Letter to Al Pacino

Dear Mr. Pacino,

You walked into Joe Allen’s, moving faster through a restaurant than anyone I had ever seen. Your fast stride made me notice you. Your oversized black coat also made me look. I knew right away that you were wearing the same coat that enveloped you on the beach in the movie, The Insider. Your eyes stared intensely yet appeared not to see anything. Was it really you?

I asked the waitress, “Isn’t that Al Pacino?”

“I’m not supposed to say, but it is.”

“Sue,” I said to my sister-in-law. “Get up. Leave your stuff. C’mon let's go.” I don’t know why I felt the urge to hurry. It was instinctual, kind of like an adrenaline reaction.

As we approached your table, Mr. Pacino, I became painfully aware that you were not only a celebrity, but a man, like any other man and that I had made a terrible mistake. When you saw us striding toward you, your head jerked to the side and your face grimaced as if you were in pain. Despite what I interpreted as your anguish, it was too late to turn back. We were already standing at your table and I had already thrust a used cocktail napkin and pen at you, which you seemed to accept automatically.

“Mr. Pacino,” I said, “we just wanted to tell you…how much…we have enjoyed your movies…”

“We don’t get out much,” Sue said, trying to explain our behavior.

When the corners of your mouth turned up in a perfunctory half smile and you looked like you might vomit, I tried to take the napkin back. “Oh please, Mr. Pacino,” I begged. “You don’t have to sign that—really! Really, PLEASE DON’T SIGN IT. We just wanted to tell you we are great fans…”

For the first time, our eyes made contact. You began to laugh and your whole body seemed to relax. Mine did too. You signed my battered napkin, then reached out to shake our hands—a firm, friendly handshake offered with a wide grin. Even though I cannot read what you wrote on the cocktail napkin (hopefully, it’s not an obscenity—that’s not why you were laughing, is it?) I will cherish it always because it reminds me that celebrities are human beings and that fame is only a perception.

At first, we thought that nothing could be more memorable than meeting you, Mr. Pacino. But we were wrong. There were more memorable moments during this rare visit to New York City.

A man died on the sidewalk in front of our eyes. Minutes earlier, he had been laughing at a table next to ours in Charley O’s Restaurant. But on the way to the theatre, we passed his body on the sidewalk. People just walked by as two firemen pumped on his chest. His blonde companion stamped her spiky black high heels, repeating, “C’mon, c’mon, c’mon.” But he continued to lie there unresponsive.

We went on to Edward Albee’s play The Goat, about a man who was having an affair with a goat named Sylvia. The wife, played brilliantly by Sally Field, spent much of the play enraged, breaking dishes and vases and talking and yelling about love and hurt and pain and—how could he be having an affair with a goat? The story stunned us with grief and hysterical laughter and we craved a chance to read or hear the lines again.

Okay, I’ll admit it. I spent $95 on a black velvet scarf with red, green, and gold flowers that change colors with the light. I’ve never bought anything so extravagant, but hey, it was New York City and it was Saks.

I saw my best friend from law school who has breast cancer and no hair. I got to wrap my arms around her and hug her like I’ve wanted to everyday since she started chemo. I returned home to my husband and daughter who I am rarely away from. Getting home was the best part of the trip.

So Mr. Pacino, I just wanted to tell you that I understand now what Anna Scott was trying to tell Will in Notting Hill when she said, “The fame thing isn’t real, ya know.”

Life and death are real. Love is real. New York City is real. And you are real.

It was nice meeting you.

Sincerely,

Robyn Ringler

Published in "Women's Letters: America from the Revolutionary War to the Present" edited by Lisa Grunwald and Stephen J. Adler, The Dial Press (2005)