On Almost Meeting Susan Sarandon
Until next time.
The year I lived in Spain, I took a trip to Barcelona to meet my younger sister. One night we went wandering down the gothic quarter, trying to get away from the chaotic clumps of tourists that give you guilt by association. We found ourselves in an empty alleyway and then, by following a little sign, into an empty workshop. It was a big, open space where the owner was examining ceramics on a table in the back and splayed on white tablecloths in the front, was a variety of jewellery.
We poked and prodded as one does, and all of a sudden I laid my eyes on a small golden watch. Angels were singing as I picked it up and tried it on. I asked the shopkeeper a few questions and turned it over. The price tag was more than my monthly salary and so with a disgruntled sigh, I promptly set it down and looked at other things.
A moment later a tall flaming redhead not looking a day over forty-five glided into the shop with her friend. My sister elbowed me in the ribs and hissed Kailey! To which I replied, I know, in a most low and dramatic pitch. The owner then nearly flung her pottery aside and cried out from the back, Susan!?
As I stared at a pair of hammered hoop earrings, I tried to recall any one of the films I adored this woman in. There was of course her iconic performance in Thelma and Louise, the film that made such an impression on me that I too fantasized about driving a stolen convertible over a cliff. Or, Romance and Cigarettes where she belts out Piece of my Heart by Janis Joplin with a church choir, lamenting her cheating husband (again somewhat inspirationally).
And of course, there’s Bull Durham where she plays a poetry-loving groupie of a professional baseball team and falls in love with Kevin Costner (this one dare I say, less stirring). But in that moment, I drew a blank. Did I recall her reputation as pro-Palestinian intersectional feminist activist and thank her for using her influence in the fight for human rights? NO. Instead, I decided to play it cool, let her be, and ignore her entirely.
Susan and her friend also poked around for a moment before she promised, in that gravelly signature of a voice, that they had to go to dinner and would be back later. My sister and I glanced at each other. The less-than-chill owner and our regrettable indifference were surely the culprits of her mere 60-second stay.
And so, Susan was out again in the streets of Barcelona, lost forever. I stared at the gold watch. Could it be? My rejection of that little magical timekeeper had cursed me or maybe, buying and wearing it could bring me very, very good luck. Remembering my salary, I winced and thanked the owner who was now frantically typing and muttering something in Spanish about a film festival happening that weekend to celebrate the anniversary of Taylma and Lou-eese.
My sister and I went out into the streets in search of Susan. But of course, lost in the throng of loud tourists, and like the mime in the final scene of Marcel Carné’s Les Enfants du Paradis looking for his lover, no desperate search would bring her back to us.
In another life, Susan, a 78 year old icon, who I now choose to remember in that shop wearing sunglasses with a scarf thrown chic-ly over her shoulder, is my Auntie. We chat nonchalantly about the poisons of colonialism and patriarchy, she buys me the gold watch with a tap of her credit card (we’re not anticapitalists in this fantasy) and then we stalk out of that shop to take on this wretched world together.