I recently completed my first year of law school at Queen's University, where I had the misfortune of being housed in a residence that was a 25-minute walk from any sort of classroom, library, grocery store or Starbucks.
The day before my first exam was a rainy Thursday in April. Late in the afternoon, fed up with reading judgments on property law, I found myself frizzy-haired and soaking wet lugging home eight bags of groceries.
Never being one to stew quietly, I called my sister and embarked on a (now well-known to her) tirade about living on the far reaches of civilization. Having fully thrown myself into this monologue, I was slightly startled to notice a large black car had slowed to a halt at my side.
"I have to go," I informed my sister, snapping my cell shut and turning to face the now immobile car, my face assuming the haughty expression used to dissuade 18-year-olds from flinging mildly offensive pickup lines at me.
I was somewhat surprised when the darkly tinted window descended to reveal a fatherly looking man. Indeed, his amiable appearance and genuine smile (coinciding as they did with the rainstorm reaching cataclysmic proportions) almost made me ignore the time-worn advice of my mother, father and various Brownie leaders: Never accept rides from strangers.
"Would you like a lift?" he asked, glancing at my head, atop of which sat a dark mass that earlier in the day had resembled combed hair.
"No, thank you," I responded, tightening the self-sufficient expression on my face.
"You're getting soaked," he persisted. "Are you a student at that residence?" he continued, jerking his finger in the direction of my destination. "I'm going right past it. No trouble at all."
His kindly tone of voice had no effect on my resolve, and so I marched decisively forward, informing him over my shoulder that "I don't accept rides from strangers."
And then he said: "But I'm not a stranger, I'm Dan Aykroyd."
Well. If any sentence had the power to quell the voices of my mother, father and three successive Tawny Owls it was this one; upon hearing these magical words I hurled my wet body and sopping grocery bags into the car.
I am a shameless celebrity worshipper. My youth is speckled with outlandish attempts to brush arms with the rich and famous. However, the closest I have ever come to meeting a celebrity was the time I grazed the arm of Aaron Carter (singer, actor and brother of Backstreet Boy Nick) at Darien Lake while waiting in line for a ride.
This was it. This was the moment I had literally waited years for: an encounter with someone whose fame didn't require quotation marks or a cute older brother.
My ecstasy was, however, short-lived. I realized as we pulled back into traffic that I knew nothing about Dan Aykroyd. What movies had he starred in? What TV shows had he been on? Did he have a daughter in rehab? An estranged wife writing a tell-all book?
It seemed that despite the many hours I had dedicated to reading Us Weekly and perusing thesuperficial.com, I was at a loss to make conversation with my celebrity chauffeur. I stared unhappily out the window, wondering what to do.
And then, suddenly, I was speaking. A lot.
In an attempt to fill the black silence, I began to babble. About how I was nervous for exams. About how I wasn't even sure law was for me. About how I couldn't stand not having a Starbucks within walking distance. About how I was having a chicken stir-fry for dinner.
While my mind screamed, "No! Stop! Enough!" my mouth kept moving. To his credit, Dan smiled and clucked sympathetically at much of what I said.
I'm thankful the ride was short. We pulled into the residence and I skulked shame-faced out of the car, aware that my drive with a celebrity had been a dismal failure. I internally blasted my heretofore trusted celebrity bloggers for their shameful neglect of Dan; perhaps if there weren't hourly updates on the goings-on of Paris, Lindsay and Britney ... and then suddenly I had it!
I turned back to the car, rapped on the window and smiled at Dan broadly. As the window descended, I said cheerfully: "I loved you in Crossroads." Dan's face fell somewhat, but I skipped happily up to my room, suddenly recharged to study for my exam. But not before I phoned all my friends to let them know of my fantastic celebrity ride home.
Sarah De Filippis lives in Pickering, Ont.
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