I was in college in the LA area in the mid-1980s and worked for a valet company contracted by Los Angeles-area clients throwing birthday parties, gala events, awards ceremonies, etc. Though we were near Hollywood, we didn't often work for celebrities.
Except this once.
Meg Ryan was throwing a birthday party for her then-boyfriend, Dennis Quaid, and actors, musicians, and celebrities came to have their cars parked. Most of the valets were gushing and wowing over this or that celebrity or actor, but I tend not to care too much about star sightings and don't really go for celebrity worship.
A gray, older Citroen rolls up and it's my turn to park. Citroen are pretty low to the ground, only a little bit taller than Porsche roadsters, so even though I'm medium height I stood high above the car's roof with a good view into the driver's side.
The window rolled down and there he is, David Bryne, looking up at me and handing me his keys. His eyes seemed really big from that angle and I don't even remember him getting out of the car. I do remember that I had a feeling of awe and admiration (The Talking Heads had broken out on the Stop Making Sense tour and Byrne was known to be an engaged and consummate artist.)
Though our interaction was brief, Byrne's look suggested he understood I'd recognize him (I did!) and he looked at me directly and treated me as a fellow human providing him a service. No haste, no self-absorption, just a courteous exchange of pleasantries for service.
Or maybe I'm simply susceptible to being star struck by artists whose work I admire.
Except this once.
Meg Ryan was throwing a birthday party for her then-boyfriend, Dennis Quaid, and actors, musicians, and celebrities came to have their cars parked. Most of the valets were gushing and wowing over this or that celebrity or actor, but I tend not to care too much about star sightings and don't really go for celebrity worship.
A gray, older Citroen rolls up and it's my turn to park. Citroen are pretty low to the ground, only a little bit taller than Porsche roadsters, so even though I'm medium height I stood high above the car's roof with a good view into the driver's side.
The window rolled down and there he is, David Bryne, looking up at me and handing me his keys. His eyes seemed really big from that angle and I don't even remember him getting out of the car. I do remember that I had a feeling of awe and admiration (The Talking Heads had broken out on the Stop Making Sense tour and Byrne was known to be an engaged and consummate artist.)
Though our interaction was brief, Byrne's look suggested he understood I'd recognize him (I did!) and he looked at me directly and treated me as a fellow human providing him a service. No haste, no self-absorption, just a courteous exchange of pleasantries for service.
Or maybe I'm simply susceptible to being star struck by artists whose work I admire.