by Ross Mathews
I didn’t dare say anything, knowing that (A) she was my boss and (B) she was stronger than me. I kept waiting for a blood-curdling alarm to go off as I walked out of the store that night next to Alexis and her bulging bag of concealed contraband, but nothing happened. Life just went on as usual.
A couple months later, I caught her stealing again. “Umm,” I gathered the courage to say, “aren’t you gonna get in trouble or something?”
“Please,” she huffed, “there’s so much crap here and they don’t keep track of anything. You should take stuff, too, if you want.”
As I retell this tale, I wish I had that famous DeLorean from Back to the Future so I could travel back in time. I’d drive right up to my younger self in the mall parking lot, roll down the window, and through a cloud of smoke yell, “Don’t do it! Don’t throw your whole life away!”
But back then I just wanted Alexis to like me. She was my superior, and she cursed even better than my dad’s friends.
“I don’t know. I mean, this is all girl’s stuff.”
Alexis reminded me, “You said that you liked those pajama bottoms with the gray stripes. They’re kinda manly. Totally unisex.”
She was right. They could look good on me, even if they were made to be worn by a soccer mom with a sweet tooth. They were a little manly. Maybe that was why they weren’t selling. I mean, they were already marked down 40 percent. Nobody would miss them, right? They can’t give these things away. I was kinda doing the company a favor!
“I guess they could be cute.” I was torn. I hadn’t purposely done anything this wrong since I was six years old at Expo ’86, when I deliberately stomped on a mustard packet on the ground, splattering the white jeans of a little girl in front of me in bright yellow. I don’t even know why I did it, but when that little girl burst into tears and her mother shot me a look of utter contempt, I felt so, so bad. Much like the mustard on her white jeans, the guilt of that moment has stayed with me forever.
With that feeling in mind, I knew stealing the pajamas was wrong, but it wasn’t going to result in anyone bursting into tears, right? This was kind of a victimless crime. Besides, Alexis did this kind of thing all the time, and nothing ever happened to her. Looking back, of course, I was clearly trying to justify it, but that’s what you do when you’re doing something you shouldn’t be doing.
It was a stupid risk, the wrong thing to do, the kind of act my grandma would call “a bonehead move,” but I did it anyway. I slipped the PJs into my bag and walked out like nothing was wrong, just as I had seen Alexis do so many times before.
The funny thing is, I didn’t even really want those pajamas. I tried to wear them that night, but was too wrought with guilt. In an attempt to push the entire mess out of my mind, I balled them up and hid them in the bottom drawer of my dresser. But I knew they were there—I couldn’t forget them. They haunted me like an annoying tune that gets stuck in your head for days at a time, only this time the song was Bad boy, bad boy, whatcha gonna do? Whatcha gonna do when the PJ police come for you?
About a week later, I got a call to come in to work on my day off. Awesome, I thought, I could use some extra hours.
When I arrived, my boss Kend’rah greeted me, looking less spunky than usual. Even her hair was flat today. I asked, “What’s wrong, honey?”
With a forced, sad smile, she replied, “There’s a man in back. He needs to see you right away.”
My heart sank. I didn’t know if I was more upset about what I was about to endure or the look of disappointment on Kend’rah’s face.
I walked slowly toward the back room and found a bald, stocky man in a dark blazer sitting among the empty cardboard boxes and hangers. “Please take a seat,” he said curtly while gesturing to the folding chair opposite him.
I sat. My knees shook. I knew what was coming.
He maintained steady, almost creepy eye contact while he introduced himself. “I’m with corporate, Ross. I run the theft department. I’m here for a couple reasons. First, I need you to know that Alexis was fired today. She’s been stealing.”
I nodded.
“And I want to ask you something,” he continued. “What would you say if I told you that we had video surveillance of you leaving this store with items that belonged to our company?”
I gulped.
“I need you to be honest with me, Ross.”
I felt like shit. I had really screwed up. This wasn’t me. I wasn’t the guy who got caught stealing things and had to sit across from scary bald guys and admit embarrassing mistakes. I was better than this. Yes, I had made the absolute wrong decision. The only thing to do now was to man up and admit it.
“I took a pair of pajamas. They’re in a drawer in my bedroom. I don’t know why. I’ve never done anything like this before and I’m so, so sorry.”
