No, not Stompin’ Tom, but that would’ve been cool, too.
This is a shorty and a bit of a cheat because I never actually met this person face to face, but here goes.
Many moons ago, while still living in Toronto – like, around the time I was crying in the Degrassi bathroom over Barry Andrews’ dick-ed-ness – I briefly dated one of the sons of a literary icon. He (the guy I dated) was a great, multi-talented, super-bright and funny guy, and I remember being blown away that he was interested (again – briefly) in me. He still is a great guy, by the way, and in fact he was even great when he broke up with me because he was honest and forthright about it. Any woman out there will know this is a rare quality in a man.
Anyhoo, he went to visit one of his brothers in Montreal. I got home one night around midnight, and there was a message on my answering machine (remember those?) from him. He told me to call when I got in – any time. So I did. I called the number he’d left.
A very gruff, deep voice answered the phone. “Hello.”
“Hello, is ****** there?”
“What the – do you have any idea what time it is?”
“Um – I’m really sorry? But he told me to call when I got in?” (yes, high pitched and question-marky).
“Just a minute.” (angrily).
See, my short-term boyfriend was not at his brother’s after all, but at his parents’ house. And that, gentle reader, was my one and only encounter with one of my Canadian literary heroes, Mordecai Richler.
More next week – actually I’m close to running out of Celebrity Encounters – but I’ve saved the best for last …
