The Princess Diarist(43)
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i saw where someone was complaining about how much celebrities charge for autographs at these events, and in our defense someone said, “Well, you know, it may cost that much now, but when she dies it’s really going to be worth a lot.” So my death is worth something to some people. If I had enough pictures signed someone could put out a hit on me.
Of course I also still sign autographs for free. At screenings, for example, where the professional autograph hounds follow you around, braying and nipping at your heels, waving photos under your face until someone whose signature is more valuable (or more current) shows up, at which point they abandon you until that brighter star escapes into a car or through a door, and then they come scampering back to you.
“Miss Fisher, please, I’ve flown all the way from Newfoundland!”
“Miss Fisher, please! I’ve been in love with you since I was a little boy!” (This man is in his sixties.)
“Miss Fisher, I was almost in 9/11.” Well, then, you think, of course. This person could’ve been killed. Where do I sign? But then . . . wait. You think a second. What does that really mean? She was in the World Trade Center but somehow managed to escape? She was on the downtown subway stuck in midtown when the first plane hit? She’d interviewed for a job with Cantor Fitzgerald but didn’t get it? She had a job there but slept through the sound of her alarm and so wasn’t there at her desk when . . . And on and on and on.
But can you ask her any of this? More to the point, do you want to? Do you want to be the person questioning the validity of someone’s tale of their brush with tragedy, just because you’d rather not sign their poster? But if it is a lie—if this woman has concocted this story to ensure that you’ll not only sign her poster but that you’ll sign four—hell, why not five? And for that matter, how about a grand total of eleven?
So if it’s not true, and she’s invented a story about narrowly escaping being somewhere horrific when she was really just home like the rest of us saps glued to the TV, then she just won the award for the fan most willing to lie about her involvement in one of the more sacred tragedies ever to scar this earth, and to risk hell for the sake of some sci-fi signature.
No. It couldn’t be. Best not to think of it.
sensation adjacent
I went to Madame Tussauds to see the wax statue they’d made of me. Well, not me, actually. That would have been someone lying in bed watching old movies on TV, drinking a Coke with one hand while adjusting her dog Gary’s tongue with the other. The statue they made was of Princess Leia me.
Not that I’m a big fan of my face, but still—it is mine, whichever way you tilt it. I didn’t like my face when I should have and now that it’s melted, I look back on that face fondly. People send me pictures of my young pre-melted face all the time. Angry pre-melted—a lot of angry pre-melted, actually. Agitated. Frustrated. My face tense with . . . well, mostly frustration.
But some of my expressions are happy. Super, beyond happy. Stoned in some, most likely, but smiling, grinning my chin off. Gazing at some guy adoringly, both on-screen and off, sometimes simultaneously.
What expression did Madame Tussauds choose to embalm on my face? Impassive Leia/me. Staring stoically into the future with Jabba the Hutt giggling peacefully behind me. Why shouldn’t he giggle? What’s he got to worry about? Surely not his weight. He’s big boned or no boned. He could do with some toning, but why bother? With impassive, sweaty-looking me as his slave and that annoying little rat in drag to amuse him, he’s got a great life. One that Leia and I hope/plan to put an end to very shortly. But hey, we can plan all we want because now we’re forever trapped in invisible amber, holding quite still so you can be photographed with all of us if you happen to be in the mood.
The main thing you notice, though, about wax Leia is that I’m almost naked.
When you get close to my doppelg?nger, she might look a little thick skinned or sweaty, so stay back if it bothers you! She might not have a “beauty mark” on her lower back, but I wouldn’t either if I could help it. Maybe the wax me could take over when the flesh me can’t do it anymore. But the wax me would have to do whatever necessary thing it was in that fucking bikini.
Everyone else got to wear their regular outfits from the first movie. I had to wear my outfit that Jabba picked out for me. Jabba the Hutt—the fashionista. Jabba the Hutt—the Coco Chanel of intergalactic style. Trendsetter, fashion maven, leader of women’s looks in his world, on his planet and the next. In wax, I would forever be outfitted by outlaw Jabba. In wax and out, I would forever be stone-faced.
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i’ve rarely talked about Leia at length—not deliberately in any event. I’m asked about her all the time. How she is. What her plans are for Episodes VIII and IX. How things are going with Harrison. Is he feeling better since the crash of his starfighter—or whatever sort of plane/spaceship he was flying that day he crashed? Why wasn’t I with him? I’ll bet I was glad now that I’d stayed home. I wasn’t going to let him fly for a while now, was I? That must’ve been scary, but then he always has been reckless, hasn’t he? That’s why you make such a good couple; you’re one of the few people who don’t take too much of his guff.
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it turns out that it/she matters to me. Leia. Unfortunately. Sometimes I feel as if I’d rather concern myself with . . . almost anything. But as it happens I’ve spent the lion’s share of my life, starting at nineteen and continuing forty years on jauntily in the present, being as much myself as Princess Leia. Answering questions about her, defending her, fed up with being mistaken for her, overshadowed by her, struggling with my resentment of her, making her my own, finding myself, keeping company with her, loving her . . . wishing she’d finally just go away and leave me to be myself alone, but then wondering who I’d be without her, finding out how proud I am of her, making sure I’m careful to not do anything that might reflect badly on her or that she might disapprove of, feeling honored to be her representative here on earth, her caretaker, doing my best to represent her, trying to understand how she might feel, doing what I can to be worthy of the gig, and then feeling beyond ridiculous and wishing that it would just fade away, leaving me to be who I was all those years ago.