He let me leave without calling the authorities, but I had to return the pajamas. I also had to turn in my employee card and my official Lane Bryant name tag. It was like one of those scenes in a movie where they fire a rogue cop who’s crossed over to the dark side and he’s forced to hand in his badge and gun. Totally sad.
So, let me give you the one-line CliffNotes version of my confession: I was fired for stealing discount elastic-waist ladies’ pajamas from a store for plus-sized women. Does it get any lower than that? I didn’t just hit rock bottom, I hit rock pajama bottom.
I’ve lived with the shame of this pajama-clad skeleton in my closet for far too long. Forget the PJs. The real crime here—what I am most disappointed about—is the fact that I betrayed myself in order to seem cool. I went against my gut feeling, my gut that was twisting and turning in an attempt to tell me, Don’t do this! Just because someone else got away with it doesn’t mean it’s okay! You know better than this!
I not only lost a job I loved that day, I lost my self-respect. And I have since vowed to make choices that ensure I never feel that way again.
Now that I’ve confessed, I don’t expect forgiveness. But I do hope, in the deepest depths of my heart, for two simple miracles: One, I hope my mother isn’t too disappointed in her “perfectest little angel face.” And, two, I hope someday that the fine people at Lane Bryant corporate could find in their hearts to wipe my record clean and maybe, just maybe, welcome me back into their corporate family with open arms.
Perhaps we could even have a pajama party. Too soon?
Chapter Nine
How I Became BFFs with Oscar Winner Gwyneth Paltrow
Do you believe in besties at first sight? I sure do. Why? Because I was BFFs with Oscar-winning actress Gwyneth Paltrow a full six years before I even met her. Let me explain.
She first appeared on my radar in 1996 when Brad Pitt thanked her at the Fifty-third Annual Golden Globe Awards after he won Best Supporting Actor for 12 Monkeys, which I very much enjoyed even though I somehow missed the first eleven.
Now, I can’t remember my ATM PIN number or where I park my car at Home Depot (luckily, a kindhearted lesbian always helps me find my way), but I will never, ever forget the first time I laid eyes on Ms. Paltrow. I was in my parents’ living room, surrounded by my signature awards show buffet: Sour Patch Kids, Cool Ranch Doritos, and Mr. Pibb (it tastes just like Dr. Pepper at a fraction of the cost!).
When they cut to her in the audience, my heart skipped a beat. “Now that’s my kind of lady,” I thought to myself, licking precious Dorito dust from my fat fingers.
She looked breathtaking in a black-and-white sleeveless gown, her hair swept back in a sleek side part with a low bun. She was heavenly, yet down to Earth. A superstar, but totally approachable. The Goddess Next Door, you know what I mean?
Between you and me, I just YouTubed that particular Golden Globes moment again to relive the memory (and for fact-checking purposes) and, unlike presenter Alicia Silverstone, who resembled an extra on Buffy the Vampire Slayer, Gwyneth’s look was timeless and still stands up today. I mean, come on, she’s perfection!
From that moment on, I was obs
essed. I eagerly gathered every tidbit of information on her I could find. Had I spent even half the time on school-related activities that I did studying Gwyneth 101, I could’ve sold more candy bars than anyone else in the school orchestra instead of that uppity bitch Maggie Lindstrom, who totally cheated because her dad bought, like, four whole boxes (karma’s a bitch, Maggie, and all the candy bars in the world won’t buy you an Oscar-winning best friend!).
What was I talking about? Oh yeah, my perfectly healthy obsession with a woman I’d never met…
Seriously, I don’t want you to get the wrong idea. I didn’t have a creepy shrine with a collage of cut-out pictures of Gwyneth surrounded by candles or anything. First of all, that would be plain ol’ weird. And second of all, my mom would never let me burn candles in my room. I did, however, convince my friend Becky to record the following as my outgoing voice-mail message:
“Hi, you’ve reached Ross’s phone. He’s not here right now, so leave a message after the beep. By the way, this is his best friend, Gwyneth Paltrow.” BEEP!
I just knew that Gwyneth and I would eventually meet in real life and become the best of friends. I’m sure everyone thought I was crazy, but I was convinced that we’d be the biggest power couple since peanut butter and jelly.
