephen Fry is actually carrying on a conversation with me! He's interested in me! It was at this moment that I realized how odd this conversation was, in that I knew far more about him than he would ever know about me. I'd read his autobiography; I knew things like how he lost his virginity, why he had spent time in jail, and that he had tried to kill himself two times. I wanted to hold his hand in mine and explain to him how much he'd meant to me, how much he'd inspired and touched me, and how much I wanted to be like him. But I knew from reading the aforementioned autobiography that he hated these kinds of encounters, so I held back.
"Oh, I work in the administrative offices," I said, "I'll be in here tomorrow morning, so I might as well just sleep here tonight I suppose!" Oh God, did I just make such a lame ass joke to Stephen Fucking Fry?
"Wonderful. Have you gotten a chance to be on stage here yet?"
"Yes, actually! I just finished a show over the weekend. The interns have their own troupe. We perform in the SkyBox on the fourth floor. I'd give you a post card, but I just took them all out of my purse this morning." Oh God, did you just plug InternCo to Stephen Fucking Fry?..:namespace prefix = o ns = "urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:office" />
"How wonderful."
At this point, another patron of the comedy arts jumped in on my shinning moment to ask Mr. Fry if he had heard of some troupe in Toronto that Colin Mochrie had been a part of it. She then encouraged Stephen to Google said troupe. Weird. So, before the moment had a chance to slip away from me again, I addressed Stephen once more.
"I'm so sorry, Mr. Fry, but would you mind taking a picture with me?"
"Oh no! Of course not!" He immediately wrapped his good arm around my shoulder, while I propelled my camera phone into Ben's surprised hands. Being far too enthusiastic about the fact that my interaction with Mr. Fry had gone so well thus far, I had not readied the phone to take a picture, leaving poor Ben to fumble about nervously under the pressure of Stephen's ever so kind and patient gaze. When I told Ben that is might expedite the matter if he took his finger from off of the camera lens, Stephen leaned into me and said, "You know men and technology." Oh God, Stephen Fucking Fry just ripped on Ben! How awesome is that!
Eventually, Ben was able to get a snap off and I left Stephen's side somewhat reluctantly as another group of fans approached to have their picture taken. I was giddy the entire way home.
Since then, I have gotten a chance to hear several people's stories about their encounters with Mr. Fry, from my fellow Second City office workers, to a couple of the guys from RedCo, who were lucky enough to get to perform with him in the improv set. Every single person has remarked at what a genuinely lovely, kind, and smart person Mr. Fry is. It is gratifying that everyone seems to have had the same experience with him.
This is one of the greatest things that has ever happened to me. I can only hope that one day, while we are discussing a film project over tea, I'll be able to tell Stephen Fry the story of how I randomly met him one blisteringly cold night at the Second City in Chicago, and how it was a defining moment of my life.
P.S. Thanks to Ben, without whom this story would not be being told.