While I was alone, I tried to picture Tarantino shopping. I always thought he had a large head and this vision was no exception. I saw him and his bobbing head prancing though the walkways of the mall, fists clutching hundreds, pointing his assistants in different directions. They would go buy his stuff as he frolicked around dropping cash.
I had no idea why I was thinking these ridiculous things. I became angry at myself for thinking about it. I didn’t know why I cared if Quentin Tarantino was in the same building as me. Because he was famous? That would not alter my life in any significant way. I’ll still work exactly where I’m at and Quentin Tarantino will write compelling and clever storylines that make millions of dollars.
I like the guy’s movies too. But it bothered me that I cared so much. I wanted to put the thoughts into movies that millions of people would watch. I wanted to have my work pay for itself like that, so I could quit my job in this mall and finally do something. So why the fuck would I care if Quentin Tarantino came into my store and bought a collectable KISS diorama? Because I could tell people I saw Quentin Tarantino, and don’t you know, he’s famous?
Ideally, I believed that.
But, there was also this subtle, irrational hope in me that it would happen. I knew if I actually saw him my pathetic fanboy DNA would conquer these justifications. I would want to shake his hand and tell him something specific about one of his movies, probably ‘Reservoir Dogs.’ I would tell my friends about it.
But until then, I was bitter as hell about this whole thing. Sure the guy worked in a video store, constantly watching and studying movies, talking plot and camera angles long before anybody ever knew his name. He probably wrote every chance he could and got rejected and criticized for his stylized and dramatic cinematic philosophy more times than he can remember. It still bothered me that I — someone who is ready to write books and make art — was excited by the possible presence of fame. It seemed juvenile and dumb and for all I knew, he wasn’t even at the mall. I convinced myself he wasn’t.
I knew it. He’s not even really here.
“He’s really here,” Carl said when he came back. “I was talking to a few people outside and they said he came in their store.”
“Was he prancing?” I said.
“What?”
“Nothing,” I said. “So he’s really here?”
“I guess so,” Carl said, looking out to the hallway.
“Do you think he’d come in here?”
“Maybe,” Carl said. “This seems like his kind of place.”
We busied ourselves, filling desktop water fountains and restocking cyclotrons. We wiped fingerprints from the jewelry cases and reorganized R-rated birthday cards, keeping an eye outside the whole time.
I was refilling the posters. I flipped through the display pages and thought about Quentin Tarantino. Specifically, what he would think if he looked at these posters just the way I am now. Like if he saw — through his own eyes — what I was seeing right then through mine. If what I was seeing was a movie camera for him and he would watch my vision and it would be his vision too. That’s what I was thinking about when I noticed the hallway traffic begin to pick up.
People passed each other quickly. They were looking in all directions. Everybody was on a cell phone. There was a sound to the mall now.
A group of teenaged girls walked by, all holding hands and bouncing up and down.
A grown man came running from the hallway and into the store. He looked at Carl and me and ran out.
Dom, a guy who worked at the sports store right beside us, was yelling from the doorway.
“Did you guys hear?” Dom said. “He’s downstairs. He’s in the food court. He’s eating pizza.”
More people started to pass in front of our store, which was almost directly on top of the food court. Some kid in old-time fighter pilot goggles ran by holding a framed “Kill Bill” poster yelling, “Quentin, Quentin.”
Groups of people went by, a lot of teens, but adults and mall workers as well. They all had wide eyes and were moving with a purpose. They wanted autographs and to shake hands. They wanted to ask questions and take pictures and suggest Quentin Tarantino pluck them from Monroeville, Pennsylvania and put them in the movies.
“Where do these people come from?” I said to Carl.
“Who knows?” Carl said. “I mean, let the guy eat his pizza in peace.”
“If he comes in here,” I said, “I’m gonna try and steal his credit card number.”
Carl laughed like I was joking.
“I’ll treat him like I treat everyone else,” Carl said. “I may ask him a question, but aside from that, he’s just a normal guy.”
I went back to restocking posters and ignored the sounds of hope and excitement that filled the Monroeville Mall the same way George Romero’s zombies did thirty years before. Just an endless amount of people, rushing in the same direction with a single urge in mind: to find someone who has something they don’t and hope for a bite.
I did turn and look a few times when there was a loud noise outside and every now and then a brief daydream would highjack me. I would construct the dialogue Quentin and I would have. He would think it’s cool that I am not making a big deal about his notoriety. He would think it’s so cool that he would say we should go drinking and later, at Primanti Brothers, he would agree to co-direct any script I put in front of him and – fuck. I was doing it again.
Eventually, I asked Carl to link Quentin Tarantino to Kevin Bacon. He knew several connections, but I liked the one that cited Quentin Tarantino in ‘Pulp Fiction’ with John Travolta, who was in ‘Broken Arrow’ with Christian Slater, who starred in ‘Murder In The First’ with Kevin Bacon.