Side note: I just had a PB and J last week for the first time in years, and let me tell you, there’s a reason this combination is a time-tested classic. They are simply meant to be together, just like Gwyneth and me.
Cut to March 2002. I had been on The Tonight Show for only a few months when I got my dream assignment: covering the red carpet at the Vanity Fair Oscar party. OMG. This was, like, a big freaking deal. Especially for someone as dorked out over awards shows as I’ve been my entire life.
I found myself smack-dab in the epicenter of entertainment on the night of the Academy Awards, and it was even more magical than I ever dreamed it could be. I met the biggest stars in Hollywood—everyone from A to Z, Angelina to Zellweger. And just when I thought my life couldn’t get any better, it totally did!
Suddenly, out of the corner of my eye, I saw her. The oxygen was sucked out of my lungs and the ground fell out from beneath my rented tuxedo shoes as I attempted to make sense of the glowing vision before me. The rest of the world instantly became silent, nothing but a blur of flashbulbs reflecting off sequined gowns, loaned diamonds, and the golden muscles of giant Oscar statues. Of all the red carpets in all the world, she had to walk onto mine. There she was: the peanut butter to my jelly, Miss Gwyneth Paltrow.
I watched breathlessly as she made her way down the press line, kindly stopping to give quick interviews with other reporters and correspondents. The closer she got to me, the more nervous I became. It was official—after years spent dreaming of the moment we’d finally meet and our lifelong friendship would begin, it was happening.
There were so many ways this could go down, and all but one was horrible. What if she just dismissed me, passing by with a patronizing nod? What if I shut down, exactly like I had nearly a decade earlier during my big moment with Tiffani-Amber Thiessen (see chapter 7)? Or the very worst possibility: she could be a total fucking bitch.
We’ve all heard horror stories of someone’s idol toppling from their lofty pedestal, their sweet public image shattering into a thousand pieces with a single sneer or careless word. And what’s left behind our heroes as they sashay to the next photo op? A road paved with resentment and littered with the broken hearts of disappointed fans.
I was worried that I, too, might be abandoned on that lonely road. I mean, I’d built Gwyneth up so much that anything other than her total commitment to be my new best friend would translate into utter rejection in my mind. Looking back, I realize my expectations for Fantasy Gwyneth were so high that the Real Gwyneth was pretty much stepping into a no-win situation. But guess what? Despite the odds, she won. She won my heart.
What happened next is so amazing, that I don’t need to embellish it in any way. I offer it to you, dear reader, unadorned, exactly as it happened, in script form. I am doing this because I am convinced that this will one day be a scene in a movie of the week on Lifetime Television for Women (and gay men).
And please do not argue with your friends over who gets to play Gwyneth and who has to play me. I suggest you cast the roles based on body type and/or hair color.
EXT. VANITY FAIR OSCAR PARTY AT MORTON’S, WEST HOLLYWOOD
(OSCAR WINNER GWYNETH PALTROW, RADIANT IN AN ALEXANDER McQUEEN GOWN, IS BEING USHERED PAST THE EQUALLY RADIANT TV CORRESPONDENT ROSS MATHEWS, DRESSED IN HEAD-TO-TOE MEN’S WAREHOUSE. “YOU’RE GONNA LOVE IT—WE GUARANTEE IT.” AS SHE PASSES, HE YELLS.)
ROSS
Gwyneth! Please make a dream come true and talk to me!
(GWYNETH BREAKS AWAY FROM THE USHER’S VISELIKE GRIP TO TURN TOWARD THE WOMAN SHE HEARS YELLING. A BRIEF LOOK OF CONFUSION PASSES ACROSS HER FACE WHEN SHE SEES THAT THE SHOUTING EMITTED FROM ROSS. IT IS QUICKLY REPLACED BY A SMILE OF RECOGNITION.)
OSCAR WINNER GWYNETH PALTROW
I know who you are! You’re hilarious!
ROSS
You do NOT know who I am!
OSCAR WINNER GWYNETH PALTROW
I do! I’ve seen you on “The Tonight Show”!
(ROSS LETS OUT A PRIMAL, GUTTURAL, ANIMALLIKE SHRIEK.)
ROSS
Then hug me and pretend like you know me!
