Scrappy Little Nobody(70)

I spoke to Colin Firth at a party once and before I shared an inappropriate story about watching Bridget Jones’s Diary on Ambien, he told my boyfriend and me that a few weeks earlier he’d gotten a flat tire on a country road. It was a very charming, self-deprecating story about how silly he felt not knowing what to do, and how he took a deep breath and figured it out, because he refused to behave like some helpless celebrity. Quite unfairly, my boyfriend and I started to use “Colin Firth” as shorthand for freezing up in the face of a minor problem. “Sorry I’m late, baby, the air conditioner kept turning itself off all day and I had a bit of a Colin Firth moment.”

Never is this truer than when I stay in a nice hotel. It’s so fancy, it’s so well-appointed, it’s so pleased with itself for being the height of luxury that when I can’t locate a power outlet in the first ninety seconds of looking, I get unreasonably distressed. When I stay in a Motel 6 in Sarasota, Florida, I’m perfectly comfortable. Can’t find a mini-fridge stocked with sparkling water? Of course you can’t, you’re at a Motel 6. At the crappy motel, I know I have to count on myself. And despite all evidence to the contrary, I can rely on this ol’ gal to come through in a pinch.

I want to keep it that way. I don’t want to become helpless. Some people think it’s weird or uncouth when I do normal things, but people who actually think things like Ew, why is Anna Kendrick buying toilet paper, doesn’t she have an assistant or something? are the same people who would think, She has an assistant buy her toilet paper? She’s worse than a terrorist. So those people can choke to death on their own miserable worldview. XO! Conversely, some people act like I’m a literal hero for completing the smallest tasks without assistance, and I agree. Someone get me a medal.

Recently, a very sweet teenage boy stopped me on the street in Brooklyn. He asked for a photo and said, “How are you just . . . walking?” He knew what he was asking didn’t exactly make sense. I told him walking wasn’t so bad but I’d consider hiring a rickshaw the next time I left the house. He laughed, but I still think part of him was surprised I was executing a basic human function on my own.

I want to be a real person, even if that person wasn’t so great to begin with. I want to always be able to say, Hey, I’m not incompetent because I got famous, I’m incompetent because I’m a pathetic waste of humanity. But I’m not about to let it get any worse. I don’t want to be the guy who has to call an assistant the next time I get a flat tire. I still don’t know how to change the tire, but I do know how to call roadside assistance. And I’m not going to let myself turn into a recluse because I’m embarrassed to be seen outside the context of perfectly glamorous situations. So if I come into your local 7-Eleven with a gown hiked up around my knees, asking for directions to my own premiere because the GPS broke, be cool about it.

I recently had jury duty. It was the second time I’d been called to perform my civic duty since moving to California. When I told friends I was doing it, the majority of them balked. “They make celebrities do jury duty?” Um, we’re just people, of course they do! (Yes, obviously I was hoping that being famous would get me out of jury duty. I wasn’t going to be the dick who called someone up and said it, though.) I did ignore the notice for several months. I was shooting a movie out of state and worried that if I called to postpone they wouldn’t let me. On the other hand, if I called once I got home and lied explained that I had only unearthed the summons upon my return, how mad could they be? Better to ask forgiveness than permission. I know, it’s the logic of a fool who goes to jail for ignoring a jury summons. But it turns out I was right! I had my rambling apology/excuse locked and loaded, but they rescheduled me without asking for one.

I’ll admit I wondered if I would run into any problems. I really do assume that most people won’t know who I am, because in my experience, they don’t. Still, I never know when I’m going to be a distraction . . . or when a municipal employee might offer to smuggle me out the back door in exchange for, say, a signed 8 x 10 glossy. No, but seriously, I didn’t want to interrupt the noble pursuit of justice.

I reported to a downtown courthouse without incident. The only person who approached me was a young woman in a pink tracksuit. She said she liked me in that movie where the dude had cancer, and she liked how it was funny and he didn’t die. I asked her if she’d served jury duty before and she said, “No, I’m not here for jury duty, I’m waiting to go into court.” I have a fan who might be a criminal! Or a falsely accused political dissident! Or an unorthodox lawyer! Well, realistically she’s probably just some girl in a civil dispute . . . with her tyrannical landlord! This was exciting.

The prospective jurors got called in for orientation and I said good-bye to my new friend the criminal/hero/citizen. There were probably a hundred people shuffling in, so I took a seat at the very back of the room. So far so good. We watched a video of former jurors talking about their “rewarding experience” with such forced enthusiasm that I suspect their loved ones were being held at gunpoint just off camera. Then a woman in a business suit and orthopedic shoes gave us a speech about how as long as there wasn’t any nonsense, we’d get along fine. I was starting to feel so anonymous that I got that lovely, familiar “alone in a crowd” sensation. She continued, “There is no photography in the courthouse. Now, you might want to take a photo because maybe you see a famous attorney, or a famous defendant, or maybe . . .” She raised her hand and pointed to the back of the room. “. . . even a famous juror.” Was she pointing at me? Dude, for real, are you pointing at me?? I’m being so stealthy! I’m all the way in the back of the room! You said “no nonsense”! This is definitely “nonsense”!