(GWYNETH MOVES IN WITHOUT HESITATION AND PULLS ROSS INTO A WARM, FAMILIAR EMBRACE, THE KIND OF EMBRACE ONLY SHARED BY TWO PEOPLE WHO HAVE KNOWN EACH OTHER IN SEVERAL PAST LIVES.)
ROSS (Cont.)
Will you be my best friend?
(SHE REPLIES ALMOST BEFORE HE HAS FINISHED ASKING THE QUESTION.)
OSCAR WINNER GWYNETH PALTROW
Yes!
(ONE BY ONE, JADED JOURNALISTS AND CYNICAL CELEBRITIES ALIKE BEGIN TO SLOWLY APPLAUD, ECHOING ACROSS THE RED CARPET, EVENTUALLY BUILDING TO A DEAFENING ROAR OF APPROVAL. GWYNETH LIFTS A JUBILANT ROSS ONTO HER SHOULDERS, AND AS THEY TRIUMPHANTLY RUN INTO THE VANITY FAIR PARTY, A LA THE CLIMACTIC ENDING OF ANY CHEESY 1980S MOVIE THAT WE’VE ALL SEEN A THOUSAND TIMES, THE MOMENT ENDS IN A HEART-WARMING FREEZE FRAME.)
END CREDITS ROLL OVER DIONNE WARWICK’S “THAT’S WHAT FRIENDS ARE FOR”
FADE TO BLACK
Okay, so that last part didn‘t really happen. The crowd didn’t applaud, and Gwyneth didn’t lift me onto her shoulders (not that she couldn’t have, the woman does Pilates!). But everything else, I shit you not, is all freakin’ true! Gwyneth Paltrow seriously just agreed to be my best friend, and she did it on camera for the whole world to see! That would hold up in any court in the land!
After our legally binding friendship was agreed upon, she asked me for my e-mail address and I gave it to her, along with my cell phone number and my dorm phone number and my mom’s phone number and…What can I say? I wanted to cover my bases. I remember how badly my hands were shaking as I wrote down my contact information for Gwyneth, scribbling every bit of personal information, short of my blood type. She gently took it from me and kept it in her hand. You can actually see it in publicity photos taken that evening.
As we continued chatting, our undeniable connection was beginning to draw a crowd. Everyone seemed fascinated by our giddy, schoolgirl exchange. It was clear to all present that they were witnessing the birth of a legendary friendship. Eventually, we parted ways, and she continued down the red carpet and into the party. It was hard letting her go, but almost poetic, like releasing a beautiful dove back into its natural habitat.
When I finally got home around 2 a.m., I felt just like Cinder-fella returning from the ball. Is this a fairy tale? I asked myself. I had not only met but also had an amazing conversation with the very person whose face was now staring back at me from posters and magazine clippings on my dorm room wall. Nuts.
I immediately checked my voice mail—which, by the way, still featured my friend Becky’s faux Gwyneth outgoing message—but there was no call from the real thing (yet).
Cut her some slack, I thought to myself. Gwyneth is probably still rubbing elbows with the crème de la crème of Tinseltown.
I had to share the amazing news with someone, but it was definitely way too late to call my mom. So I did the only thing I could think of—I awoke my roommate and best friend Ryan by screaming these three words directly into his peacefully sleeping face: “I MET GWYNETH!!!”
By the next morning, I had recounted the story at least a hundred times to anyone who would listen and they all had the same question: “Do you think you’ll actually hear from her?”
And my answer was always a grateful, “I dunno, but honestly, she’s given me so much already, I could die a happy boy even if we never see each other again.”
But that was a total lie. It was torture. Even though logic told me that a megastar like her reaching out to someone like me was a long shot, I constantly checked my e-mails and voice mails, and I picked up the phone every few minutes just to make sure it was working. I was still on cloud nine from our magic moment the night before, but I quickly came to terms with and accepted the fact that even though we had what I thought was a real connection, I would probably never hear from her again. You know those Hollywood types—they’re “busy,” which, of course, is French for “flaky.” I had all but given up.
That next morning, I was about to head out to the dining hall to drown my sorrows in a breakfast burrito the size of a newborn baby when something told me to check my e-mail one last time. And, you guys? OMG, there was one unread e-mail.
“Please God,” I prayed, “Let this not be an ad for penis enlargement or spam from a Nigerian Prince needing help to transfer his fortune from an overseas account.”
